A Moveable, Released

I rolled my window down as the visage of the Opera House fanned through the interstices of the Harbour Bridge—a hollow ribcage composed of steel trusses and granite pylons through which Sydney's mass transit system runs. Trains course through arches in the pylons en route to the CBD. I reclined in my seat, my head slung back, resting on the top of the seat. I was looking through the rear windshield of the taxi, Sydney's coarse excuse for air whipping the sweat on my neck. I closed my eyes to relieve my reddened sclera, the insomniac bruises 'neath my eyes telegraphed to everyone I spoke to the amount of sleep I'd sacrificed to stand in front of them.

I am a Melbournian, and as such I am subject the mechanics of Australian city living. Unfortunate as it may be, we, like the English, engender a fidelity to our hometowns and a prejudice towards the hometowns of others. Americans seem to be immured to such childish partisanship, moving throughout the expanse of their continent uninhibited. Leaving their hometown is the motivation that drives their every decision. Not us.

But casual racism notwithstanding, I genuinely love my hometown. There are no explicit landmarks or tourist traps. There is nothing to “flock” to. It's a town that rewards effort. The great places are tucked, nestled, buried and ensconced. In these disparate honey pots you can find a coffee that will change your life, a beer brewed in-house that will ruin you for other alcohol, a bar that was built just for you. Melbourne was subtle and Sydney grandiose.

My time in Sydney had been decided by a sequence of integers on my plane ticket, which was really a sheet of A4 paper that had been processed through a black and white printer at an internet cafe back home. Purpose of visit: a concert I'd committed myself to attending and then promptly forgotten about. And now I was here.

“Taban,” said the driver, answering a question that, for a moment, I forgot I'd asked.
“It's a pleasure to meet you.”
“You too.” I cocked my head and met Taban's gaze in the rear-view mirror. His smile was warm and genuine. My head collapsed again against the head of my seat. I thought of the silliness of the Melbourne-Sydney enmity. This could be any taxi in any place, on any bridge.

Outside the venue that night I caught the iridescence of neon light refracted in a crumpled beer can—lambent, primary-coloured rays betokening the unrelenting commerce of a 21st Century city. It didn't matter which one.