The Lap of Luxury

Sydney is a beautiful city. From the right place the harbour can take your breath away; on a summer's night the sea might catch a cloud of lights in its heaving chest and exhale, a warm blast of fresh salt riding on the breeze. They call it the Emerald City, a jewel in this countries crown. Sometimes it reminds me of a spoiled teenager, caught up in the sudden realisation that they are treated a little differently, that their beauty can get them places their less striking peers cannot. The people often reflect the outlook of their home, and a Sydney weekend can quickly drown in an ocean of designer goods, fake tan dusted with sea spray. As I look down over the harbour, in this place I have grown with, it seems fitting that I should appreciate its' good looks from the third-storey of a bedraggled nightclub loud with kitsch. People rush by me, gyrating lustily to square-jawed beats, fake-blondes, and tans, and smiles. Everyone needs to look like they're having fun here - not so much for themselves as for everybody else. This is the essence of Sydney, a city struggling to find a heart to match its body.