Yesterday was surreal: pretty agreeable flight (if 15 hours
on a plane can be agreeable--actually I was lucky to have been put in an exit
row at the jetway, which meant more legroom despite a bulkhead on the right),
actually slept some, perhaps worn out by a humongous walk from the
international-terminal drop-off LAX bus that’d scooted amidst the giant
aircraft and seemingly endless taxiways.
Before succumbing I mostly read the novel I’d been given (The Art of
Fielding, highly recommended) and then
yakked with a very nice couple who run a cattle station about three hours west
of Sydney and who had just spent four weeks RV’ing around the Southwest. We arrived just after 6 AM after an
extra orbit of the city so that the flight could land without violating the
curfew imposed by geographically vulnerable homeowners, cleared immi and
customs with no problems, and as advertised the transit system is truly
impressive: mostly clear instructions, friendly people (even on a Sunday
morning) and generally effective.
I even took care of the mobile-phone SIM card thing (hoping I haven’t
misread the fine print in believing what the charges will be for various types
of calls) at the airport, and bought my 90-day transit pass right there
too. Seems like a great deal, 5
bucks a day for unlimited trippage within Zone 1 which is seemingly the size of
Rhode Island.
I grabbed the first train I could to Central Station, and
then the next toward North Sydney, not too encumbered by my two rolling
suitcases (“really, not all of this is mine, I swear”), although as I went
north I found myself surrounded by ... spandex, lots of it. Just the sort of hale and healthy folk
that Bryson hates, but it turns out Sunday was the Sydney Running Festival,
with 80,000 runners converging on the bridge area to do anything from a
marathon to a half to a 10K to a fun run.
They open up public transport to anyone with a bib, so I barely needed
my BART-like card. But
I decided to taxi to the rental agency in Cremorne and thence to the apartment,
figuring rightly that bus service would be very spotty on a weekend. I had the access code to the lockbox,
though it was inexplicably situated low on a wall next to the office, such that
I was forced to kneel in abject anxiety as the first half dozen times I tried
the combo the latch would seem to register my code but then not work. Various scenarios played themselves out
in my head, but eventually I got my packet and got back in the taxi.
I’d heard from a colleague that by going for this area (we’d
chosen it because an acquaintance from Berkeley had moved here, and it was
closer in than the situation the agency had proposed for more money) we were
renting a place in the Beverly Hills of Sydney, or what an Ozzie friend told me
was “a pretty spendy part of a spendy city,” but I’d say it was more La Jolla
than BH, an odd mixture of upscale British style burbs-brick, some ultra-modern
gated architect-y stuff for lawyers in Beemer SUV’s, along with palm trees and
exotic birdsong, with the promise of gorgeous bay at the bottom of the street.
After I’d moved my stuff and put as much away as I could, I
made a pot of coffee and read on the terrace for an hour, then sallied out and
explored. Up on the ridge is a
huge long strip of shops and restaurants, not exactly Rodeo Drive but with some
impressive casually expensive stuff on display, as well as plenty of options
for food. I found the local
library, the local school where we might try to get Alex admitted, and a couple
of decent maps. With gentle spring
in the air it was hard not to be optimistic and upbeat despite my lack of
sleep, and I kept thinking of other first-mornings in various other cities, the
excitement and intimidation giving way to familiarity and routine, a welcome
transition. So odd not to worry
about is-this-the-best-place-to-buy-dish-soap and the like, but just to run
through my rudimentary list to render the apartment livable and even home-like.
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