Come fly with me, come fly, let’s fly away.

The past few weeks have been incredibly exhausting. I’ve been travelling around so much so that now my bank balance is low, yet my frequent flyer points are high. Right now, I feel as though expectations are tugging on me to a point where I feel completely stretched out. I’m physically in Canberra, yet Melbourne is tugging on one arm and Sydney on the other and I don’t even know where I belong any more. It is really quite ridiculous. I warn you that the graduate work application process is a real strain; it is equivalent to taking on at least one extra subject in terms of workload and perhaps 3 in terms of emotional weight. Still, I can’t complain, I am thankful for everything I have achieved so far and I’m sure one day I’ll get a good job. *fingers crossed*

I wasn’t even back at college three days before I had to jet off again. I arrived at college on Sunday evening and fortunately missed out on the ‘Sunday Roast’ dinner. As I stepped through the door and walked up the stairs, I was overcome by the feculent stench that one would typically associate with three hundred students living together in close quarters. It is amazing, when you have been living there for weeks you don’t tend to notice it, but when you come back it seems intolerable. I guess there is a lesson in that somewhere: sometimes you are not even aware a problem exists until you revisit the situation. Having said that though, the smell of college isn’t a problem that one can fix, so in that situation it is best just to adapt; not even be aware of the problem. Anyway, on Tuesday I left for Sydney.

I was surprised to see that the plane I was to board, was a small propeller driven one, which didn’t seem highly trustworthy. I thought arriving in Sydney in that plane would be much the same as handing the keys of an old ‘Datsun 120Y’ to the Vallet at a premiere ball. I was very sceptical and I swear I heard banjo music as I stepped on board amongst the other heftily sized Canberrans. Although I must admit, I was quite charmed by the little aeroplane; more than anything it made me realise what is actually involved behind flying. The props roared to life ferociously, buzzing in their torment, moving the plane faster and faster. We took off and the landing gear rose and clunked back inside the holding bay. We maintained quite a low altitude compared to a jet, which made for some spectacular scenery. The sun was close to setting at the time and so its rays were reflecting off the multitude of little dams along the way. There were hundreds scattered everywhere and they looked remarkably like shiny teardrops on a harsh arid desert.

The plane approached Sydney and the landing gear folded out in anticipation. I stared at the tyres finding a sudden connection with them. I know that may sound a little strange, but the reason for this was because I saw much similarity between what this semester of uni has felt like. As the tyres were lowered, they could see the runway approaching and what was required of them, but there was little they could do to prepare, then suddenly the ground was upon them and ‘thump’ they were thrust into action spinning frantically to deal with all the forces exerted on them. Although quickly, I found consolation in the fact that that is what tyres are designed for, it is their purpose, and for them to sit idly by on a shelf somewhere would be a total waste of what they are capable of doing. I smiled to myself at being reassured by an aeroplane tyre.

Sydney was dreary and the footpaths and roads were soaked. It happened to be Anzac day, so hundreds of guys were walking around the city in their sailor uniforms. I’d booked into a hotel that was supposedly close to the station and right next door to PwC. I think the sheer volume of teasing I gave Irwin about his inability to find hotels when we were in Japan, came back to haunt me. Like him, I’d failed to write down where it was or memorise the directions, I was confident that everything would be fine. While walking down Market Street I saw the large neon illuminated letters of “Mecure Grand Apartments” on the side of a building and so I was brimming with confidence. All I have to do is head towards that building, simple, I thought. My bag was heavy and my shoes began to get wet, but finally after a long walk I reached the building and walked around it to find the entrance. To my dismay, I couldn’t find anything that looked like a hotel lobby and so I had to resort to stopping and checking the name of where I was staying, which to a man is a signal of complete defeat (not quite as bad as asking for directions however). “Oh, what the Dickens?” I muttered under my breath, causing a Sydney-Sider to look at me strangely and walk in a subtle wide arc to avoid me. The name of my hotel was actually “Medina Grand apartments”, how could I be so stupid, I was thinking to myself. Fortunately I had a map of Sydney and found where the place was: it was ages away! I drew a deep breath, picked up my heavy bag (filled with books) and walked in the direction of where I had come, my feet getting further soaked by the pools of water lying on the ground.

My misadventures didn’t end there, for when I found the right building, I couldn’t find the entrance. I walked around and around and found myself in the lobby of some apartment complex and in doing so freaked out some more Sydney-Siders. Finally though, I found the lobby and felt an overwhelming sense of achievement, the magnitude of which should never have been able to be derived from the simple task of finding a hotel. I checked in, stepped into the lift and hit the button for floor six twice. Nothing Happened. I noticed a slot with red and green LED’s and so I swiped my hotel card and hit the button for level six, twice. Nothing Happened. I hit the button a bit harder this time, hoping this would achieve something. It didn’t. I was beginning to feel a sense of claustrophobia and the lift stunk of cigarettes and alcohol. Finally though, the doors opened, HAHA success, I thought. Unfortunately though, it was just another guest using the lift and I was still on the ground floor. He looked at me inquisitively in a way that seemed to question why I was standing in a lift (that stunk), not doing anything. As if to explain myself, a pre-emptive explanation if you will, I spoke to the large man, “I can’t seem to get to level 6.” The man confidently swiped his card and pressed the button for level 6. Nothing Happened. “Hmmm…” he mumbled to himself proceeding to examine his hotel card, before giving up. After all, there is a limit to how kind you can be, especially to a strange boy in a smelly lift who looks like Mr. Bean. “Well I’ll get you to level 5,” he conceded. I thanked him.

I thought once on level five, I could take the stairs to level six, but after wandering around the floor, I found nothing. What kind of a hotel doesn’t have stairs? I decided I would go and see the concierge to sort things out. As I stepped back into the lift, I felt as though I wanted to give it one last try, so I swiped my card at tapped the button for floor six, twice. Hurrah. The button stayed illuminated and I felt the lift move. Again I felt an overwhelming sense of achievement that one really shouldn’t be able to derive from successfully using a lift to get to a certain level.

I walked through the corridors to find my room. As I examined the card to see what room I was in, I chuckled to myself as I discovered I was staying in ‘room 101’. I wonder what will be behind the door? I tried to think what my greatest fear actually was… Don’t worry if you missed that, I thought I’d be snobbish and tie in a literary reference, it won’t happen again.

Anyway, I heard the most horrible mechanical grinding sound as slotted my card in and opened the door to a dark room. I’m pretty sure I didn’t jump, but I was scared, it serves me right for finding literary significance in a hotel room number. The room was typical, but looked the height of luxury compared to my college room. The first task, I thought, is to relax and go for a swim, so I put on my bathers and went down to the pool.

The pool was quite secluded and dimly lit and I was the only one there. I jumped straight in, kicked off the wall and started my freestyle stroke. Immediately all the stress in my mind and the aches in my body washed away and I imagined them leaving a greasy trail behind me as I swam onwards. I swam and swam, lap after lap until I was feeling really good and then got out.

It was amazing, everything seemed far more tolerable after that, the lift even smelt like expensive cologne now. What a difference a swim made. I strolled around the somewhat beautiful Darling Harbour and tried to find a place where I wouldn’t feel strange eating alone. I found a cool little ramen bar and decided it was perfect. I ate while looking across the harbour, thinking about what all my friends would be doing at the same moment.

For a long time I really enjoyed living in that swanky little hotel room, but a somewhat disconcerting feeling came over me. As I was lying on one side of the double bed, I looked over at the cupboard and saw my suit hanging loyally, and I suddenly imagined that it was ten years in the future and I was a lonely business living far away from my friends and family. I hated that feeling and prayed that I would always be able to balance work life and a life where I could see my friends and family. I don’t want to be one of those cold hearted workaholics that obsesses about the market 12 hours a day and goes home to a lonely well furnished apartment.

In the morning I checked out of the hotel wearing my suit, looking far more respectable than when I had arrived. I was refreshed and ready to start the big day. I got stuck with an interview first, then had to do a numerical and a written test followed by group activities. The whole day was draining and I was glad to see the end of it. I caught the train back to the airport and flew home, on a jet this time.

Over the next few days I was a looking at my phone almost every second of the day, waiting for a response. Finally it came, when I was at work, tutoring a student. My heart sunk as I heard the key word ‘unfortunately’ and I knew I had been rejected. I thanked the man for his feedback and went straight back to tutoring. What else could I have done? I can’t believe I came so close to getting a good job and ending the taxing grad work application process, but I’ll have faith that it was for the best. Hopefully I will get an even better job in Melbourne, so I can be amongst the people I love in the city I love.

Until next time,

Take care.