So I ducked up to Sydney last week forwork, expecting the usual hustle of meetings, coffees that cost a small fortune, and maybe a glimpse of the harbour if I was lucky. Instead, I checked into me hotel, pulled back the curtains, and was greeted by… garbage bins. Yep, not the glittering skyline, not the Opera House, but a row of industrial bins and a landing dock.
At first, I’ll be honest, it felt a bit rough. Not exactly the postcard shot you wanna send mum. But after a while, I started seeing the charm in it. There’s something oddly honest about the back end of a city, were the bins live, where the air cons hum away, where the murals don’t ask permission before splashing colour on a wall.
One morning, the rain slicked the alley and made the ground shine, like even the rubbish corner was trying to scrub up nice for the day. I looked and spotted graffiti splashed across the brickwork next door, wild shapes and faces tangled together, shouting absurd in big bold letters. And y’know what, it fit the moment perfectly , absurd but beautiful in its own way.
Looking further out, the contrasts hit me hard. You’ve got the old domes with their weathered tiles, bits of ornate plaster still hanging on, right next to glass towers spewing steam into the sky like something out of Blade Runner. Rusted tin roofs stitched together with vents and pipes, and just above ‘em, high-rise apartments stacked neat like Lego. It’s Sydney in a nutshell ,rough edges and shiny polish, all jammed together.
I reckon sometimes you’ve gotta stop chasing the “perfect view” and just take in what’s right in front of you. Even if it’s a few dumpsters and a loading dock, there’s still a story, still a strange kind of beauty. And in a city like Sydney, the best bits aren’t always where the postcards tell ya to look.
