The Opera House is smaller than expected. The Harbour Bridge, bigger. Sydney itself, more British with its boozers, pie and peas, bacon sandwiches and named odes to Blighty like Kings Cross, Paddington and Liverpool Street. There’s even a downpour to make us feel at home.
Yet, despite the notable regularity of British accents, it isn’t little Britain at all. That becomes particularly apparent with a recent spate of shark attacks around the harbour, one of them on the same day we take a ferry out to Watsons Bay, where the city meets the Pacific Ocean.
This is more like the Sydney I’d imagined. Sandy coves. Beautiful houses on tree-lined streets. Lunch overlooking the bay. The skyscrapers of the CBD in the distance.
The water is what makes Sydney so interesting. The way the city folds around it. Secluded nooks and crannies. Hidden neighbourhoods.
At Bondi, which certainly isn’t hidden, the coastal path south towards Bronte and beyond reveals swimming pools cut into the cliffs by the water. A sort of calling card of Sydney that’s repeated throughout town.
There’s this contrast throughout Sydney. Familiar, but not. Touristy, yet not overwhelming. Beautiful, yet dangerous.
The familiar bits help you settle in. The rest keeps you looking.
