Bondi by the Sea

A reflexive and self-referential fact of traveling so far from home is the tendency one has upon arriving in a place for the first time to compare it to some place it reminds you of back home. Perhaps this is a natural tendency we all have to protect ourselves from the shock of the new; perhaps this is the mind’s way to mitigate the impact of the strange at the heart of the familiar. Or maybe it’s only one way to deal with the shock of finding things so recognizable in a land so far away from home, geographically speaking. But whatever the explanation, there we were in Manly finding echoes of Del Mar, and here we are in Bondi seeing shades of La Jolla Cove.

On Saturday late morning we wanted to adventure into the suburbs of Sydney and chose to bus to Bondi, for its magnificent coastal cliffs and powerful surf. We took two buses to get there, but the system here is so efficient that we alighted at North Bondi after only a forty minute ride. Along the way, we passed Oxford Street, the gay neighborhood of Sydney, replete with pride flags and assorted high end boutiques and bars. A little further along Oxford, we saw the old Sydney barracks and a few miles on, lo and behold, a Westfield Shopping Center loomed, complete with Borders and assorted stores of British and American vintage. Are the shopping conglomerates owned by Americans, or is Westfield of Australian origin, we wondered? Contradictions of capitalism, indeed..

At North Bondi we walked uphill to find what was once a military outpost now transformed into a golf course above the breakers, with extraordinary vistas across the vastness that is the Pacific. Following the road downhill and walking along the promenade, we passed the incredible surfing scene that make this area renowned and as we watched the waves curl in the glorious sun we wondered what winter really meant in Australia.

A little further on we came to one of the historic winter bathing sites along this extraordinary coast: The Iceberg Swimming Club, established in 1929 for winter swimming. A 75 meter pool abutted the ocean and as swimmers swam languidly, the waves crashed into the furthest lane. Kathy spied a sign advertising Yoga-by-the-Sea classes and determined to return on Sunday morning.

Back on the bus and home to the Mercure in time for Amy to catch a taxi to Sydney airport and fly to Melbourne in preparation for her meetings the next day.

Kathy then joined Dany Celermajer, one of her colleagues in political theory, at the wharf, where the 10th annual Sydney Writer’s Festival was being held. Attending one panel on the Ethics of Language wasn’t enough; Kathy stayed for another on memoir and was delighted to learn about two young Australian writers—Alice Pung and Kate Holden—who recently published memoirs on their very different Australian lives--Alice, from a family who emigrated to Australia from Cambodia, and Kate about her years as an addict and prostitute, and now a celebrated writer. Two more books for the growing list.

It was still early, so Kathy made her way to the Wharf Restaurant, hoping for a table; no luck. Instead she made a reservation for Tuesday, her free night, and also bought a ticket to the Sydney Theatre’s production of The Art of War. (Reports on that will follow later in the week).

Sunday dawned and Kathy again took the bus to Bondi, in time for the yoga class by the sea. No false advertising in this case: the class was held on a concrete platform adjacent to the Iceberg Pool overlooking the sea. Sunglasses were an important part of one’s equipment. And as the waves crashed over the railing, splashing the instructor (but not Kathy, positioned well to the back) the group moved into sun salutes, in this case, literally interpreted, and downward dogs and other assorted Hatha poses with the warmth of the sun loosening our muscles and joints. The only thing that broke the class’s concentration was someone’s sighting a school of dolphins swimming along with the "Icebergers", a group of intrepid cold-water swimmers who had ventured down the steps by side of the pool and into the strong surf.

Back to the hotel Kathy went, after a lunch at Bondi beach, to meet Vras, another Sydney University colleague. And then off to the Art Museum for an intended quiet chat. The quiet chat turned into a loud and hilarious conversation with some friends of Vras, including Diane, an American anthropologist of Kathy’s age, born in Brooklyn and transplanted to Australia many decades ago, now teaching at University of New South Wales, whose cousin just happened to go to the same high school as Kathy! Small world indeed!

On to Chinatown for dinner with Vras, and then back to the hotel to prepare for Kathy’s first lectures tomorrow at the University. Very much looking forward to more time with this generous, witty, and welcoming group of academics!