Written by Jim Pettenon, J-1 Exchange Student
A dull pop in the ears as the altitude drops. The plane approaches the tarmac - an overwhelming rush. Metallic shuddering as it decelerates. Pilot warbles instructions via headphones. The seatbelt sign pings to life above alongside a dull chatter of passengers. The soft whirring of the engine reverberates throughout the cabin. Row-by-row, passengers alight.
Whispers echo through cavernous hallways as travelers traipse the beige passages. Expats chatter in their native tongue, snaking towards the exit. A Border Security officer murmurs something under his breath. Outside, grey clouds flatten the morning sun. Enterprising cab drivers prey on unsuspecting tourists. The familiar honk of traffic. Overwhelmed, the city looks two-dimensional and distant. Unfamiliar. New. The clicking of the indicator. The hum of the engine, hurtling towards the motorway.
Suitcase wheels roll to a stop. Teeth click on a brass barrel, a door locked. Gratitudes muttered, guidance offered. A moments peace in a hostel common area. A deep sense of overwhelm. Perhaps this was a mistake. Exhaustion starts to sink its teeth in, to get a taste. It would be easy to sit here all day. To fade out the voices of people on the phone. The reception down the hall checking in new guests. The soft knocking of wood-on-wood; the chessboard. The crackle of the gas fireplace.
Atop the hill. The view of the bridge in the distant. Monumental structure in orange and steel. A few deep breathes to take it in. Locals rush past, collectively inhaling the crisp air. A hum of activity. The whirring of spokes and the clicking of gears. A small peloton passes, grunting towards the peak. Ocean currents lap lazily, sloshing against the pier. A gull calls to no one in particular. Across the small cove, Balcutha creaks, speaking its age. Stature, presence. The wharf is full of life. Storeholders chatter as doors open. A deep growl from within. Hunger.
Steam rises silently off the rich brown liquid. Comforting warmth in the gullet. Quiet morning street. A dog yips nearby. Gas heaters churn away, heat escaping into thin air. The clinking of dishes, a busboy clears the next table. Food appears. Golden yolks ooze onto crusty bread. Wolfing down mouthfuls, quick. A refill on coffee. And one more. The tip calculated. Cash placed carefully under the mug.
Time to kill. Directionless. Where to next. Drifting along the wharf, no intentions. Carriage rattles along its predefined path, dinging, shrieks to a halt. The feeble ticking of a pedestrian light. Some descend into the cold streets. Color of the waterfront softened by dullness above yet, still present. Adrift. Observing. Wandering. Listening. Onwards. Dogs prance in small packs through the open grass, their owners deep in conversation. An eagle, perched stoically on stonewall, gazes out at the bay, cocks its head; silently, patiently awaiting its next meal. Below, a market, white marquees populating the bitumen. Hawkers call out their goods.
Fresh citrus wafts in the wind. Irresistible. A van beeps, reversing towards a stall. A pair of Bengal cats prance proudly through the crowds. At the leash’s end, their owner walks with similar airs. A child sings out about mandarins. Currency exchanged. Two in the pocket. Irresistible. Stooped over in the parking lot. Dish soap and water revealing nothing. Yet the tyre hisses, almost silently. Right by the ocean. Fishermen grumble as they discuss their daily fortune. The faint swoosh of a line being cast out. Joggers bounce past. The sun starts to reveal itself.
Gravel crunches pleasingly underfoot. The bridge draws closer. Underneath, a freighter glides by silently. The tart taste of citrus. Two signs declare coyote sightings. Be cautious. Greengrey shrubs line the coastal track, the wind rustling them gently. Sand tracks towards the beach. A frisbee rushes through the sky. Underneath a dog follows patiently, its focus never leaving the object. The watch says 1500.
The machine beeps angrily. Payment declined. A third attempt, a different card. Success. Dorm 10. A stale whiff of sweat. Fresh sheets. Bed made; luggage stowed. Another walk through the park, the sun sinking behind the hills. Inside the grocer color is everywhere. Orienting. Trailing through the aisles. Found it. And a snack for later. Outside, dusk. Shadowy figures hurry through the cold, illuminated momentarily by orange streetlamps.
Atop the hill. Again. Dark. The light turns green. Electric vehicles slip silently around the bend. Behind them, motorcyclists glide effortlessly, engines chortling. Merriment drifts upwards, the Fort Mason theatre. Light bounces off slow rolling eddy currents. Down the hill, towards the wharf. Establishing a sense of familiarity. Important. Even in darkness, the path is known. Around the small inlet, reflecting. Calm. Excited. Endless possibilities. Revellers stumble into the shadows. The silence is broken. A tip of the hat. Towards the lights, the sounds, the smells. So much ahead. And dinner.
The door swings open, a cacophony of noise. Patrons escaping the bitter chill. Full. To the brim. A speaker rings out the number 76, doubledouble with fries. Skateboard wheels scratch on tile. Metal chairs clang against plastic tables. The grill sizzles, fat bubbling into the grease catchment. Onions on that? Yes. Absolutely. Won’t be long. Number 91. The low hum of neon. Number 86 collects. Uniformed employees seamlessly pull together order after order. A crackle of static. Number 91. Space appears. An empty stomach. A heavenly first bite. No rush tonight. Take it all in. Enjoy the atmosphere, the newness, the chaos.
A cold trudge home. Satiated, however. A friendly stranger mutters something incoherent, lurching downwards, gravity not an ally. Warm lights of the hostel above. Slipping inside, exhausted, yet from somewhere, energy. Boots knock down wooden steps. Cutlery clinks against porcelain. Quick glances up from bowls. Green felt calling. The thwack of resin on resin. Thud as a ball drops. A glare pulses through the windowpane: the Alcatraz lighthouse. A swoosh. Blue dust settles gently. Missing shots. Easy ones.
Wet thwack as spittle and porcelain collide. The rushing of tap water. Splutters, echoing down the drain. A brief glance in the mirror. Shuffling in the dark room. Horizontal. The drone of the heater. A horn sounds, distant. A smile dawns. A good day. Success. Contentment. Eyelids grow heavy. Day one complete. Sleep.