(Photo by Rikzi: Flickr)


Overheard suits talking during rush hour (5.30pm, Wednesday):


"Just so you know, her Dad has a machete."

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While waiting for the train, these two caught my eye. The man was crouched down next to (what I assumed was) his child's pram, so that they were almost the same height. He rested his chin in his hand and locked eyes with the baby, a faint smile on his face. There he stayed, mesmerised, until the train arrived. They looked to be having the most intense conversation humanly possible with only the aid of their facial expressions. The man looked at his son as though he were listening to him explain a concept so profound it required all of his attention.

I found myself thinking that the child will never remember this moment of utter adoration.

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Random man: What background are you?

JSYL: Malaysian-Chinese.

Random man: Ohhh!! Like Poh!

JSYL: .........Yeah. Just like Poh.




[Photo: http://1.bp.blogspot.com/]

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It was around 8am when I took these photos on my way to work. It's amazing how many clocks there are in Sydney that stop working on a regular basis. While it can also be frustrating if you're running late somewhere (as I usually am) and really need to know what time it is, it's still kind of fun to walk through different timezones, as though time does not, or should not, exist.

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I usually avoid trains in Sydney like Swine flu. Once you become accustomed to driving everywhere, it's hard to go back to those pre-teen days. Especially because everything isn't so conveniently about 5 minutes walk from a tube station like in London, here. But on this particular day, I wanted to avoid the peak hour traffic more and so walked to Circular Quay station, just across the road from where I work.

I saw someone on the platform I wanted desperately to avoid (Oh don't look at me like that, you know you've all done it too at some point!) so I quickly walked the other way and pretended to be looking away, towards the street outside. When I thought the coast was clear, I turned around to face the opposite platform:



And there stood Sydney's magnificent coathanger, better known as the Harbour Bridge, squeezed in between the mundane slices of the 9 to 5, smiling at me like an old friend who lives next door but whom I never get to see. Ain't she a beaut?





(Excuse the crappy photography, apparently 'zoom x 16' didn't turn out as clearly as I thought it would.)

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During my trip to Barcelona in 2008, I found that the only way to describe a city that never ceases to amaze you is to recall the moments you spend in it. So I've decided there's no reason I can't do the same for my hometown, Sydney. After all, sometimes it's the simplest moments that make all the difference if you just pay attention to them.












(Source: http://www.tripandom.com)


Sitting on the ground next to Harry's with my girlfriends. Dressed to kill but lounging with legs sprawled in front of us to rest our feet, throbbing from too many hours in heels far too high for us. Eating a pie and peas at 1am, shaking with laughter, heads thrown back. Laughing out loud with our mouths full of mash and mystery meat. Totally oblivious yet indifferent to the bewildered passersby.

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To stave off the slow death of this blog, I present you with a list that has been a'brewing for the last 7 months and is now ripe for publication: the post-exchange reflection. It's almost midnight so I'll spare you any emotional shit and get right to it. Enjoy!

Reasons why Sydney Dominates:

There are a bunch of things I really took for granted before the big flight over to London, and which I take more notice of today including:

1. Good (and by good I don't mean the restaurants meet national health and safety standards, just that they taste amazing and authentic) Asian food accessible at every corner: Vietnamese, Japanese, Korean and Malaysian to be exact.

2. Greater diversity and integration of cultures- I actually think Sydney's gotten even more diverse since I left it.

3. Friendly enforcement against 'Tall Poppy Syndrome' is well-established, usually by saying 'Fuck ooofffff' to douchebag beahaviour with a smile.

4. Being able to walk down a street, wearing whatever you want, a short skirt, whatever, and know that you won't get accosted by a junkie (in many, but not all parts)- priceless

5. Personal space is not an illusion in Sydney, it's still a reality.

6. Black stuff doesn't come out of my nose here.

7. Being able to afford to go to a swanky-esque bar occasionally and buy a drink without having to sacrifice, say, food for the next week.

Reasons why London Dominates:

There are also many things I've come to miss about London, no matter how much people whinge about it I will always defend it as a city because...

1. Anonymity still remains a valuable commodity for non-celebrities - being able to wear pyjamas down a street in Central London and knowing no one will even glance twice. There's always someone weirder than you anyway.

2. 'Fuck off' enforcement still rife, but the English equivalent is more of a 1 hour criticism session about some celebrity or sell-out musician/football player

3. SNOW. That is all.

4. Being able to walk down a street and point out all the 1000 year old monuments on either side as you walk past.

5. Being the centre of Europe, newsrooms in London have the potential to become much more interesting

6. Live music- someone that's huge in the underground/alternative music scene internationally can always be found playing somewhere on any given night of the week in London. While Londonians talk about these gigs nonchalantly as such non-events, Australian fans scramble for leaked mp3s and youtube videos for years before they'll even bother coming on tour

7. Random huge crowd events like silent disco in Liverpool Street only made possible by London's huge population




[Photo of Opera House sourced from: bernardoh.files.wordpress.com]

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Aw, look at that. Back in 04. First year uni. Finally, drinking could be done legally, and we could walk into a club and look a bouncer right in the eye without fear of being turned away. Born in 1986 baby, and don't you forget it!

Clubbing was definitely a rite of passage for me and many of my friends. If we'd been taking a crash course in becoming independent adults, clubbing provided us with chapters 1, 2 and 3 of the mannual: how to get drunk, how to pick up, and how to cure a painful hangover. It used to be a whole-week affair, from choosing a venue to figuring out how we were getting there and back (in the days when all of us had learner's permits and were forced to use public transport).

Back then, our idea of getting dressed up was picking out a nice top, a pair of jeans, and some black eyeliner. 'Friday night' would be the subject of every phone conversation we had throughout the week, particularly if what's-his-name was going, and he was bringing his friend, whom we were hoping to set up with what's-her-face. The cool kids (really, the most attractive ones) got their pictures snapped for the club event's promotional website, which everyone scanned eagerly at some point in the following week.

But by the end of the year we had had our fill of the clubbing experience. Somehow- lining up for an hour to get in, paying astronomical prices for drinks if we weren't still tipsy from cheap vodka mixers at one of the packed out bars nearby, running to the bathroom and sticking one finger in an ear while yelling into the phone "YES MUM, I'M COMING HOME SOON I PROMISE!", and sitting in McDonalds on George Street at 3am waiting for the trains to start running again with the smell of stale vomit in the air - lost their initial appeal.

Every now and then we'd run out of other ways to amuse ourselves, forget how bad our last stretch of clubbing weekends really was and venture out again, ever hopeful that this time would be different. And sometimes we'd get lucky with a good DJ and a fun crowd. But now that we've all pretty much graduated, the people we push and shove past to get to the bar or to the exit no longer look cool. They just look really young.

On my first weekend back to Sydney, I ignored all of this and headed out to what is one of the worst examples of an Asian club. I'm almost ashamed to admit it. The night only confirmed for me what I already knew: that there is no reason why any self-respecting 22 year old should be at Martin Place Bar - yes, for Bamboo- on any given Saturday, no matter how bored, (or indeed desperate) they are. Yet, that's where I found myself last weekend. Cringing all the way to the front of the line, through the red rope barriers and past the metal detectors.

A lot of things have changed about Asian RnB clubs since "my day". The girls, for one, are much skankier. Or maybe I just notice it more now than I would've before. You're also far more likely to get shot (I was at UN the week after the notorious drive-by, and screamed along with everyone else in the queue when a car outside backfired...I went inside later regardless). But some things never change. We are still the most modestly dressed in the joint (thank God). And the main elements of the practice that we were once so in awe of now feel routine. Here are some of them, so you can save yourself the trouble of experiencing it for yourself if you haven't already:

1. The entrance: Walking into the club feels and looks just like any video clip by Usher would, if all the people in it were Asian. If you're a group of girls, even more so. It's usually just starting to fill up, and the ratio of guys to girls is probably 2:1. The ones checking your friends out are a mixture of the overt admirers and the ones who think they're subtle, but are just as bad- they tend to stare, then pretend they were looking at the opposite end of the room once you've noticed them staring. We always walk past them in a straight line, one after the other, heading for the cloakroom, with, I'll admit, a little defiant strut. (Who wouldn't? It's an Usher video, after all.)

2. The podium dancers: Around the middle of the night out, the 'entertainment' will inevitably begin. At some places it can be a live MC (once one of the original members of Blackstreet even came out to perform 'No Diggity'), at others, a breakdancing troupe. But at Bamboo, it's always customary to have a 'dancer' writhe around in the spotlight for a good 15 minutes. As soon as the lights come on, signalling the start of the show, every guy (except the ones who've picked up by now, if they're smart) will flock to that stage, camera phones on the ready. They will stand there, mouths slightly agape, watching her. The girls will hang behind, the slutty ones carefully keeping note of some of her 'moves' for later in the night, the less slutty ones bitching that she's far TOO slutty, ugly, and can't dance. And as for us? We generally just stand there awkwardly, trying to continue dancing on our own, but eventually head to the bar to take advantage of the temporarily short queue. It's always at this point that I ask myself if we're in an RnB club, or a strip bar in which we, and every other girl here, are part of that 'entertainment'. And then I wonder if there's much difference between the two, and kick myself for coming, yet again.

3. The 'talent': The short answer is this- there is none. After our first three clubbing experiences, we all knew this to be the case. There are generally only about two decent looking guys in an Asian RnB club. The first has his arm permanently attached to his equally decent looking girlfriend. They will either end up making out in a corner, or screaming at each other because some guy tried to buy her a drink (by leaning down and yelling in her ear, disguised as an intimate whisper), or some girl tried to dance with him. The second will probably be found in the gym the next morning pumping weights, wearing the same t-shirt, and with just as much gel in his hair as the night before. You can bet that when he's not in the club, that's where he lives most other nights.

4. The mating dance: Let's not be coy, people. If you're 18, and you're in an RnB club, you're there to pick up, or at least flirt with the idea. It's okay to admit it! After all, it's hard to dance in any other way but 'provocative' to mysognistic/suggestive lyrics like: 'Get low, get low', 'Doncha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?' and 'The sweat drips down my balls, all these females crawl'. And just like on the Discovery channel, there's an identifiable silent ritual of courtship involved.

In Asian RnB clubs, friends dance in tight circles, in a weird way somewhat reminescent of the heel and toe, remixed by Timbaland. While shameless guys will shun more tactful methods, and push their way into the circle flailing their arms around like their lives depended on it and smiling energetically at their target (before making a hasty exit upon being just as blatantly rejected), the more seasoned clubbers prefer to sidle closer and closer to the circle, and ultimately, end up with their arms around the waist of the object of the hunt. Girls do their part. Some dance seductively with each other in plain sight of potential suitors, others just walk right up to a guy and the rest is history. And still others play the 'eye contact' game until someone makes a move.

I learned this the hard way. A friend of mine, a guy and regular clubber, once confirmed my suspicions: 'If you look any guy in the eye at at a club, he's going to think you're interested.' Which is fine, it just makes walking around a little inconvenient- you're sure to bash into anyone within a 5m radius of you on your way to the bathroom while you concentrate on keeping your eyes on the floor.

5. Our Entertainment: I'm not going to lie. I did have a little fun that night, as I almost always seem to when clubbing, because my friends and I are different. We've never spent hours lining up for bathroom mirrors so we can touch up our makeup, nor have we ever needed to constantly tug on mini skirts to make sure they're at least partly doing their job of covering our asses, and we definitely still don't bother scanning the room for talent. We've always been too busy dancing self-consciously, or, (as is more the case nowadays) like idiots with our hands waving around to the beat, warily shielding each other from sleazy would-bes and laughing at the guys who dance funny.

When I spotted the night's first fresh puddle of vomit in the girls' bathroom, I knew it was about time we left. But not before we posed like celebrities for the club's roving photographer.
"Do you think we'll get on the Internet?" my friend asked me in the afterglow of the flash.
"I hope so," I replied instinctively.

Yeah, some things never change.

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I think I'd been preparing to go home since the day I left it.


(Taken on the flight from Rome to London. Couldn't resist.)

It was a New Year's Eve flight,and I was heading for Sydney airport just as everyone else was heading to various grassy spots and hotel rooms and swanky clubs to wait for the fireworks over the Harbour Bridge, everyone to get drunk like never before, and...oh yeah, the new year to arrive at midnight.

The thing about long flights is, no matter how much you're looking forward to getting to your destination, you always feel like just giving up, turning around and crawling back into bed about halfway through. Unless you're one of those crazy people who likes to fly, or can afford to fly Business class. (Bastards :P)After about 11 hours of waiting for some kind air steward(ess) to announce it was midnight I realised the lights weren't going to come on, and that there were no party poppers, champagne glasses or funny hats to be had, and slept the remaining 13 hours of my journey.

All that sleep somehow renewed my excitement for all things London and Europe and Not Home, though. The pilot cracked the first joke (of many to come during my trip) about London's reputation for dreary weather when announcing the temperature, and said, "Welcome to London." [Side note: I've noticed that that sentence, 'Welcome to London' is never ever followed by an exclamation mark. Always a statement, much like "The sky is blue", "Grass is green", or "We're all going to die from global warming". And not once have I ever heard it said after anything remotely positive, like: "You can't get music like THIS in Sydney- Welcome to London!" It's more like an apology: "You haven't gotten a bank account with Barclays after 6 months of phone messages, in-person interviews and complaints? Well! Welcome to London."]

But I didn't leave hating the place, as my previous posts might mistakenly suggest. I feel like I lived an entire year in it's first half. I had an awesome time, and learned a million and one lessons I wouldn't have if I'd been anywhere else at that point in time. But I kept reminding myself that the time would eventually come to an end, so I would have to make the most of it whilst being ready for it to run out, too. I arrived knowing almost no one and nothing about Australia's so-called 'motherland', but made a whole new life for myself there, complete with new friends, weekend plans, hobbies and an altered dress sense and musical taste to boot.

Leaving London was as understated and unremarkable an affair as my arrival in Sydney. A brief hug and kiss, and one last quick glance-around later(in direct contravention of my personal rule to never turn back once you leave something or someone for good or with a hint of regret), and I was homeward bound. When I arrived in Sydney, I had a huge grin plastered on my face ready to see my parents for the first time in almost eight months, only to find no one there waiting. Long periods of travel have made me resourceful though. I called them using 1800 reverse (Holly Valance is useful for something, I guess), finally found them, and had my long-awaited (but now, somewhat anti-climatic) reunion embrace.

The moment of truth actually came during the last leg of my 23 hour flight. It was only then I finally accepted that my time in London had come to an end.

I'd just spent eight hours in transit at Tokyo airport. I spent it going online to see if anyone in London was awake and on Facebook, thinking about how much my upcoming semester was going to suck after such a teriffic one abroad, and generally just wanting to turn around and fly back. For all it's hang-ups it had been my home for the last eight months, and I missed it like an old friend, or a dress you weren't sure you should buy but which you will agonise over, and inevitably go back to and splurge on after about an hour.

While waiting to take off, a steward asked me about where I'd been. He nodded sympathetically when I told him I'd been gone for ages, and had been in London for most of it. I languished in the familiar old sound of the Australian accent all around me. But I talked about London for probably longer than is expected from a response in small talk. Maybe I was still in denial about the fact that I was no longer in UK airspace. "Going home?" he asked. "Yes.." I said slowly, testing out the word, realising it was the first time I'd acknowledged it out loud since leaving. The Australian high school students behind me chatted about how dramatic their two week stint in Japan had been and how emotional they were to be going home at last. I grimaced. 'Try eight months' I thought. 'Then see how you feel.'

I couldn't sleep the rest of the way back. I kept darting between nostalgic memories from London and tentative predictions about Sydney. I wasn't sure whether I was looking forward to, or dreading our descent. Only one thing was for sure- I wanted to be off this stupid plane asap.

My decision came to me on its own, painlessly. The pilot's announcement was simple, and I remember it word for word because of the way it made me feel:

"Good morning everyone, we will be arriving at Sydney Airport in about 20 minutes. The time there will be 7am. For all of you travelling here on holiday or for business, I'd like to welcome you to Sydney. And for those of you who are coming back, welcome home!"

The Japanese exchange students behind me cheered.

I smiled.

Home.

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It's official: the camel is the new horse.

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I got to stand with the media next to the red carpet at Tropfest! I felt like an idiot because I was the only one there without a microphone or tv camera, but I stood between a 2GB and an Arena/Channel V (Yumi kept bumping into me, she's really short, even shorter than me!) so I pushed my little tape recorder near their microphones and recorded all their interviews. I knew no celebrity would wanna stop for me because they were limited to those stations/crews that would ensure them the most coverage, so this was the most efficient way to get my story.

I got totally overlooked, PR people were walking up trying to schmooze with the journos, and asked where they were from but sort of half smiled at me in a "is she meant to be here" look and kept walking...I got that feeling a lot throughout the night actually. But I didn't care I was having fun and waiting out for John Polson (he was actually in Mission impossible II and directed Hide and Seek with Deniro...not too shabby after all!). Remember I had that one hr phone interview with him the week before and I told him I might see him at Tropfest?

He did two interviews before he got to me so I knew he was gonna be pushed on by his minders, but I yelled out "John" before he passed too far, and he turned and I stuck out my hand and said "Jane from Reuters News, just wanted to shake your hand." and he goes "Oh yeah I talked to you earlier!" at which point I could feel the heads of the stupid blonde from Arena and the 2GB cameraman swivel towards me because they didn't understand how I could possibly know him.

I asked him how he was feeling on the 15th anniversary to which he replied excited, moreso than the first Tropfest before he was whisked away. As he was walking away he said "It was good to see you Jane!"
(YEAH TAKE THAT TV JERKS.)

George Miller (director of Happy Feet, Babe) was interviewed by the Arena chick too, and I was inching my tape recorder closer and closer to him. All of a sudden he did this huge hand gesture and bumped into it, to which I mimed "I'M SO SORRY" because he was still on camera, and he motioned/mimed back "No no its okay". Phillip Noyce also bumped into my hand.

At the end of it I met this other girl who turned out to be volunteering for 2SER (UTS radio station) and talked to Andrew Denton, who was annoyed by all the camera crews bugging him, and he actually said to her, "These people are really rude, and to be honest they're a waste of space". Wooh! Another point to the real (i.e. not entertainment TV presenters) journalists. That brings the score to 2-0. =)

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As our chief correspondent at work just commented: 'Green and gold tears are being shed all over the world at this moment.'

A sombre (somber?) mist of bittersweet disappointment hangs in the air today.

After it was all over, my dad and me had nothing to say...just shook our heads and went to bed.

--A few lighter/more interesting viewpoints:

Tim's spluttered 3AM sms in reply to my: 'omg wtF was THAT?!'>>
'That was the worst. It was so tense..I cannot believe it. I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT!! STUPID!'

and Reuters correspondent's remark upon shuffling into the newsroom, his gait heavy and shoulders burdened with the grief of an unfair loss:
'Well if you can't score goals against 10 men, you can't expect to win a soccer match'.

This morning me and my Dad shuffled around the kitchen in respectful silence, until my eyes caught the front page of the Herald, and a few haphazardly scattered papers from the days leading up to the match, splattered with colourful Italian and Socceroo fans.

'We were robbed, Jane. We were robbed.'

And that sums up the extent of my World Cup 2006 experience.

p.s. I wonder if this is the Australian equivalent of the mood the day JFK was shot.

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