Tourist

I can do this. I’m fine. It’s easy. I know exactly what I’m doing. I repeat the words over and over, and they’re still a lie.

The stagnant air in the small passenger plane is making me nauseous now. The melody of seatbelts unbuckling surpasses the whirring of the jets as they come to a complete stop. The eager travellers are already rummaging through their overhead storage, while the seasoned passengers relax in their seats as the cattle line up to disembark.

When I’m finally forced to join the queue, I keep my belongings tightly at my sides, meanwhile checking my seat in manic silence to ensure I’ve left nothing behind: my keys, my phone, my wallet. Nope. All in my bag. That would be all I needed on my first solo trip to the Big Smoke: a missing identity.

Here I go. I take baby steps down the aisle, passing the expert voyagers, and apologising as my bag brushes everyone in sight on the way. The striking flight attendant smiles too widely at me as I reach the doorway to the wilderness, “Welcome to Sydney.”

I step tentatively onto the rickety, narrow staircase. I’m concerned about falling flat on my face. As if I need another excuse to look like a fish out of water. I continue holding my bag close as my shoes make the aluminium surface go clunk, clunk. I finally make it to the bottom, relieved I didn’t fall, and the heat of the tarmac clouds my senses momentarily.

I follow the people in front of me. The businessmen walk fast. They know what they’re doing. The newbies and older people tag along behind in the herd. I put my head down and soldier on, up another rickety staircase and through another narrow entrance somewhere in the backend of the domestic airport.

The further I walk, the closer I get to what looks like civilisation. Through a door, up a ramp and constantly stepping side-to-side to avoid others. My heart rate increases as I approach the airport’s main, terrifying hub, and it’s everything I expect: a blur of suitcases and briefcases, selfies and phones-to-ears, yelling and sleeping. Everyone shares this same look of determination and anger like we’re caught in some angsty music video about heartbreak. I stop to adjust my bag on my shoulder.

Now, how the hell do I get to the baggage carousels?

I peer at the overhead signs that lead me in the right direction. I follow the crowd, and after looking at the Arrival board, find the unmoving carousel. After waiting several minutes, it finally starts moving. I swipe my heavy suitcase from the rack and head for the taxi rank which was located right outside.

I checked the text from the hire car company for the number plate that was picking me up.

HC786.

I looked at all the sedans lined up. None of them matched. My phone rang. It was the driver.

“Hello, where are you?”

“Hi there, I’m here waiting.”

“What colour is your bag?”

“Black.”

“What colour are your clothes?”

“Black,” I smirked.

“And you’re at the taxi rank, yes?”

“Yes, I’m here. There are hire cars and taxis in front of me.”

He sounded frustrated. It wasn’t helping the situation. “You flew Qantas, didn’t you?”

“No, Virgin.”

“Oh, fuck,” he said, “you’re on the other side then. No problem. I’ll drive around. Don’t move.”

Finally the number plate HC786 came into view.

“Sorry,” he says as he got out, “let me get your bags.”

“Thank you so much.”

He looked at me momentarily, as though he didn’t understand what I said. “You’re very welcome,” he replied with a huge grin.

He loaded my bags into the boot and opened the back passenger door for me to get in. I made small talk as he drove out of the airport vicinity. There were so many lanes and traffic lights I was confused just by looking at them. He swerved in and out of bustling traffic like it was no big deal. Enormous buses were inches away from my window and he remained unbothered. I jammed my foot into the ground like it would somehow magically apply the brakes.

We got to the hotel which was right in the centre of the CBD. He again opened my door for me and got my bags. I thanked him and walked first to the concierge desk who pointed me to reception. I waited patiently in line, admiring the architecture and secretly thanking the heavens I made it through that CBD traffic alive.

A receptionist motioned for me to approach. His name badge read Stefan. He had a kind face.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. How are you?” he asked me in a European dialect.

“Fine, thanks. How are you?”

“I am well. Just checking in today? What is your surname?”

“Riley.”

He typed swiftly. “Ah, yes. Just for two nights?”

“Yes.”

I signed the piece of paper he handed me, and he returned two white cards slipped into a sleek paper pocket.

“Okay, Miss Riley, you’re in room 1908. The elevators are just around the corner. If you need anything else, please contact reception.”

I found the set of six elevators and pressed the button. When one finally arrived, I stepped in and stared stupidly at the array buttons. There was nothing to say what room numbers were on what level. I went back to reception quietly.

I asked Stefan under my breath, “Does 19 mean the level number?”

A sympathetic smile spread across his face, “Yes, ma’am. And 08 is your room number.”

I found the elevator again and operated it much more confidently this time. Just before the doors closed to begin my ascent, a man stepped in. His face was like a statue. He didn’t even acknowledge my existence and proceeded to press the number 18. It was so awkward sharing such an intimate space with a total stranger and not talking. I hated it. He got off at level 18 without a peep.

At level 19, I made my way through the maze of rooms and scanned my key, admiring my room as I entered it. All crisp and clean with an amazing view of Sydney Tower. I collapsed onto the bed and allowed my heart rate to slow. When it was back to normal and I realised I was safely in Sydney, I sprang to my feet to go do something. I didn’t want to get back into a taxi and have my life flash before my eyes again, so I changed into my walking gear and hit the elevator. I strolled past reception and onto the footpath into the manic flow of pedestrians, subtly putting in my headphones and typing Sydney Harbour Bridge into Maps.

Siri pointed me in the right direction and I followed her lead. Right and left, getting closer. I almost ran into a street vendor and three poles because I was too busy admiring the architecture around me. It hurt my neck to take in the buildings’ height, and I’d never felt more insignificant in my life. There was just so much to take in: convenience stores jammed into tight spaces, neon signs, wafts of cigarette smoke, the roar of bus engines, homeless people on corners… All packed into two blocks of footpath. It was insane.

The navigation kept taking me left and right, and I realised I had passed the same clothing store already. I frowned at the phone and watched the little compass move, and after going three feet, it swung around again and said “renavigating.” It was sending me in circles. I wanted to throw my phone into the nearest storm drain.

I eventually found the bridge forty minutes later. I approached it in awe, slowing down to admire its magnificence. After only seeing it on postcards and TV, the bridge was enormous. I felt like Sam Neill in Jurassic Park. The bolts at its base were bigger than my spread hand, and if I felt insignificant before, I felt non-existent now.

After admiring it for some time, I wanted to go back to the hotel. I was tired from the trip and the frustrating walk I had to do to find the bloody thing. To my annoyance, I found the hotel in no time. Turns out it was a straight, no-turn, three-hundred metre walk away. What an idiot I’d been.

I lingered in the hotel room for a few hours, napping occasionally and wondering what to do next. The GPS was rendered useless. I didn’t know anyone or know of any good places to go. I’d probably be in everyone’s way. I was in the biggest city in Australia and I’d never felt more alone.

The sun was setting over the city. The orange rays filtered through gaps in the buildings giving them a heavenly glow. The lights inside the buildings made the structures look like oversized checkerboards. The sun was completely gone now and the darkness had unleashed another dimension. I suddenly forgot all about my loneliness and replaced it with curiosity as I peered at the footpaths below.

That was my lightbulb moment. I was in the biggest city in Australia. Screw being alone in a hotel room.

I grabbed my handbag and my notebook (an author never leaves the house without one. It’s the rule), and went back to Market Street.

The city was unbelievable at night. It had a magical vibe not visible during the daylight hours. Restaurants were buzzing; teenagers looking for adventure travelled in packs; and the odd business suit finally finishing work pressed the pedestrian button impatiently. I walked behind crowds to Circular Quay and was mesmerised by the harbour in darkness; how the water in the harbour glittered like a starry sky.

I wandered the streets around the Harbour. The historical part: The Rocks. I was even more transfixed by its beauty than anything else I’d seen. I walked slowly across the cobblestone, drawing in the antiquity and inspiration right to my bones. I was no longer in Australia. I’d landed in Europe. And I never wanted to leave.

I found a tiny street: Suez Canal, and wandered down it to find Phillips Foote; the historic Sailor’s bar. Not only was I no longer in Australia, I was no longer in the 21st century.

I had to write about this moment and the magic I’d found. I was bursting with creativity.

Tourist, I wrote at the top.

I scoffed at the thought: a tourist in my very own country. It’s laughable.

I wrote the lines I had to get out of me first:

The city never sleeps,

and I won’t either,

for the lights shine brighter at night.

I scrawl more down as I sip my dry cider. When I’m finished, I move on and find another bar. I only knew it was there from the sign outside. It was a single door with a never-ending hallway. The music got louder the deeper I went, and I was met with another hallway and eventually a dim-lit bar with a name I couldn’t pronounce.

I had an expensive glass of wine, writing some more:

History,

memories,

possibilities,

a million conversations,

insight into another’s life.

I want to experience it all.

Tell me all about it.

My final stop was a bar with a library in it. I later discovered it was in fact a hotel, and I had the bar all to myself. The barmaid’s name was Francesca. She was a young brunette with a voice that resembled the soft piano music playing overhead.

“Hello, what can I get for you?” she asked me.

I scanned the menu quickly, choosing another wine. She poured it for me and I said, “You have a lovely accent. Where are you from?”

She smiled and began talking about her homeland. In that moment, I realised how prodigious these meetings were. People I’d never see again gave me little pieces of themselves every time they spoke about their lives. It was nothing short of a gift.

It was late. Far too late to be walking the streets alone in a big city, but I didn’t want to go anywhere. Ever. I had found what felt like home when only hours earlier I felt like a foreigner in my own country, and it inspired me so much I had to write about it.

Since writing is the very essence if my being, I think that means The Rocks has a piece of my soul now.

Please, keep it always.