Newtown.... Trippin' Out On You

Indulging in perambulations down King Street in the locality of Newtown yesterday and also venturing down Enmore Road, I surveyed a locale teeming with a conglomeration of intense tribalism, casual indifference, wealth, poverty, sophistication, inelegance, and one or two examples of very advanced people who had decided all of these ingredients were to be tossed into the mix for their broiled persona. I was once told by a local resident that this part of Sydney is where you go "to NOT get away from it all". How true.

I actually considered establishing a residence in or very near Newtown at one stage. I used to scoot through on my way home from work each day and the wafting smells of curries, the commotion, the ne'er do well that seemed to always evacuate obscenities in my direction as I rode past, and the manicured goths (who I consider exceedingly interesting) always advertised the area as a place for living. It was mainly a financial decision that denied me the outcome and hence I finally found shelter a metaphorical stones throw away.

When I'm on these excursions, I have a stupid habit of not looking where I am going. If you see someone walking the footpath dressed unfashionably looking all about the place except in the direction of his travels, feel free to assertively request the chap to "look where your going!" as the chances of it being me are high and I won't take offence. As it was yesterday walking along Enmore Road I spotted the large sign for the upcoming B-52's gig at the Enmore Theatre. Foolishly lifting my feet insufficiently with each stride, I stubbed my right hoof and indulged in an unrehearsed performance of interpretive dance I call "Silly Man Trying Not to Fall Over". Applause and praise were not forthcoming, instead a muffled expression of hilarity was heard. I couldn't be sure where it emanated from and had brief pause to consider that God did exist and she had a sense of humour. I soon discovered the source was a scraggly little man dressed even more shabbily than I, nursing a bottle in a brown paper bag.

"Look where your going buddy!", he suggested helpfully. Wise words indeed.

I decided to recharge my batteries in case further artistic expressionism was required at a cafe the name of which has escaped me. Being a fairly warm day I ordered my personal yardstick for cafe quality:

"I'll have a regular iced coffee please"
"Certainly, would you like cream with that?"
"No, just the iced coffee please. Oh, can I also have one of those mini cheesecakes too please"
"Yes, would you like cream with that?"
"No thankyou"

I do hope I haven't accidentally made a faux pas in Newtown cafe culture. Perhaps it is rude to consume things that don't have a dollop of canned squirty cream on the side. Perhaps they thought I could do with the calories....to add to the other one's.

Deliciously satisfied, I headed for the train station, which set me to thinking of a solution to the graffiti problem plaguing Sydney. It seems to me that much of the wall art around Newtown is surprisingly free of graffiti. It seems there is a degree of unspoken agreement that they need no further adornment. However, Sydney trains represent a blank canvas, screaming out for expression. I bet if artists were given the opportunity to express themselves on the rolling stock the desire to graffiti the trains would reduce due to lack of effect.

But then I always were a dreamer.... and a tripper.... and an iced coffee sipper.