Supposedly, Potts Point is a posh Sydney neighborhood.  Could have fooled us.  We walked past multiple backpacker hostels, a couple of boarded up retail shops and two adult entertainment houses before locating the entrance to our building.  A walk up four flights of narrow, dimly lit stairs found us opening the door to our “cozy apartment.”  It was dark and raining.  We were tired and grumpy.  After a good night’s sleep, everything looked better, including Jangling Jack’s, a tiny, hip bar just outside our building, which turned out to be a fantastic place for an Old Fashion.  Funny how sleep and bourbon can put things in a whole new light.  

We spent our first morning in the apartment looking at St. Mary’s Cathedral with glimpses of the majestic sails of the iconic Sydney Opera House and drinking (OMG) instant coffee. Note to file: someone really should explain to our friends in Australia and New Zealand the joys of real coffee, and, by the way, it’s called a “French Press” not a “plunger.”  A plunger is used on the toilet, which is where all instant coffee should be disposed off.  Instant coffee aside, our time in Sydney turned out to be a lovely agenda-less meandering from one pleasant unexpected experience to another, a kind of lazy, beautiful Sunday afternoon stretched over three great days. 

I spent our first morning figuring out how to get us back to the States before heading to France.  I know, rough life.  We should all have such problems.  Getting antsy (the instant coffee, no doubt), Melissa peppered me with variations on the same question: “what should we do today?”

A titch exasperated by the unconscionable fares for flights on U.S. airlines, I rather pointedly informed Melissa that I would prefer not to make any more travel decisions.  Could she please just plan the day and I will go along with it?  I might have had a certain “tone” in my voice.  (At this point, I had had a good night’s sleep, but not yet the bourbon). Melissa, God love her, gave me a look that said everything that needed to be said, and proceeded to map out a terrific walking tour of Sydney. 

From our apartment, we walked to St. Mary’s Cathedral, poked our heads inside and continued from there through the Botanical Gardens stopping at the New South Wales Museum and the Anzac World War I War Memorial.  As Melissa noted, Australia sent over 400,000 men and women to fight in Europe.  Over half never came home.  In a country with a population at the time of around four million, this was an enormous and devastating sacrifice.

Worse, except for two exceptions, the remains of the dead were never transported back to Australia for burial.  Mothers, fiancées, children, parents, spouses and friends were deprived of even the solace of putting their loved ones to rest.  Thus, in virtually every town in Australia there is a WWI memorial, the only place families can grieve and heal.  The memorial in Sydney is poignant, piercing and noble all in the same deep, throat-clenching inhalation. 

Recovering from the somber, bittersweet feelings in the Anzac Memorial, we strolled (as if Melissa ever strolls, but go with it) to Sydney Harbor, spending more than a few minutes hunting for Mrs. Macquarie’s Chair.  The chair (damn it) was on the itinerary, the itinerary I had “asked” Melissa to plan.  We found it.  The governor, in a blow to all males trying to impress their wives, had a seat carved into the rock for his wife on the exact spot she loved most.  Thanks for that, governor.  

Venturing along the harbor, we happened upon a huge, floating stage set up by the Sydney ballet for an outdoor production of West Side Story.  On the pathway between the stage and the amphitheater seats, we plopped down and watched the cast rehearse several numbers.  I love little freebies like this. 

Continuing on the path that runs along the curve of the harbor in Sydney’s downtown, we made our way to the Central Quay, the port for the numerous ferries that service pedestrian traffic through the harbor (think Seattle ferries times 20).  Opposite the West Side Story stage across the water jutting out on a peninsula sits the Sydney Opera House, now a man-made World Heritage Site.  In a previous post, I echoed Melissa’s insight that humans cannot create beauty; we only imitate it.  The Sydney Opera House is the exception.  Every painstaking detail magically and beautifully incorporates the structure into the magnificent environment.  

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On a whim, we checked in with a delightful older woman at the ticket counter to see if we might luck into tickets to any of the multiple performances running at the opera house.  In the span of five minutes, this fairy godmother behind the counter booked us tickets to the opening night of the ballet, Verve, saved us money by combining the tickets with an hour tour of the opera house, and timed everything so perfectly that we could grab a needed cup of coffee, take the tour, get back to the apartment to change, return to the opera house for a quick dinner, and get to the show with time to spare. 

Although I am not much of a guided tour type person, SueAnne, our forty-something, dark haired five-foot-four Aussie guide had me from the moment she introduced herself.  The genius and heartbreaking story of Jorn Utzon, the Danish architect, only increased my fascination.  Read Melissa’s entry for details about Utzon and the Opera House.  After the tour, Melissa and I dashed back to the apartment to change before the opera even though SueAnne insisted we would be fine in our hiking shorts and somewhat aromatic tee shirts. Aussies don’t judge.

Showered and changed, we grabbed a couple of salads along the waterfront sitting outside in a light drizzle because all of the covered tables were filled.  This, however, was not the greatest indignity.  Seconds — literally seconds — after the waiter placed my salad on the table, a stealth bomber sea gull darted from the sky, snatching a piece of my smoked salmon.  The waiter politely asked if he could bring me another and looked slightly green as I declined and started eating.  Time was of the essence.

Withholding any comment on my decision, the waiter brought us wire baskets to cover our food between bites and a spray bottle filled with water to fend off the utterly contemptuous birds.  Bottle within easy reach, eyes scanning the sky, one hand lifting and closing the wire basket, I ate my salad.  In this inglorious fashion, we entered the opera house for opening night. Aussies don’t judge.

Verve was  performed in three movements, each with an intermission.  It began with a more traditional ballet performance, followed by two modern dance pieces.  The second piece was called Aurum. The program, in part, explains it this way:

“Aurumis a piece inspired by kintsugi(golden joinery), the Japanese art of repairing broken ceramics with gold or metallic lacquer.  As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of the object, something to acknowledge and honour rather than disguise.  By illuminating the fractures with gold, the repair often leaves the object more beautiful than it was in its original form.” 

If the Sydney Opera House is the exception to the rule that artists do not create beauty, but only imitate it, Aurum is the second exception.  An athletic but sensuously graceful dance performed primarily by a principal ballerina and two male companions, Aurum hypnotized me.  I don’t think I blinked during the entire performance.  Immediately after the applause died down, Melissa looked at me with the same wonder I felt inside and said, “I thought they were making love on stage.”  I thought I had experienced in twenty or so minutes all the passion, heartache, anger, forgiveness and bittersweet, tender love of a thirty-year marriage.  A great book or movie or song can make me tear up. Verve was the first ballet (or dance of any kind) to do that. 

I love how this trip echoes things Melissa and I have felt or thought.  Could there be a better way to describe the meaning behind the name of this blog, Save The Pieces, than the description of Aurum quoted above?  Perhaps there really is not anything new under the sun.  Maybe the way we experience something makes that thing new in each experience.  I remember reading about a Christian who was trying to understand why Hindus have so many gods.  The Hindu to whom the Christian was speaking explained, I’m paraphrasing, “we do not have multiple gods, we have multiple experiences of God.” Amen, or as Meg would say, “dead ass my dude.”