Voyassitude

The ending is rather tragicomic. I’m running through the Barangaroo area chasing a girl I met just a couple hours before. She takes a left, suddenly swallowed by one of the many alleys coming in and out of this hectic zone plagued by bars, restaurants, and tourists. I make a final sprint, catch a glimpse of her blonde hair and capture her attention by screaming “Hey, hey!” like a madman because I don’t even know her name. Babbling the worst English I have spoken in my life, I ask her if she wants to go for a drink. And. She. Says. No.

But first things first, which brings me to Scott, the guide for my walking tour around Sydney on July 24^th. It is difficult not to like the guy because of his vintage moustache or silly jokes, but mostly because he truly is an expert guide. He knows it all about the Harbour City, has answers for any questions, and will direct you to the best bars around. What else could you ask for?

There are some fifteen of us following him from St. Andrew’s Cathedral to Queen Victoria’s Building or Hyde Park, a few couples mixed with a small group and the ever-present solo travelers like myself. Soon enough I spot one of them making casual conversations with anyone who comes near him. How amazing, I think, to be able to strike small chats just like that with no effort, no apparent anxiety. I even consider doing the same but this is no pub crawl, there are no beers to loosen me up and I’m too shy to randomly speak to some foreigners on Aussie land. So for the first portion of the tour I just follow Scott silently and stuck in my world.

But after a while, the guy I spotted before, the one who seems an expert at breaking the ice with other tourists, comes to me and says hi. Simple as that. Amazing. He is from Japan, he works with electronics, and he is enjoying a short vacation in this Australian heaven. When I tell him I live in the US his face brightens up, the dream of visiting San Francisco surfacing in between smiles and a hopeful tone. I’m sure I asked for his name but I forgot it. I do remember his short, black hair, the smoothness of his hand holding a cup of coffee, and the empathic gestures he made whenever he talked to anyone in the group, myself included.

At one point he asks what my plans are for the rest of my journey, so I tell him about the Women’s World Cup and Colombia’s match against South Korea the next day. He’s not a huge soccer fan but the idea of experiencing a big crowd cheering for either Asians or South Americans excites him. He wonders if some tickets might still be available for purchase so we can go together if I’d like. Me, being a colossal idiot, tell him that I think it unlikely because, well, it’s the World Cup, and I got my ticket months in advance. He looks disappointed and we leave it at that. The tour continues, we go our different ways, and I want to talk to him some more but he’s with the small group now and I’m afraid of interrupting so I leave them be. Shortly after, when the tour ends, I want to ask if he’ll end up looking for tickets for the game or what else he has planned, but by the time I search for him he’s gone already. Missed chance, missed Japanese guy. I kept an eye out for him at the stadium the following day but never saw him.

There is someone else, though. A woman from Australia as introverted as I am. After one of our last stops in The Rocks neighborhood, and encouraged by the nice conversation with the Japanese guy, I approach this girl who keeps to herself during the entire tour. She wears a black leather jacket, print satin pants, white snickers, and a pair of sunglasses that not once reveal her eyes. What strikes me the most is her comfort in solitude; not haughty but naturally isolated, absorbing the sights with restrained expressions of contentment.  

I get close to her once Scott finishes another of his knowledgeable explanations to ask her if she is having fun. She nods, waving a minuscule smile, but I can tell she’d rather be by herself. I insist, I question her some more and learn that she is from Sydney but has lived somewhere else in Australia most of her life (Queensland or Victoria, I believe) so this city is as strange to her as it is to me. When I ask what she does for a living, she says she takes care of children at a hospital, and that same night she’ll be flying back home because she works the next morning.

“You work with kids!” I reply enthusiastically. “Then you know Bluey!” She looks at me a bit puzzled, so I mention all about the adorable kids show featuring a blue dog and her family in what is arguably the best Australian creation of all time. That does it. That’s how I make her smile purely and openly. Yes, she recognizes Bluey, so I keep going on about my obsession with the show. She laughs, telling me Bluey is quite popular with her patients, and from then on we follow Scott discussing a little bit of everything.

However, we are about to finish the tour. Scott takes us to a lovely high point from where Harbour Bridge arises splendorous as our guide signals the end of the experience. Once again, I’m a colossal idiot because I immediately put my headphones on and start listening to music while taking some pictures of the bridge. Yes, I want to approach the Aussie girl and keep the conversation going, but anxiety kicks in and when I finally decide to reach her she has walked so much that I can only get to her if I run. “Not happening,” I think, afraid that she might consider me a creep if she sees me following her like that.  Ha. Fate can be funny sometimes, because three hours later, after spending some time playing soccer and getting humiliated by kids at a special FIFA event, I walk down Barangaroo when guess who I see…

Black leather jacket, print satin pants, and those white snickers just fifty meters ahead.

By the time my brain processes who it is, I am already running to catch her. There are lots of tourists and she isn’t the tallest figure out there, but I manage to close the gap until she turns left heading to one of the streets within the central district. I curse my luck, try not to lose sight of the alley she took till I make it there and voilà, I somehow spot her again. “Hey, hey!” I scream to grab her attention. I never asked her name, so there is nothing else I can yell, but she turns around. Sees me. Tilts her head a little. And recognizes me.

Out of breath and with no clear script in my mind, I spill a river of incoherences that she pretends to understand. I have no idea of what I mumble until I finally catch my breath, calm down a little and, after listening to her summary of the past few hours, I say The Thing. “So” I start, “I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink. I know you’re leaving soon but maybe if you have the time…”

But she doesn’t. She is heading to the hotel to grab her belongings because her flight departs soon. “I’m sorry,” she says, and I kid you not, she means it. I still believe to this day she was sorry to decline the offer of a drink with this Colombian idiot while talking about Bluey, kangaroo steak, or the Matildas. “It’s okay,” I respond, “I understand.” So we say our goodbyes and I go back to Barangaroo, where five seagulls who attempt to steal my lunch do little to distract me from my fleeting yet monumental disappointment.

So there’s that. Two lovely people and two wasted opportunities at, perhaps, creating a friendship. I did learn my lesson when three days later I was brave enough to speak to a German professor on a tour in New Zealand. And guess what? That time we did go for a drink after the tour! So, if there’s anything you should take from this very long post is that it’s worth pushing your fears and anxieties aside so you can connect with others. I did that once on a tour in Bogotá, of all places, and the girl I talked to became such a close friend that last year she sang Happy Birthday to me with her parents at their house in freaking Voegtlinshoffen, for God’s sake.

But that, that’s  a story for another post.