I went for a look in shop windows on the way home from work today.
It was one of “those days”.
You know the ones I mean? The ones where you don’t achieve all that you’d hoped, and you come home with little sense of real achievement.
There’s a line in an ABBA song, “Me and I” which resonated in my mind as I sat on the bus to Taylor Square after work.
“It may seem to you I try to break through open doors.”
Ah well, some days are like that, I guess.
And so tonight I went for a bit of a look in shop windows around Darlinghurst and Surry Hills.
In particular, I loved this painting in a gallery on Crown Street.
I also had a beer in a pub on the way home.
The combination of all this helped clear my head.
Okay, so tomorrow is Tuesday and hopefully it’s going to be a far more interesting, far more creative day. If not, there’s always Swedish Class tomorrow night, The Nordic Film Festival this weekend, and Liza at the Sydney Opera House on Saturday night.
In short, I should just shut up and get on with life, eh?
Yesterday at the Darwin Waterfront, a young staff member asked me a simple question that caught me off guard: “Do you need a wheelchair to get in?”. To my own surprise, I found myself saying, “Yeah, maybe?”
It was a tentative answer to a question I have spent a long time avoiding. For the last few years since my amputation, I have bypassed the aquatic wheelchairs available at the Cook + Phillip Park Pool in Sydney.
Instead, I settled into a routine of sitting near the edge, removing my prosthesis, and scooting across the tiles on my bum to reach the water. I did this much like a child might—a method that felt functional, if not particularly dignified.
I have often wondered if there was a psychological block behind this habit. Perhaps there was a lingering reluctance to embrace another piece of mobility equipment, or a desire to keep my transition into the water as low-profile as possible, even if it meant more physical effort. Whatever the reason, that reluctance seemed to melt away under the relentless Darwin sun. The nature of the wave pool, with its gentle sliding entry, finally convinced me to give the chair a go.
Taking off my prosthesis and hopping into that lightweight plastic chair turned out to be a revelation. As I rolled forward, I felt a lovely sense of confidence that I hadn’t expected. There is something uniquely peaceful about sitting still while the water gradually rises to meet you, slowly covering your legs and lower body in a cool embrace. It removed the struggle of the “bum-shuffle” and replaced it with a graceful, fluid transition into the pool.
Darwin wave pool
I hadn’t quite anticipated the physics of the situation, though. As I reached a certain depth, the combination of the waves and the buoyancy of the lightweight chair caused it to start floating. Suddenly, I found myself tipping backwards, a brief moment of instability that could have been alarming. But in the spirit of the day, it was fine. I recovered as best I could, and the sheer joy of being in the wave pool far outweighed the minor tumble.
The heat up here has been significant, making an afternoon swim at the Waterfront feel like a necessity rather than just a luxury. This experience has shifted my perspective entirely. What I once viewed with a strange hesitation has now become a tool for independence and enjoyment.
I’m checking out Twitter, I’m reading every newspaper article, I’m listening to the radio, and I’m watching a fair bit of television for even the slightest cue from the independents about when they’ll make a decision or announcement (it’s a professional interest for me at the moment).
Although there’s speculation, and there’ll be some rumours, I doubt there’ll be an official announcement until the Prime Minister goes to see the Governor-General indicating she can/can’t form a government.
As I’ve watched this unfold, there have been some interesting moments here and then, but my favourite moment so far was watching a bit of ABC News 24 tonight, when Australian journalists missed a really great opportunity. While they were asking Bob Katter questions through the window of a taxi, I wish one of them would have looked through the window and asked the cab driver… “so what’s your advice for Mr Katter?” It would have made for a great cab ride I reckon, and perhaps changed the history of Australia :)
But there were other reasons for watching television today. First, the ABC’s Landline featured highlights from the “Saturday Night Country” event I was involved in at last week’s Gympie Muster. Second, ABC News 24 featured a conversation with Bret Easton Ellis at the Byron Writers Festival conducted by my colleague, Simon Marnie. And then finally, a doco made by my friend, Michaela, called “Boxing For Palm Island” screened on “Message Stick”. It was great to see all a number of people I’ve worked with have television programs running one after the other.
Saturday Night Country live show on Landline on ABC1
And as I’m heading off to Tassie this week, I spent a bit of time going through the program guide and organising my PVR so I can record my favourite programs while I’m otherwise away and busy.
OMG – is this what my life has come to? Forty-five years old in November, and my Sunday revolves around the TV guide.
I’m back on Thursday night, and almost as soon as I arrive home, I’m off to see the Swedish indie/folk/pop group, First Aid Kit.
So with all that happening, it’s kinda nice to spend most of the day watching television and preparing/packing for my trip to Tassie.
I had a lovely Saturday night, as a mate from work had invited me to join he and a couple of his friends for dinner at the Blue Eyed Dragon, a Taiwanese restaurant located in a converted Catholic Church hall in Pyrmont.
As you walk in, the first thing you notice are the aromas. And then you cast your eyes around the room and you can see instantly how it used to function as a church hall. At the back of the hall, they’ve located the kitchen. On the main floor, you’ll find the bulk of the restaurant. And then up on the stage, there are more tables, though that area can be closed off. Not surprisingly, as a former church hall, it’s also pretty noisy, though not unbearable so.
Aside from a couple of lunches at Din Tai Fung, I don’t recall ever having eaten Taiwanese before. I wasn’t really sure of any major culinary differences between Taiwan and nearby parts of mainland China. According to one review, however, of the cook-book by the owners of Blue Eyed Dragon, Jade and Muriel Chen
…because mainland China was, for the next 50 years, a joyless and especially pleasure-free communist state (Slow Food founder Carlo Petrini, a communist, claims Slow is nothing more than the fusion of communism and pleasure), Taiwan, as it became, was the custodian of the great traditions of Chinese gastronomy — with a few little inventions of its own.
Taylor Square Christmas Tree, Sydney
We chose a 10-course banquet as a way to experience as much as possible without having to think too hard. There were no outstanding dishes, nothing I’d say was an absolute must, except maybe the scallops. They were excellent. Rather, the meal was consistently good throughout.
The service was also very good, and the the co-owner and floor manager, Muriel has a warmly wicked sense of humour that makes you feel quite special. We never had the feeling that, once we had finished our meal, it was time to pay and leave. We were made to feel very welcome. I’ll definitely go back there.
While my friends made their way to the casino – I’m not one for gambling aside from playing the pokies a few times a year – I made my way home, catching a cab to Oxford Street, and then walking the remainder down the chaos that currently is Bourke Street. How long does it take to build a cycle-way and fix up the footpaths? :)
The hyper-modern Christmas Tree has appeared in Taylor Square, I noted, a reminder the festive season is now well and truly here.
“Do you understand what she just said?”, the kind middle-aged woman asked me on the metro this afternoon. “Not a word”, I told her. She knew I didn’t speak French, because just moments earlier she’d asked me if I knew what was going on. She told me there’d been an accident on the metro and that we would all need to be patient.
Another bloody Aussie tourist in Paris.
By the time she told me what was going on half the passengers had already left the train. I’m guessing it was a suicide or something like that, since the train stopped suddenly just seconds after taking off. We all looked at each other with that knowing way.
I still wasn’t sure though what was going on. For a moment I wondered if there had been some sort of security alert, and that terrorists had maybe taken over the train. “Oh the drama of it all”, I thought to myself, and that’s maybe why I stayed on the train when so many others had left.
Shopping on the Champs Elysées Taking coal to Newcastle.
It’s been a day of independent sight-seeing for me. A day just to wander around, to get to know Paris and its people, with nothing specific in mind. That is, I wasn’t really interested in seeing sights. Rather I wanted to look at the people in the shops and cafes to see how they went about their daily lives, especially as summer is now officially over with today being the first day back at school. And so I bought a day pass for the transport system, hopped on the train with my map, and decided I would get to know Paris by foot and metro.
One of the things that really fascinates me about Paris is the large number of African people living here. Everywhere you go you see black faces, and while many of the people were obviously born and raised here, I also know there continues to be a steady stream of people from Africa moving to France.
Greater water statues at Centre George Pompidou
I was also fascinated by the outward displays of affection between friends and family. And of course people in a relationship too. And by that I don’t mean inappropriate snogging etc, but just general touching and general closeness. It’s very nice. And of course, it was lovely to see quite a few gay boys walking down the street holding hands.
As if by homing-pigeon instinct, I stumbled on The Marais, Paris’ version of Oxford Street. Oddly enough, I found it far more cruisey than I expected, as quite a few men looked me up and down in that special kinda way. And did I mention French men are very good looking?
As with any major city, the people on trains tend to keep to themselves. But you don’t get that blank stare into space I found in London. Instead, people will acknowledge you when you smile at them, and the use of the word “pardon” is regularly used. This is also in stark contrast to Sweden where I knew two Swedish words for “sorry”, and used them regularly, though there were hardly ever used back.
About the only touristy thing I did today was head for a walk along the Champs Elysées which I found rather breath-taking. It’s a great walk, especially when you go through the main shopping area, approaching the Arc de Triomphe. As I walked along wearing my red t-shirt and fawn cargo pants, and saw everyone else quite well dressed, I was reminded of that section in the book, “Almost French” where the author was chastised by her husband for going to be bakery in track-pants.
The only thing that kinda disturbed me was that I am sure I was being trailed for a moment as a potential pick-pocket victim. Out of the corner of my eye I kept noticing a rather suspicious looking guy, and whenever I took a left or right turn, he was still there just metres behind. I’d been warned about pick-pocketing in Paris, and so maybe I was just being a little paranoid. But other times you just know that something is wrong, and I did on this occasion. And so when I saw some police near the Arc de Triomphe, I walked over towards them. The guy stopped following at that point.
The second time I’ve missed the Pope!
And so now I’m back at the hostel going through my photographs and making some plans for the next few days. I’m meeting David at Fontainebleau tomorrow morning, and we’re heading off for a couple of days travelling around the Loire Valley. As much as I love the city, I’m still a country boy at heart, and I’m looking forward to getting a little dirt under my fingernails. Ewww…
I felt like a double-agent as I sat and quietly had a beer at one of the local pubs in Lismore this afternoon. It’s a pub which has been traditionally a very “working man’s pub”, but which seems to have embraced the LBTIQ+ Tropical Fruits celebration this year, with lots of rainbow flags. They also seem to be running regular LBTIQ+ drinks on Fridays, at other times of the year.
As I walked in, I could seen in the eyes of the barman he wasn’t sure if I was here for Tropical Fruits, or if I was there, because it’s a pub I regularly visit when I’m home for Christmas. (It’s on the way home from town). In the end, I think he worked it out that I was home for Christmas (I knew too much about Lismore to be a blow-in from Sydney), but was probably here for Tropical Fruits as well.
And that’s my dilemma. I’m here for Christmas, but I’ll also be here for Tropical Fruits NYE, though I haven’t bought a ticket yet. Though I quite enjoy parades and exhibitions (which are part of Tropical Fruits NYE), I’m not one for big big dance parties. Part of me says, “hey, get over it”, though part of me also says it’s quite an expensive night that may not be worth it.
All around Lismore, shop windows are celebrating the Tropical Fruit festival.
There’s an exhibition of Tropical Fruits themed photography at the Fox Photo Den on Union Street, South Lismore. (This was the venue I grew up knowing as Hurfords Saw Mill)Even the Merry Christmas sign outside the City Hall pays tribute to LBTIQ+ culture.As the Tropical Fruits festival gets underway in Lismore, I wandered past this house in South Lismore and remember in the 1980s, when this was the first gay venue in the area, Double Dutch restaurant.
As I sat and listened to the blokes in the pubs, they spoke about the changes they’ve seen in their lives. “My dad always used to say…”. This was generally followed up with, “I don’t mind, so long as they don’t…” And then finally with “It’s good for the town’s economy, and God knows we need some help…”
Will I go to Tropical Fruits NYE? Maybe I should, if only to support the economy of the city in which I was born and raised?
