SYD2016: Home

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Not my photography: how in hell could I take this?? Credit in picture.

 

 

It’s happened, I’ve done it. I’ve become a writer cliché. I’m writing in Starbucks.

It’s Tuesday, 2nd of February, and I’ve been in Sydney all of 20 hours. In that time I have walked to the Quay and back, and watched the second episode of the X-Files revival. As far as holidays go, this one is shaping up to be a doozy.

I don’t know if I can term this a holiday though. Between now and Saturday, most of my time will be spent being a tourist. But this is mostly because I bring in tow with me someone who has never been to this city (not a criticism, just an observation). But I don’t feel like a tourist. I feel quite comfortable. I’ve been in Sydney so many times over the last year (well, three times—in terms of travel, this is the most I’ve visited a place outside South Australia because OF COURSE Moonta doesn’t count, that place is like a second home). So Sydney, too, feels like a second home. A bigger, grosser, more observable home, but home nonetheless. I feel like this is a good thing.

I’m in Sydney to be a part of the rehearsals for ATYP’s Voices Project: All Good Things. Tonight I’m going to their first dress run, and I’m pretty goddamn nervous. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because this is the first time I’ve felt like “imposter syndrome”—like I’m a fraud, like I’ve cheated my way to where I am right now. But I don’t feel like I don’t deserve this; I am very proud of my small achievement. I just can’t shake the feeling that someone’s going to turn around and go ‘Sorry, there was a mistake, you need to go home now’.

Because there’s that word again. Home. There is every chance Sydney could reject me—no matter how much I run towards it, no matter how comfortable I feel here, no matter that I could conceivably call it “home” too. I feel that in the constant thrum of foot traffic on George Street, a huge artery that runs right through the CBD. Nobody’s going to stop for you (not that I’m asking them to), so if you can’t go with the flow get the hell out.

So I guess I feel like a fish out of water. Wow. I must be the first person to feel that way.

Just like I’m the first person to write in a Starbucks.