Long Lost Australia

My flight arrived in Sydney at 6am, descending out of the clouds and a gorgeous sunrise into the city, but my window was on the wrong side to see the view.

It took me a moment to realise that the shorter immigration line, the one for Australian passport holders, was mine. I went through with a big smile.

I sat in a cafe just outside Central station for breakfast, enjoying coffee and Australian bacon (huge salty slabs of meat, no fat, all meat) and the view. What made me smile was the realisation that not only had I come to a place where I was not labeled and pointed at and thought of as a foreigner (as I am in Thailand), but that it would be difficult in Sydney to determine who, if anyone, is a foreigner. People of all skin colors and appearances and clothes walked by, all seemingly intent on their business. Even an oversized backpack was no indication of foreigness, as half the backpackers travelling Down Under are Australians themselves. I sunk into anonymity with bliss.

In my mind, I was still converting everything to Thai bhat but I quickly had to force myself to stop, especially after paying more for one bed in an 8 person mixed dorm than I would for a luxurious suite in a hotel in Bangkok.

Despite my fatigue, I hit the streets.

At some point, after some wanderings of little note, I found myself in a very touristy place: Darling Harbour. There are many "attractions" there including a mall, an Imax theatre, and a lot of restaurants and hotels but that's not was attracted me.

It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, the sky was this perfect brilliant blue and the breeze was delightful and cool. The city opened for me onto this wide open space with the towers soaring behind me in the background, the water in front of me and this huge sweep of brilliant sky above. Everything, and everyone looked bright and rice and happy and ... free.

I watched a little girl playing with her mother in a spiral fountain, their shoes off, their laughter echoing across the plaza and this sense of rich freedom (in combination with my sleep deprivation) and the beauty of the scene made me cry. There was this confused incoherent jumble of emotions bundled up inside me coming from somewhere I hadn't known about, where I had just been stuffing all these nameless emotions I didn't want to question for the last two years, and suddenly they were being lifted out of me.

I cried because I was exhausted and because I was exhilerated. I cried because I saw in this little girl playing in the fountain what is missing from so many little girls I've known over the last two years. I cried because I didn't see on anyone's face the fear and worry I've seen in people's faces for the last two years, because I didn't feel the fear and worry I hadn't even realised that I feel every day for the last two years. It struck me suddenly that I was in a place where no one would be calling my phone to tell me they'd been arrested, that my pleasure in the day wouldn't be sucked away by the passing of a black cage of a deportation truck passing on it's way to the border. And not only all that (and more) but I was in a place where those thoughts or possibilities are so unknown to people that they are almost entirely erased. I'll go back there soon and I'll take that bundle back, but for the moment, I felt it lifting from me and I glorified in the feeling of innocent freedom. I cried, but the tears were running out of my body straight from this strange place through me and out. I cried, but I was smiling.

I spent almost a week visiting relatives in a small town called Griffith which in a lot of ways, is like Mae Sot. People talk about the crops and the drought and the petty corruption of municipal government. I sat through morning tea and afternoon tea and a variety of visits with people I mostly didn't remember or hadn't, in fact, ever met, all of them very pleasant and lovely to chat with.

It was warm and comforting to be in the embrace of family, to let them care and pamper me, to sleep in big, soft beds and have long hot showers and to eat and eat and eat.

Everywhere I travel in this country, there are submerged memories bubbling to the surface. I remember cricket in my Aunt's back yard and a few rules of Australian footie and skipping rope songs. I remember the smell of roses in the air and dew underfoot on my Nanna's lawn. Things are smaller than in memory, things are bigger. I remember wattle and eucalyptus. I forget that the ocean is so icy at this time of year, and that the waves are so powerful until it's too late but I remember sand in my bathing suit and eyes and sandwiches...

Back in Sydney I felt like a little girl on a feild trip. It was my first time in the big city without my family and it felt wonderful. I spent my days walking and wandering the streets and exploring the city. I fell asleep on the sand at Coogee Beach and ate a "Burger with the Lot" on a cold windy day on the shore of Manly (The Lot, incidentally, includes fried egg, pinapple and beetroot, among other things).

And finally, it all came to an end and I woke up at 4am this morning to begin this new leg of my journey: four days in Bangkok, two months in Sri Lanka, a trip through London on my way back to Canada and back on the border for another round in January. If you want postcards, make sure I have your address and remember, I always love to hear from you, no matter how short the email.

In Transit, In Style

The moment I leave my home or hotel room for the airport, I step into a state of somewhat suspended animation. Some interior clock of mine gets set to "Wait" mode. For the next "x" hours, I know I will do very little of note, nothing productive. I will, in fact, be waiting. Waiting to check-in, waiting to board, waiting to land, waiting to clear immigration (thankfully not, Waiting for Godot).

Today I am waiting in style.

I once chided a good friend who slept in and spend a lot of money on a long cab ride, only to arrive at the airport and find his flight significantly delayed. "Who doesn't confirm their flight?" I asked, amazed.

Me, as it turns out. I woke up at 4am, shouldered my pack and navigated Sydney's complex train system to make my way to the airport for a 7:45am flight. I arrived with two hours until lift off, a bit tight considering the level of airport hysteria, security and other delays that prevent one from moving smoothly from check-in to lift-off. I recently saw almost two fist-fights in the immigration line in Bangkok, people, (who I immediately decided must be plain stupid) who had given themselves only an hour to get through immigration, customs and security. With relief I saw that the check-in counter for my flight hadn't even opened yet.

It was only when asking for a roll of tape for the box of books I am carrying that I found out why. The flight had been delayed almost five hours. I was given a coupon for breakfast and an invitation to the United Airlines Buisness Class Lounge.

That's where you'll find me right now: at 10am Sydney time, sipping a coffee and taking advantage of the facilities.

When i'm finished here, I might go check out the shower room. As it stands, I am the scruffiest person in the room, wearing jeans with messy pigtails. But what can you expect from a girl who woke up at 4am?