It’s Thursday night and this is my second post in as many days. Maybe I need to spend more time enjoying life instead of just writing about it?
Along with a few thousand others, I made the trip to Town Hall, today, for the lunchtime celebration of the country’s Commonwealth Games success.
Thorpie was there, of course, looking fabulous and he, of course, received the loudest cheers. He said a couple of interesting things. He admitted the reason why he was late at the Closing Ceremony was that he was held up by a drug test. (We thought he was out the back with his special friend!) Thorpe also said it was much wetter at Manchester than it looked on television and he was constantly stepping in puddles.
“Hugo Weaving plays a pretty good junkie”, I said to my friend Sue tonight as we watched “Little Fish”, a film starring Hugo, Cate Blanchett and others made in 2005.
The film was written by the sister of a friend of mine who also did “Love My Way”. ‘She likes underwater swimming scenes”, Sue noted as we watched the film about a bunch of people living in Cabramatta who are “living with heroin”.
Living in Surry Hills, you get to recognise that “hopelessness” that some people experience while using heroin (or trying to get off it). You see it at Surry Hills Mall (known locally as The Methadone Mall) and you see it on the daytime streets of Surry Hills. You see people who have totally messed up their lives, but who are trying to get it together. And when you see them, you think to yourself “I hope really hope you make it”.
“Little Fish” is a film about that. Cate Blanchett plays Tracey who is trying to get it together after using heroin for a number of years. She’s working in a video shop, and thinks she’s gonna make it. But then she applies for a bank loan, and she soon realises everything is still against her.
Cate Blanchett in Little Fish
Hugo Weaving, on the other hand, plays a character who just seems totally hopeless and unable to make that transition to a better life.
Although suffering with a different form of addiction, he reminded me of a woman who lives locally who is a long-term alcoholic. There’s a lot of mythology associated with the woman I know as “Beryl”. How much is true, I don’t know.
I know, however, she’s been living and drinking on the streets of Surry Hills and Darlinghurst for as long as I’ve been in Sydney. Sometimes you see her walking around looking like she’s getting her life together, she’s combed her hair, her clothes are looking good. And other times you see her passed out on the street outside The Columbian, with her hair in a mess, and her clothes looking very dirty.
Whenever I see her looking like she’s getting her life together (like earlier this year), I say a little prayer, hoping that she’s going to keep it up. But then a week or so later, you see her again and she’s passed out with a cask of wine to her side. I guess I could do something to help, but frankly I don’t know what I’d do, and I suspect there are people who would be far better to help than I would. “The do-gooder gene” I have is a realistic one, I guess.
Anyway, after the grimness of “Little Fish”, we watched “The Vicar of Dibley” for a while. A greater contrast you might not imagine.
It was great having Sue come to visit for only a day or so. She has a meeting in Parramatta tomorrow which I hope will go well.
As I strolled through the main park in Lismore’s center, I noticed a group of men gathered in the bandstand. Suddenly, one of them shouted out, “Hey brother, be careful of the magpie!” Being someone who grew up with fair hair, I knew all too well about the danger of magpies during this time of year. It seemed like a cruel twist of fate that magpies would always choose to nest in the trees surrounding both my primary school in South Lismore and my high school in Richmond River. After the man shouted his warning, another chimed in, “He’s already gone after three other bald guys today.” We all shared a laugh.
Wilson’s River at LismoreLawn Bowls Club, LismoreQueen Victoria 60 years fountain at Lismore
The decision to cross the old railway bridge between North and South Lismore was far riskier than any encounter with a magpie. Despite having crossed it safely numerous times as a child, I realized it may not have been the wisest choice as an adult. However, I couldn’t resist the nostalgia of my childhood memories, as several family members had worked for the railways, and I had accompanied them on many trips over the bridge to check the tracks between Lismore and Bexhill. Unfortunately, those were the days when trains regularly passed through Lismore, and the old bridge was not as well-maintained as it used to be.
Railway Bridge crossing the Wilson’s River at Lismore
It had been over a decade, perhaps even longer, since the last train had passed through Lismore. Feeling confident, I decided to walk across the old railway bridge. However, I had not anticipated the missing sleepers that appeared halfway across, which made my crossing far more tentative and nerve-wracking than I had expected. It was only after finally making it to the other side that I breathed a sigh of relief. As a word of caution to children, I must stress that attempting to cross the bridge as I did is a foolish and dangerous decision. Please, do not follow in my footsteps.
I never quite understood the significance of this piece of public art until today. With Lismore’s history of flooding, it’s presumably Noah’s Ark.One of Lismore’s most famous sons is Adam Gilchrist. I see he was back in town this week for book signings.
I am currently visiting my family for the weekend, and as many of them are significantly older than I am, I thought it would be a good idea to take a walk while they retired for an afternoon nap. I managed to complete my daily goal of taking 10,000 steps, and then some, by strolling through North Lismore, South Lismore, and the CBD.
For the last few days I’ve been needing an “excuse” to try out my new camera. For the first couple of days the sky has been a little grey. But even then, as the weather improved, and with good intentions, I was waylaid on another by colleagues to have a drink at a funky inner city bar. But today I was determined, and so sharing with you a couple of photographs taken at what’s probably one of the most photographed spots in the world: Bennelong Point.
Tourist tip: the views are great from down on the land, but if you want a really terrific view of the Opera House and Harbour Bridge, take the stairs up to the Botanic Garden, enjoy the view, and have a picnic while you’re there.
Sydney Harbour Bridge, as viewed from Opera Bar
Sydney Harbour Bridge, as viewed from Opera Bar
A beautiful day for a walk around the harbour, and pretty happy with the new camera: Nikon AW1.
Either the flight from Tokyo to Stockholm (with a layover in Frankfurt) felt endless, or the wait for our luggage at Arlanda Airport seemed to drag on forever. I can’t recall ever waiting thirty minutes for the baggage carousels to start moving here. Even the typically patient Swedes, who usually don’t mind queuing, looked a bit exasperated. When my luggage finally appeared, I made a snap decision: I’d splurge on the high-speed train instead of taking the cheaper, but still efficient, airport bus. After nearly fifteen hours of travel, I was desperate to check into my hotel, shower, maybe enjoy a beer, and then collapse into bed.
The view at 3.00am from Stockholm’s Hilton Hotel
Further frustrations awaited. A Spanish-speaking family struggled to navigate the Arlanda Express ticket machine, and an older American couple fumbled with purchasing a travel card, unsure of their needs and armed with multiple malfunctioning credit cards. “If you’re unprepared, step aside,” I might have muttered under my breath.
One of my favourite places in Stockholm, Katarinahissen.
Finally reaching the hotel around 7pm, I settled into the Hilton for a couple of nights. Although I’ll be spending most of my time in Stockholm at a cozy AirBnB, I decided to indulge in a few creature comforts after the long journey. As you can see from the photos, the views of central Stockholm are breathtaking, and the bed is possibly the most comfortable I’ve ever slept in.
After watching the sunset over Lake Mälaren, I retired around 9:30 or 10:00, keeping in mind I’d been traveling since midnight Stockholm time. Waking at 3:00am, I was greeted by the lingering hues of sunrise painting the city in beautiful colors. A few hours later, I’m fully rested, well-fed from a delicious breakfast, and equipped with a Swedish SIM card. I feel ready to embrace this next phase of my holiday.
Sunset at about 9.20pm in Stockholm, as viewed from the Hilton Hotel
Like Sydney, Stockholm is a city under construction. In Sydney, it’s the light rail; in Stockholm, it’s the development around Slussen. I noticed this first two years ago, the last time I visited Stockholm, hoping for a break from the construction in Sydney https://thelimbshift.com/2017/05/19/stockholm-under-construction-2/, only to find the same thing was underway in Stockholm. From time to time, I’ll go online http://www.webbkameror.se/webbkameror/stockholm/index.php and see how the glacial pace of Sydney’s light rail construction compares with the glacial pace of the re-development of Slussen.
In the midst of all of the complaining about the glacial pace of development, I’m reminded of the comment of an engineering mate of mine who said, “It’s better they build it properly than have it collapse a few years down the track.
So it’s two years since I’ve visited Stockholm, and I’ve joked to myself, “I’ll return when it’s finished”.
With no firm plans to re-visit Stockholm, I have, nonetheless returned to Swedish classes. Almost two years since the last time I attended, it’s been wonderful to re-connect with my teacher, Marianne, and others in Sydney who are mostly studying because of personal relationships.
This time around, I’m keener than ever to become more proficient in the language. I really want to crack it this time, to sound like someone with a grap of the language beyond primary school. I’m spending more time doing the homework and preparing for class. I’m also really pleased the class is at 6.15pm, as I struggled previously with the 8.00pm class. Grammar remains an issue, as so many of us in Australia have never fully learned about grammar in detail. But I’m giving it a red hot go this time.
I have only vague memories of eating tripe as a child. Typically, it’s the food people of my age and background describe as the food “my parents made me eat”. I don’t have any such negative memories. I was always a bit of a “garbage guts” who would eat everything that was on offer. Liver? Yes. Kidney? Yes. Peas? Yes. Brains? Yes. Tripe? Sure, why not.
The house in which I grew up was a house where everyone was considerably older than me. I was the only child in a house of “old people”. On one occasion, I recall calculating the average age of the household was 52, and concluding it was only that low because I was 12 at the time. As a result of growing up with people who had grown up, largely, on farms, and who lived through one or two world wars, as well as the great depression, I was brought up with an open mind about food. About the only thing I never really liked was olives, and that all changed a couple of years ago anyway. I still couldn’t come at eating brains from a live monkey (as that’s just cruel, IMHO), but I’m open-minded about most food. Hey, in the midst of the current “horse meat in take-away drama” being played out in the media, I’ve found myself asking “what’s wrong with that?”.
William, Ji-Shen, Kate, James
In that context, I LOVED eating at the Red Chilli Sichuan Restaurant on Sydney’s Glebe Point Road on Wednesday night. A group of us went there after attending the opening night of the Chinese New Year exhibition, Snake, Snake, Snake at Sydney Town Hall, which my friend Kate has curated.
In a three-tabled party of people who were largely Chinese born or Australian born Chinese, it was great to be taken into new areas of food I wouldn’t have otherwise known about. I loved, for example, the cold meat terrine (something I’ve never really associated with Chinese food before). There was a terrific celery soup which on the surface sounds a little bland, but which was very tasty. And in particular, I loved the tripe and beef dish.
“Chinese tripe is a totally different experience”, my friend and colleague Andrea told me today. She grew up in a mixed-race household with a Chinese father and a Dutch mother. She told me today how much she loved tripe prepared in the Chinese style compared with that prepared in the traditional European style, where it’s often served in milk. Having tasted the dish on Wednesday night, I’m inclined to agree.
