Moving Out And Moving On.

For the very first time in my life I am co-existing with two housemates, in a 3-bedroom apartment in Homebush Bay, totally contradicting my sworn oath to never live outside the City. I can’t really fault myself much, after all, it was the rising rent of my old flat that drove me out West.

I am sad to have left the City, especially the area which I lived in which was right smack in the center of Potts Point and King’s Cross, the most curious example of the posh and dodgy coexisting peacefully within meters of each other. For the past three years and a half I have called that place home and while I had my gripes about it, most especially living right next to a homeless shelter and all its loud, bickering tenants, I can truly say that the warm memories far outweigh the horrible ones. And thinking hard about it, I find myself missing things I didn’t expect I would.

I’ll miss the random, familiar faces of people who’s names I never bothered to learn: the Thai hooker who used to actually be cute but is now toothless and drugged out, the biker dudes who have coffee in the tiny café along the strip, the warring bouncers who shout insults at each other and brag about how their strippers are hotter than the others.

I’ll miss the smell of the fresh waffle cones from the ice cream shop.

I’ll miss being so close to the train station. Because of it, I never had the need for a car. Now, it seems a foregone conclusion that some wheels are in order.

I still haven’t figured out where I am going to get a haircut because Jenny, the Chinese lady who knew how to cut my thick-ass Asian hair, is all the way back there. As a result I wonder about Mr. Gosling, the crusty old barber who could care less about race and would literally just butcher me with a Number 5 razor each time. Nevertheless, he was part of the inspiration behind my film The Haircut.

I’ll especially miss Rushcutter’s Bay Park, where every afternoon Mel and I would go for a run and a throw and watch in envy as the people with dogs would arrive at 4pm and we would get our dog fix by trying to pet them.

I’ll miss the feeling of belonging, even in a place as slummy as the Cross. I liked the fact that as time wore on I could make my way home with nary an ounce of caution, simply because as I had recognised the Cross’ inhabitants, I’m sure they in turn had recognised me, not by name, but by face, the dark-haired kid whizzing past on his scooter or walking home at midnight every Thursday lugging muddy football cleats. In my years in the Cross I have never been mugged, beat up, or harassed; the closest thing to danger I ever got was being propositioned by Sally the 60-year old prostitute.

And so I find myself writing this now, in an apartment an hour away from the hustle and bustle of what I used to call my neighbourhood, and while I am loving the fresh air and clear skies and the blissful silence I get every night, I know I will find myself longing for the madness of the city every once in awhile, especially now more than ever, when the possibility of new memories await.