On more than one occasion now, I have listened to a friend speak of a city as if a living person. The aim is ostensibly to romanticise a geographical location such that it assumes an almost human persona. Although bordering on the unusual, such practices are nothing new. For example, aircraft and seagoing vessels are often referred to fondly as ‘she’, most commonly by doting owners and the odd historian.
Although I cannot lay claim to Sydney, I do consider it my home. After having spent half my life residing in over 20 countries, it was a welcome relief to have finally found a base in November of 1989, the month in which my family immigrated to Australia.
Prior to having moved to Sydney, I was unaccustomed to living in ‘big cities’. My father, an ex UN diplomat, routinely had his family accompany him to various hell holes around the globe, predominantly to small towns in nations with an almost non-existent infrastructure. I was used to desert conditions, having lived on the edge of the Sahara for some seven years, surrounded by wide open spaces boasting views to the horizon in almost every direction. Although Sydney does not offer a similar experience, there is something to be said about standing at the edge of the Tasman Ocean, contemplating the depths of the ocean and the numerous secrets she may hold.
In choosing a favourite place in Sydney, I would have to pick Cremorne Point. This particular area, situated on the lower north shore, is home to the wealthy and few from the west traverse there for any other reason aside from a picnic, or perhaps mere curiosity over how the ‘other half’ lives. Accessible by ferry from Circular Quay, Cremorne Point offers breathtaking views of Sydney Harbour and the CBD skyline at all times of the day. It is also home to the Cremorne Point Lighthouse, a modest yet picturesque structure connected to land by way of a small walkway resembling a pier. Although relatively unassuming to look at, this particular building is lent an aura of mystery owing to a small steel plaque commemorating a young girl who drowned there many years prior.
Several days ago, I decided to make my way to Cremorne Point in the early evening following a rather terse argument with my folks. Following this little altercation, I felt somewhat suffocated in my own home and experienced an almost unnatural need to be outside. Upon having finally made it to Cremorne Point some one and half hours later, I found a vacant bench and spent several hours staring out over the harbour to the city skyline. The view at dusk was nothing short of breathtaking, and it amazed me to realise that such a beautiful scene could be enjoyed and appreciated without interruption from either locals or tourists.
Despite being only a few kilometres away from the hub of one of the world’s great cities, I still felt alone. The view across the water presented a world that could not have been in starker contrast with my own immediate surroundings. It was abuzz with activity – ferries drifting in and out of the commercial piers of Circular Quay; a million and one shimmering lights giving life to towers of steel, glass and concrete; the silhouettes of countless strangers walking around the sails of the Opera House; flocks of seagulls circling the aircraft warning lights on Governor Phillip Tower. By way of comparison, my surroundings were unnaturally still, as if I was staring out from within a photograph in a perfect state of solitude.
The ferries seemed usually quiet that evening, such that I could hear little, if any, signs of human activity. Despite straining my hearing, the only perceptive sounds were that of waves lapping the shore, the occasional buzzing insect and the wind meandering through trees and shrubs. I started wondering whether cities did indeed have souls and, if so, how best to describe Sydney’s.
Given the unquestionable beauty and grace of Sydney Harbour, any purported ‘soul’ would no doubt be female. She may be unhappy about the numerous tunnels and infrastructure projects ravaging the natural beauty of her home, but would find solace in the few nature reserves still left relatively undisturbed by man. She would mourn over the countless steel and glass structures being erected on an almost weekly basis, buildings which seem to almost block out the sky and cast long and foreboding shadows over the landscape. In the evening, she would stare in wonder at the thousands of windows aglow with lights and moving silhouettes, contemplating who these people are, where they came from, whether they are good or bad, whether they feel her presence in the same way she feels theirs …
There is no doubt in my mind that some of you will see the above as romanticised and sentimentalist claptrap. Having read the paragraph several times over, I am similarly inclined. The visible sentiment in those words is more an expression of my own thoughts and feelings about Sydney than that of any supposed ‘soul’ that the city may possess. It’s also an apt reflection of what can happen when you sit on a park bench by yourself in a state of semi-depression, sip contentedly at single malt scotch and then begin contemplating whether a metaphor can have a tangible persona.
Despite my current cynicism, I can see a certain aesthetic purpose in ascribing a human person to a city, specifically one boasting remarkable physical beauty and an unparalleled diversity of people.
Although I cannot lay claim to Sydney, I do consider it my home. After having spent half my life residing in over 20 countries, it was a welcome relief to have finally found a base in November of 1989, the month in which my family immigrated to Australia.
Prior to having moved to Sydney, I was unaccustomed to living in ‘big cities’. My father, an ex UN diplomat, routinely had his family accompany him to various hell holes around the globe, predominantly to small towns in nations with an almost non-existent infrastructure. I was used to desert conditions, having lived on the edge of the Sahara for some seven years, surrounded by wide open spaces boasting views to the horizon in almost every direction. Although Sydney does not offer a similar experience, there is something to be said about standing at the edge of the Tasman Ocean, contemplating the depths of the ocean and the numerous secrets she may hold.
In choosing a favourite place in Sydney, I would have to pick Cremorne Point. This particular area, situated on the lower north shore, is home to the wealthy and few from the west traverse there for any other reason aside from a picnic, or perhaps mere curiosity over how the ‘other half’ lives. Accessible by ferry from Circular Quay, Cremorne Point offers breathtaking views of Sydney Harbour and the CBD skyline at all times of the day. It is also home to the Cremorne Point Lighthouse, a modest yet picturesque structure connected to land by way of a small walkway resembling a pier. Although relatively unassuming to look at, this particular building is lent an aura of mystery owing to a small steel plaque commemorating a young girl who drowned there many years prior.
Several days ago, I decided to make my way to Cremorne Point in the early evening following a rather terse argument with my folks. Following this little altercation, I felt somewhat suffocated in my own home and experienced an almost unnatural need to be outside. Upon having finally made it to Cremorne Point some one and half hours later, I found a vacant bench and spent several hours staring out over the harbour to the city skyline. The view at dusk was nothing short of breathtaking, and it amazed me to realise that such a beautiful scene could be enjoyed and appreciated without interruption from either locals or tourists.
Despite being only a few kilometres away from the hub of one of the world’s great cities, I still felt alone. The view across the water presented a world that could not have been in starker contrast with my own immediate surroundings. It was abuzz with activity – ferries drifting in and out of the commercial piers of Circular Quay; a million and one shimmering lights giving life to towers of steel, glass and concrete; the silhouettes of countless strangers walking around the sails of the Opera House; flocks of seagulls circling the aircraft warning lights on Governor Phillip Tower. By way of comparison, my surroundings were unnaturally still, as if I was staring out from within a photograph in a perfect state of solitude.
The ferries seemed usually quiet that evening, such that I could hear little, if any, signs of human activity. Despite straining my hearing, the only perceptive sounds were that of waves lapping the shore, the occasional buzzing insect and the wind meandering through trees and shrubs. I started wondering whether cities did indeed have souls and, if so, how best to describe Sydney’s.
Given the unquestionable beauty and grace of Sydney Harbour, any purported ‘soul’ would no doubt be female. She may be unhappy about the numerous tunnels and infrastructure projects ravaging the natural beauty of her home, but would find solace in the few nature reserves still left relatively undisturbed by man. She would mourn over the countless steel and glass structures being erected on an almost weekly basis, buildings which seem to almost block out the sky and cast long and foreboding shadows over the landscape. In the evening, she would stare in wonder at the thousands of windows aglow with lights and moving silhouettes, contemplating who these people are, where they came from, whether they are good or bad, whether they feel her presence in the same way she feels theirs …
There is no doubt in my mind that some of you will see the above as romanticised and sentimentalist claptrap. Having read the paragraph several times over, I am similarly inclined. The visible sentiment in those words is more an expression of my own thoughts and feelings about Sydney than that of any supposed ‘soul’ that the city may possess. It’s also an apt reflection of what can happen when you sit on a park bench by yourself in a state of semi-depression, sip contentedly at single malt scotch and then begin contemplating whether a metaphor can have a tangible persona.
Despite my current cynicism, I can see a certain aesthetic purpose in ascribing a human person to a city, specifically one boasting remarkable physical beauty and an unparalleled diversity of people.
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