A Brit, An American And A Canadian Walk Into A Bar…

Or in this case Sydney Harbour, forming sacred places out of water and bridges, boats and bats. Sacred because it is limited, because it is ours just for now.

In his words “everyone here is escaping something.” He has his problems, I let my own issues fall from my shoulders when I left, and he, well he’s a Canadian mystery I am yet to discover (oh the cheese). You meet a lot of people when you drop your backpack into each hostel room, and each have their own mysteries and stories and experiences to share, we are all passing ships on a big blue ocean. Some people you get to explore and some remain merely an image, a brief reflection on the water.

Yet we find ourselves creeping up on eachother, drawing the words from our mouths, planting seeds of trust and connecting as if our fingertips are needles, looping thread through our stories, hopes and intentions of being here in this hot foreign place. It is nice to have a safe place to rest my head and work my way through the endless complications of being here, and hopefully providing shelter for their struggles in return.

My week has been spent at the waterside stumbling and tumbling through days and days of drinking, nights of no sleep. It has been wandering through parks, searching the paths of the harbour, making landmarks of benches and trees, finding music in bat songs, the sound of crickets in the black grass. Seasick on ferries across the river, hazing over thoughts of connection, questioning and untying myself. Travel is about loving and learning, it’s about weaving together but forming the groundwork to hold my own without immediate, unavoidable chaos. Now is the time to centre myself.

Tomorrow I move out to my own apartment and it is time to start running, meditating, making the decisions I need to make instead of tumbling further. But first, one last night, the final round. Crab racing and the precise delivery of truth, and one last good Australian coffee.


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