Kalamity's time in Sydney was coming to a close, and like all trips, it had been - not what she expected, but that had made it better, it is really the self-discoveries that make travelling so worthwhile, and she had come a long way from the rather stressed-out woman with bandages over her heart, who stepped off the plane on a cold night a month before.
That night, on the train out of the airport, hurtling through the strange city nightscape, Kalamity felt her foreign-ness in the big city, a country girl fresh off the green paddocks and sandy-sunned beaches of her homeland.
Already, she had got lost at the airport, looking for a bus that was not running at night, and now she was heading towards the infamous King's Cross, wondering if she should walk with her suitcase to Mishka's apartment or take a taxi.
Wanting to defy the scaremongerers, she'd decided on walking, she was curious to see the Cross again, too,
the very differentness of the hookers, the pimps, the street-people, attracted her.
Lugging her suitcase through the underground station, up and onto escalators, she had second thoughts, it was heavy, and so on the street, feeling curious eyes on her, she hailed a taxi.
'Probably everything about me says country' she thought.
The African taxi driver welcomed her to the city, chatting casually about the weather and the changes to the Cross, as he drove with sleek efficiency through the once familiar streets to Elizabeth Bay Road.
She couldn't help oohing and ahhing, with delicious excitement, she never understood why this place should move her so much, but it did, and it felt good to be there again.
The fare came to $6, she gave him 10, a small happiness shared, the block of apartments looked exactly the same, and Kalamity was glad she wasn't towing a heavy suitcase through the streets.
Mishka answered the buzzer and opened the gate, and down the enchanting path she went, bordered with a profusion of exotic plants in reds and pinks, their heady perfume floating her way down to the iron-latticed front door, where she had to buzz Mishka again.
It was good to see Mishka, she was now nearly 88 years old, more frail but still a homely presence, Kalamity remembered the clashes they'd had years ago when she was a defacto daughter-in-law...would age have mellowed them both?
Mishka was a hoarder, and the apartment was still crowded-out with stuff, but not so much that you couldn't move, and it was with a grateful sigh that Kalamity sank into her bed that night.
The view from the balcony dominated the morning, it was always inescapable in the apartment, in a way, it was the apartment, and the clink-clink sound of the yacht masts added a delightful background music.
Her head full of anticipated adventures, Kalamity made coffee with the old espresso pot she'd bought with her, for Mishka and herself, and so a little routine was established that Mishka loved.
And so also began, the Internal Infernal.
That night, on the train out of the airport, hurtling through the strange city nightscape, Kalamity felt her foreign-ness in the big city, a country girl fresh off the green paddocks and sandy-sunned beaches of her homeland.
Already, she had got lost at the airport, looking for a bus that was not running at night, and now she was heading towards the infamous King's Cross, wondering if she should walk with her suitcase to Mishka's apartment or take a taxi.
Wanting to defy the scaremongerers, she'd decided on walking, she was curious to see the Cross again, too,
the very differentness of the hookers, the pimps, the street-people, attracted her.
Lugging her suitcase through the underground station, up and onto escalators, she had second thoughts, it was heavy, and so on the street, feeling curious eyes on her, she hailed a taxi.
'Probably everything about me says country' she thought.
The African taxi driver welcomed her to the city, chatting casually about the weather and the changes to the Cross, as he drove with sleek efficiency through the once familiar streets to Elizabeth Bay Road.
She couldn't help oohing and ahhing, with delicious excitement, she never understood why this place should move her so much, but it did, and it felt good to be there again.
The fare came to $6, she gave him 10, a small happiness shared, the block of apartments looked exactly the same, and Kalamity was glad she wasn't towing a heavy suitcase through the streets.
Mishka answered the buzzer and opened the gate, and down the enchanting path she went, bordered with a profusion of exotic plants in reds and pinks, their heady perfume floating her way down to the iron-latticed front door, where she had to buzz Mishka again.
It was good to see Mishka, she was now nearly 88 years old, more frail but still a homely presence, Kalamity remembered the clashes they'd had years ago when she was a defacto daughter-in-law...would age have mellowed them both?
Mishka was a hoarder, and the apartment was still crowded-out with stuff, but not so much that you couldn't move, and it was with a grateful sigh that Kalamity sank into her bed that night.
The view from the balcony dominated the morning, it was always inescapable in the apartment, in a way, it was the apartment, and the clink-clink sound of the yacht masts added a delightful background music.
Her head full of anticipated adventures, Kalamity made coffee with the old espresso pot she'd bought with her, for Mishka and herself, and so a little routine was established that Mishka loved.
And so also began, the Internal Infernal.
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