Having been fortunate enough to spend a few days in Paris earlier this month, the usual thing would be an in-depth trip advisor-esque review.
A rundown of the city, the people, the food, the wine, the vibe.
So here it is:
Some people say that Paris is overrated.
I don’t.
Here. There. Somewhere.
It is a funny thing travelling for 24 hours and across 11 timezones. And by funny I mean uncomfortable and tedious.
Of course at least you can wile away the time watching some of Hollywood’s finest work in just the manner the creators intended – snipped, censored and squeezed into 6-inches.
So in true economy class fashion, I present my movie reviews, all small portions and ultimately unsatisfying:
Up – After making you sad within 10 minutes the only way is up. Cone of shame.
The Cove – Dolphins get captured and then sold or slaughtered in Taiji, Japan. Depressing.
Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs – Saved by the monkey.
It Might Get Loud – Guitarists compare egos.
District 9 – Awesome fooking prawns.
Julie & Julia – Avoid*
Inglourious Basterds – Actually I refused to watch this until I have a proper screen and all the naughty bits.
And there you have it. Before landing you will be served a light ‘snack’.
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*I was told it just wasn’t for me so I thoroughly avoided it.
Hemispheres and seasons. Apparently each have flip sides.
It is a little surreal to switch from one to the other in a short space of time.
Each makes you appreciate the other.
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Walking up one lane and sliding down another.
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The same sky above us all.
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Modes of transport may vary.
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If a change is as good as a holiday, then a change and a holiday cannot go wrong.
Turn the corner and one is just pulling up. Could probably catch it by running. Golden rule – don’t run for buses.
Missed.
Another will be along soon enough. The corner of Cleveland and Elizabeth is usually an interesting place to wait.
Time passes.
An imported Nissan rumbles by with more bark than bite. The inevitable green P wedged in the rear license plate.
A couple of pharmaceutically assisted gentlemen decide that waiting for the green man is optional. They go for a weaving shuffle across four lanes. With some heavy-braking driver help they actually make it.
Two 393′s rolls past headed for Maroubra. Finally the 372 pulls up.
Climb aboard with a nod to the driver and do the Travel Ten dip whilst scanning for a seat.
The single seat right up the front is free. It is to be ignored. It feels like a special needs seat. A little pedestal so that the rest of the bus can examine the back of your head or watch you lick the windows.
A few other seats are free but standing preferred. The usual gamut of tactically defensive bag positioning and space taking sprawls mean they are not worth the effort.
Cleveland St is slow. Cleveland St. is nearly always slow. Not King St. slow but slow enough.
Past the Surry Hills Petting Zoo with the Coles and unappetising restaurant on the corner. This means passing Crown St. on the other side. Why did we move again?
These two stops are seemingly too close together. Just a little pointless. Could they have not split the difference?
Where’s a microphone? Next up on your right ladies and gentleman… Bar Cleveland. Hazy memories. Another #SHTBOX end game. Good people. Much alcohol.
People alight. A woman embarks. Actually no she doesn’t. There is a question. No, not going there my friend. Shes look strangely crestfallen. The double doors close in front of her. We pull away.
South Dowling has been breached. Success! Continuous motion is actually achieved.
Wait. Too soon. Flagged.
A new passenger. Pays in change. A bus load of eyes roll.
It also seems the declaration of victory against the traffic was somewhat premature. Long queue turning right onto Anzac Parade.
Ah touché driver. He lustily bursts down the inside lane ready to muscle in near the lights. He knows that cars arguing with buses tend to lose. His victory complete, the bus swings right and thus we roll on.
It rolls on.
Tomorrow and the next day.
Having spent the long weekend a few hours south of Sydney, the usual thing would be an in depth trip advisor-esque review.
A run down of the place, accommodation, food and attractions.
So here it is:
South Coast NSW is good.
I do love the city. I love this city.
You can point to a myriad of problems in it or point at other places doing things better and you would probably be right. But for me, right now, it’ll do.
But that is not to say that occasionally I don’t want to get the hell out.
It has been too long now. So this weekend it is time to head south, get some distance and get some perspective. View things from a different angle.
Whilst 3 and a bit hours down from the metropolis, the typical city dweller weekender pursuits can be enjoyed…
Complaining about how everything country is not like it is in the city.
Moaning about slow service and bad coffee.
There isn’t a choice of artisan bakery.
And then after the initial readjustment and the exhausting of complaints will come the sea change fantasy.
The walk along the coast. The fresh air. The quiet roads.
Then the slow linger outside of the real estate window. The mental comparison of variations of square metres for money.
Realities will be whimsically overlooked and earnest discussions begun. A wine-hued haze will descend whilst exploring the finer details of this new life.
The slow life. The good life.
And then the keys will be dropped off at 10am on Monday morning. The car pointed north. The miles covered. The city reentered.
Reality resumed. Tuesday morning sat in an office with a vacant stare.
