Sunday morning was crisp and lovely. The annual City to Surf run was about to get underway. More than 64,000 people would run, shuffle, walk or crawl from Hyde Park to Bondi Beach. The route bisects my beloved neighbourhood.
Here's what I liked: setting out from my building and experiencing the delicious mix of people. The competitors (elite runners with their green bibs looking focused and serious, fit second-start runners looking pleased with themselves and their blue bibs, jaunty Back-of-the-Pack amblers wearing any old thing with their yellow bibs, two slim girls in matching outfits - tiny red shorts, yellow singlets - desperately dragging on their last cigarette, the men in tutus, and of course the person in gorilla costume) mingling with the denizens of Kings Cross. Ah! The Cross. Prossies, druggies, dealers, spruikers and their clients, victims, users, sightseers. I passed one kindly lady of the night who was saying to a disappointed-looking fellow "Look, I'm happy to give you a blow-job for $60". And the tragics left over from Saturday night, wobbling forlornly on high heels. The Bourbon & Beefsteak bar was heaving at 8am with late revellers and early drinkers. Ah! The Bourbon. Any US serviceman who ever landed in Sydney from the Vietnam War on has found his way to the Bourbon eventually. I don't go there anymore, but there was a time ... Then, turning at the El-Alamein Fountain into Potts Point, where some of the most expensive real estate in one of the most expensive cities in the world can be found.
Kings Cross is really just one short street, from the Coca-Cola sign to the Fountain. Visitors to Sydney remark with disappointment at its size. But, my friends, what worlds are held therein. I have lived in it and on its outskirts for lo these many years. I danced at The Manzel Room; I waitressed at trashy dives, and was once fired for "talking to the customers"; I've drunk at the Rex, The Bourbon, Arthur's, Barons, After Midnight, The All-Nations Club; I've eaten at The Astoria, The Cosmopolitan, and that falafel place; I've partied with musicians at the Sebel Townhouse and at The Cauldron; I've seen the famous Les Girls; I've changed my library books; I've visited the Police Station; I've caught the train, the bus, the taxis; I've laughed in its streets and apartments and cafes, I've cried and been consoled. I do love my neighbourhood. But it is a filthy skank hole some days, especially in the morning light, and Sunday morning's whirling mix was very Kings Cross. There's a t-shirt "Kings Cross: smack in the heart of Sydney" that says it all. Or most of it anyway.
And just for Pil - some New South Welsh Policemen - the best that money can buy.
12 comments:
Great post ... I could almost smell the booze coming out of the bars!
How much for the cop on the right?
Oh yes! The odours of a Kings Cross morning. You can taste them.
The cops are all surprisingly affordable, as many an Identity could attest.
Sounds just like the old Kenmore Square in Boston in the early 80s when we'd all hang out at the Rat(hskeller) club and Newbury Comics (record store), and I lived around the corner from Jumpin' Jack Flash, the grungiest bar/club of them all back before they urban-renewed the entire square and knocked all the cool old buildings down and filled the square with upscale hotels and coffee shoppes.
Tell us more about th time you (*a-hhhhhhEM*) "visitd" th Police Station.
Oh it's more than one time, Joey. In fact, I went there just after writing the post.
Something about you saying the neighborhood was "a filthy skank hole" made me snort and choke on pizza.
I have a feelings that some of the most interesting neighborhoods look like that in the early morning.
Yes, i love over-hearing the snippets of conversation as i walk through The Cross (yeah, OK, i don't live in Vancouver). Quite often i hear, "Lady, would you like a lady". I politely decline, but wish one day one of them would actually say, "Skanky, drug-fucked whore, would ya like a whore." Who knows what i would say...
chickie: It's that clear-eyed love thing - you see their faults but love them anyway. And woe betide anyone else who tries to criticise.
M.Op: One never knows, do one.
What a wonderful post! And do you suppose Sara Sue would share the cop on the right with me? He looks like he could handle us both.
Also, silly question time. What's a spruiker?
Pheebs, I think the three of us have a share-and-share-alike attitude! Sara Sue will confirm.
A spruiker is a man (or woman) who stand outside and establishment (in this case - nudie bars) spruiking the goods therein. Thusly; "Come in gents, no cover charge, lovely ladies, lovely ladies, nudes nudes nudes" and so on.
dictionary.com gives: spruik: to make or give a speech, esp. extensively or elaborately; spiel; orate. [orig. uncert.]
I'm always on for an uncert orig, myself.
CONFIRMED!! I'll bring the blue pills.
P.S. You've been tagged.
Lovely post - very evocative and affectionate.
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