Time is on our side
Australia was never part of the plan. We didn’t have a plan, but if we had had one, I doubt Australia would have been on it.
We were en route to Changi Airport. We were on our way to Rome, to attend E’s best friend’s wedding, where she was to be bridesmaid. It had been barely six months since E had, on a whim, decided to move half-way across the world from Italy to Singapore, to be with me. The year was 2006, we were young, life was good. We thought we’d explore Asia and perhaps then head to Europe, in E’s case, head back to Europe, to be closer to her side of the family. Moving farther east was beyond our realm of thinking.
My Nokia phone buzzed as we were speeding down the East Coast Parkway.
‘How’s it goin’, mate? James here.’ The Aussie lilt of the voice down the line was familiar to me. An ex-boss of mine who had moved back down-under a few months ago. ‘Fancy joining me in Sydney. I’ve got a job for you.’
Six months later, E and I, having just deposited our luggage in the serviced apartment, were standing on the corner of Park and Pitt, looking up at a sparkling blue sky in Sydney. Flying by the seat of our pants, one might say. Oh, those were the days. First impressions are personal. There is no such thing as a right or wrong first impression. For me, that first distinct impression of Australia was the blueness of the blue sky. It was September. I filled my lungs with the freshness of Spring and let the warm sunshine caress my face. We walked up Pitt Street, past The Rocks, and were reclined on a grassy knoll under the magnificent Sydney Harbour Bridge. The vast unexplored Australian continental bush lay to my left and past the harbour and the Opera House, the deep Pacific Ocean, to my right. My head was in the grass, I opened my eyes, and right there, in the clear blue skies, in front of me, lay my future, limitless in its potential, ripe with possibility, filled to the brim with the excitement of the unknown. The blueness of the clear blue Sydney sky. My first impression.
As I eased into bed last night, I remembered the day, fourteen years ago, when we left Sydney for London, a five-month-old in tow. Memories have a habit of popping up when you least expect them. It’s not as if they ring the bell and ask to be let in, or send you advance notice, so you can prepare, arm yourself, lay the table, take out appropriate crockery. If memories were dispassionate like points of data, or encyclopaedic facts, they would be relatively harmless. Invariably, however, they come accompanied with baggage. Like nostalgia, for instance, that grips the heart, and squeezes one’s tear buds.
The Sydney cabbie picked us up from our home in Church Street. Our four years in Sydney had been action packed. Friends, travel, work, wedding, baby. Boarding our flight to London at the time, it didn’t strike me that we wouldn’t be back. Time just wasn’t a thing we thought about. That is at once the charm and fallacy of youth. Of course, we would be back, we assumed. We hugged and backslapped our friends. ‘See you in London!’ we cheered. We were swapping Vegemite for Marmite, thongs for flipflops, Warnie for Freddie Flintoff, frothy flat whites for weak tea. Distance was just academic. Time was on our side.
Last night, it struck me that fourteen years had passed in a blink of the eye. The days are long, the weeks slightly less so, the years are short. It is past midnight, E has her back turned to me, I can hear her peaceful breathing. The girls, fourteen and twelve, are fast asleep in their rooms across the landing area. Besides the very occasional car swishing past, London is quiet too. There are no distractions, ample space, for nostalgia to seep in and occupy my consciousness.
I remembered our cosy two bedroom ‘townhouse’ in Leichhardt, the Italian quarter of Sydney. Just beyond it was a small park, with a space, where dogs and other pets could be left unleashed. The sight of them running helter-skelter, often with no rhyme or reason, leaping in the air to catch frisbees, or darting into the bushes at speed to retrieve a ball, was sheer joy. Beyond the park, was a path that skirted one of Sydney many coves. The city is blessed with many spectacular sights, the Harbour Bridge, Bondi, and the walk to Coogee, the Northern beaches. But this was my favourite spot. Simply because it was mine. On weekends, the tranquillity of the water and the sight of the boats moored at the pier and of the seagulls gliding effortlessly by, made the effort of pushing through my 5k run less laborious. After work, and before dinner, and before children took over our lives, E and I would often take a walk here. Sometimes we would talk and weave plans for our future. And sometimes, we would hold hands, comfortable in our silence and in the beauty that enveloped us.
I remembered my friend and ex-colleague, G, who visited us on the last day, before the taxi arrived to take us to the airport. He gave me a tight hug and his eyes were moist. I felt my heart clinch momentarily too. He was older than me and perhaps wiser. Parting is such sweet sorrow. Perhaps, he knew then, that our paths might never cross, or if they did, they wouldn’t be as frequent as we might desire. I was slightly more blasé. The thought of us possibly not meeting at all, just didn’t strike me. Until last night. In the decade and a half since that encounter, sure, there have been the FB messages, and Whatsapp calls. But we didn’t meet. And with the passage of time, those points of intersection became far and few between. I am at the threshold of middle age now, and G a young grandfather. Friends once, strangers now, with twines of memories holding us tenuously together.
I wondered what it would be like to visit Sydney again and walk down memory lane. Meet my friends at the watering holes we used to frequent. We have more grey hairs, and life experiences under our belts, but the humour is still juvenile. Visit Church Street again and observe the inhabitants of №42, living their carefree lives and hatching plans, like we did. Walk past what we used to call ‘Dog Park’ quite imaginatively and to our favourite spot in Sydney. Think about sliding door moments and indulge in the imagination of paths left untraversed.
Over breakfast this morning, I recounted these feelings to E. I started off with, ‘Remember Church Street and the dog park…’ She is more practical than I am, less reflective and retrospective. ‘Sure, I do. You know what,’ she said, ‘we should book flights today, take the girls to Australia, show them where we started off.’
I smiled. Time was still on our side.
