Life as a Sydneysider

Newtown

It’s yet another gloriously sunny day and I’m sitting inside an indulgently decorated dark room drinking a flat white at La Boemia Caffe Emporio, the coffee shop beneath our guesthouse. As I had initially suspected upon my arrival I am in fact a regular customer here and have since gotten to know the staff quite well. Marco, the owner, saw me one day sitting at a table happily tapping away at my laptop when he kindly offered me the use of his “cigar room”. He suggested that the air conditioned and comfortably furnished interior would be a better place for me to work. The room is, as the appropriate name suggests, a place where people can smoke cigars and drink coffee surrounded by antique furniture, rococo drapery and an impressive display of baroque framed art. I spent more time studying the contents of the room than actually doing any work. I asked Marco if the room was popular with the locals but surprisingly he told me that just recently he decided to close it. Apparently the room wasn’t much of a success largely due to the fact that even when just two people occupied the room it discouraged others from entering. He said that customers were intimidated by other people who had already made themselves comfortable and it was as if they had claimed the entire room for themselves. Marco suggested a different layout and some additional tables might solve the problem but for now it remained closed. Except to me of course. The cigar room has just become my new studio. You’re probably still wondering what a flat white is…I didn’t know either until after my first coffee shop experience in Newtown. I confidently walked into a coffee shop called Corelli’s on King Street and requested a regular coffee. The large gothic inspired queen behind the counter asked sharply “what kind of coffee” without even looking at me. I replied “well, just a drip coffee. Filtered coffee perhaps.” He looked up and with an impatient tone of voice said “we don’t do that.” “Okay, well…” and I looked at the espresso machine in front of him and figured that it was going to have to be a bar drink. The next best thing to a regular coffee is an Americano which is a shot of espresso topped up with hot water so I offered “…erm, an Americano.” “No! We don’t do that either…look, what is it you want. A latte or something?” I didn’t want a latte. I didn’t want a cappuccino, macchiato or anything like that. “Just a normal coffee, don’t you have anything like that” I asked. “Flat white. That’ll be two fifty please.” I didn’t even bother asking him what the hell made up a flat white but whatever it was it tasted good. I have since learnt that it is two thirds coffee and one third milk. I never went back to that coffee shop.

The Australians seem to have a different name for everything here. I was shocked to see a sign in a bar saying “No Thongs Please” until I later learnt that thongs are the ozzie name for flip flops. Singlets the name for ladies vests. Schooner the name of a pint glass (although it’s actually nowhere near as big as a pint). Even long established international brands seem to feel the need to join the bandwagon and change their name. Burger King is called “Hungry Jack’s” and Walls ice-cream for some bizarre reason have decided to re-name themselves “Streets.”

I had fun at the supermarket a few days ago. It’s been a while since I last shopped for groceries and I found it remarkably soothing. I was amazed at how quickly I settled back into the routine of spending lord knows how long standing in front of packaged goods trying to justify their purchase and convince myself that a $4.50 jar of Italian green stuffed olives would not be a frivolous purchase. My first real difficult decision making experience took place at the cheese section. Ever since I left Italy I have been craving three things. Coffee, cheese and wine. Most places in Asia do not supply these products or if they do, they’re outrageously expensive (for obvious reasons) or locally produced and therefore disgusting. After much thought I decided that I really just fancied some plain and simple cheddar so I checked to see what was on offer. “Sharp,” “tasty” or “mild” seemed to be the choice. I went for “tasty” assuming that meant it was medium in strength. Then I spent a while looking for the wine and spirits section until I was told that it is against the law for supermarkets to sell alcohol here.

I have just started working part-time at a bar on King Street called Zanzibar which is turning out to be a lot more than I bargained for. The bar has three floors which include a rooftop terrace, cocktail lounge and main bar. I have been working outdoors on the rooftop familiarizing myself with the strange accents, unfamiliar products and strict staff procedures. I have worked in bars with high standards before but this place “takes the biscuit”. Coopers Draught, Toohey’s New, Victoria Bitter…all names of beer that I have never heard of which people ask for. I would have a better chance of identifying the drink they requested if it wasn’t for the additional challenge of an Australian accent. Next week I will be starting to learn how to make cocktails. Not just make them…but spin the bottles and light things on fire known as “flaring”. They reckon in three weeks time I will be “flaring my tits off”. Last night the bartenders put on a show for a private function and lit the whole bar surface on fire while spinning flaming bottles in the air. I wondered why a bar that is so strict on health and safety matters allowed such activities to take place. In contrast, I have also been asked to attend a second interview for a senior graphic design position in the city and have already resumed work for old clients in Chicago.

Tales from Lilting House

Today Ali and I met up for a late lunch at Coogie Bay. It’s Bank Holiday Monday and the whole beach and surrounding bars were packed with thousands of lively locals. It was a huge outdoor summer party and apparently everyone was invited. We met at Coogie Bay Hotel outside in the beer garden where the sun seemed to be directing all of its heat. Ali and I immediately began to catch up on each others lives. Because we hadn’t been together for almost a week it was strange to all of a sudden have so much to tell each other. Ali was telling me about her interesting job which involves door to door sales asking for donations helping the Heart Research Foundation. She enjoys the challenge and it’s a great way for her to explore Sydney and the surrounding suburbs. Ali asked if my apartment was suitable so I told her about my experiences so far...

Cheap accommodation in a great neighborhood has it’s drawbacks, or qualities depending on how you look at it. A few weeks ago while searching the streets for an apartment, Ali and I came across an intriguing place called Lilting House. I had already decided that Newtown was the neighborhood I wanted to live in because I fell in love with it as soon as I lay eyes on it. King Street, which borders Newtown and Erskenville, is the main drag for independent coffee shops, funky boutiques and a great selection of friendly bars and restaurants. The sign on Enmore Road (just off King Street) read “Lilting House Hotels” but looked more like a guesthouse than a hotel. Since they were closed I wrote down the number and continued onward in search of the perfect apartment. A week later I found the number in my wallet, gave them a call and went to take a look around. It was quiet, clean and cheap. In fact, for just $80 a week it was a steal. I moved in a week later once my friend Gino left. Since moving in a few days ago I have talked with a few of the other guests and the following are descriptions of my experiences with each of them (in order of appearance).

Naile aged 25 is from Ireland and likes to drink. No surprises there, but when we decided to go down to Kelly’s on King (the Irish bar on King Street) for a few drinks he loosened up a little and began to talk in detail about his lurid past. Apparently, it was just over a year ago when Naile worked as a carpenter for one of the worlds largest drug syndicates in Spain. His skills in carpentry and passion for fine woodwork was put to good use by helping disguise and hide large amounts of illegal substances in pieces of furniture. This made him “a shite load of money” and helped him purchase expensive cars and cheap women until his love of woodwork was replaced by gambling. Subsequently he lost most of his money on poker games and practically ruined himself. One day he “woke up, smelt the coffee” and decided to do something about his unhealthy lifestyle. Naile quit his "carpentry" job (fortunately with no hard feelings) and came to Sydney where he now hopes to settle down. He left his girlfriend in Ireland with her 2 year old daughter (Naile isn’t the father) with the hope that they will both eventually emigrate to Australia and start a new life together as a family. Since that interesting conversation, we have seldom seen each other except for last night…I had arrived back from the dry cleaners when we saw each other in the courtyard. I asked him how things were going and he replied “Am alright, yeah, but if you don’t mind ah’d love to get rid o’these” and expressed discomfort in his back. All of a sudden it came flooding back to me. I had a few pints that night (actually, they call them scooners here and they’re not as big as a pint) when he asked me to do this favor for him. I had, until now, completely forgot about it. I remembered that I had stupidly agreed to remove all 13 of the stitches in his back for him. Naile recently had surgery to remove malignant moles and was due to have the stitches removed a few days ago. Now that I was a little more sober I recommended he seek professional medical attention and reminded him that I know nothing about how to remove stitches. I have difficulties dealing with stitched clothing never mind someone’s body. But somehow he managed to convince me that it would be really easy and that it wasn’t worth him paying medical expenses for such a “simple procedure”. Yes, simple maybe for a trained nurse. I wasn’t a trained nurse but nonetheless I followed him upstairs to his room. He handed me the small scissors and reassured me by saying “I think these should be sharp enough” and leaned against the chest of drawers. To spare the bloody details, the operation wasn’t a success and Naile almost fainted. I left him alone in his room half stitched. Neither of us could continue.

My room mate is called Villee (pronounced veel-eh) and he’s from Finland. We first met in our room one afternoon when he had just come in from work. Villee is with two of his friends who are sleeping in the room next door and are here to make money so they can continue traveling. They work in removals and Villee rarely has a day off. He has bleached hair, several tattoos and big muscles. The following morning I awoke to discover he had already left for work. Tired and disorientated, I almost fell out of my top bunk and gathered my things to take a shower. I opened the horrid old antique closet in our room and the door fell apart in my hands hitting me on the head. Rubbing my face better, I reached into the closet to grab my towel, pulled it out and accidentally knocked his expensive collection of Calvin Clien toiletries onto the floor. The plastic containers smashed into a million pieces. The day might as well have just ended right then for I was I no mood to continue. I didn’t see Villee until the following morning when I confessed and offered to pay for another set of toiletries. He said that wasn’t necessary because the products could still be used.

My first experience with Trivia (not sure of the correct spelling but she pronounces it triv-ee-ay with an unusual Australian accent) was a little disturbing to say least. Me and Naile were in the lounge room watching TV when Trivi walked into the room and asked if she could watch the 6 o’clock news. I changed the channel and the three of us watched the news together. Every time the news presenter introduced a new headline Trivi moaned and groaned with distressed emotions like she was witnessing some sort of horrific execution right in front of her. “Oh….oh, oh m.y g.o.d…, noooo, oh, can you believe that, oh..oh my god” she said with her hands over her mouth, taking the occasional exasperated gasp in response to such terrible news like “..and the Sydney Tigers were defeated today as…” I mean for crying out loud. The next experience with Trivi was when we were sitting outside in the courtyard and all of a sudden a car drove by and people from within started shouting “you prostitute…fuckin’ whore…Maori bitch”. Trivi instantly stood up shaking and peered through the cracks in the metal security door to our yard. Neither of us could see beyond the wall but Trivi was quite sure those hostile remarks were aimed at her. I asked who these people were and why they were saying such nasty things. Trivi, of Maori decent, told me they were angry aboriginals who were jealous of her family. She continued to tell me about how she was welcomed into their community and learnt many things about their culture. So much so that she can even read or understand aboriginal art and instantly recognize the artist. As I understand it, many of Trivi’s friends have been treated badly by aboriginal men after they have married them and are generally very troublesome. Trivi wants nothing more to do with the Australian aboriginals, much to their dismay apparently.

Smellyman, as I like to call him, must be in his late 40’s and is never seen dressed in anything other than a suit. I haven’t spoken to him yet as he pretty much keeps himself to himself, except for his smell that is, which seems to linger in the air for a good few minutes even after he’s left the vicinity. But like I said, I’m in a great neighborhood and I find the guests more amusing and entertaining than offensive.