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Travel Talk

Life in the Cross is a mix of sleeze, tourism and upscale trendy neighbourhoods
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By Alison Lapshinoff

Atop a narrow stairwell descending into murky darkness a portly balding man sits on a high stool smoking cigarettes.

“Come inside, have a look, have a look….”

Outside, beneath flashing neon signs, women stand in clusters; scantily clad, haggard, bored, waiting for business to pick up. On the curbside, a beggar in a drug-induced stupor mumbles incoherently as a group of young, fresh-faced backpackers wander past, seeking a hostel, eyes wide open.

Sharing storefronts with raunchy sex shops and their provocative wares on this road are unassuming florists, massage parlors, Internet cafes and bottle shops. Darlinghurst Street is Sydney, Australia’s red light district, an intoxicating combination of crime and prostitution, drug use, international backpackers and young yuppies. The area is known as Kings Cross.

In the salubrious neighbouring suburb, impeccably dressed well-to-do locals sip cappuccinos, artfully crafted by professionally trained baristas. Patios spill onto sunny, tree-lined sidewalks where patrons socialize and show off their tastefully adorned lap dogs while sampling locally baked delicacies. Potts Point, undeniably trendy and flamboyantly gay, creates an interesting juxtaposition next to the seedy underworld of Kings Cross. Despite the unlikely partnership, the two seem to co-exist in relative harmony.

Kings Cross and Potts Point are the most densely populated suburbs in all of Australia. Although radically different, they share an attitude of tolerance, whether it be toward sexuality, income, lifestyle or just the unconventional, all sorts of fascinating characters are drawn to this small corner of Australia’s largest metropolis.

The Cross began as an oasis of lavish mansions and gardens. But when the depression hit at the end of the 19th century, the mansions were divided into apartments and lower income bohemians began moving in, attracted by cheaper rent and proximity to the city. Artists and musicians were drawn by the unconventional lifestyle that was developing and soon the Cross’s reputation as a hotbed of sin, danger, tolerance and all night revelry was set in stone.

It was here that two Canadians armed with working holiday visas and oversized backpacks found a home. After a daunting search for accommodation in an unfamiliar city, a harassed agent — double parked outside the building — agreed to rent us an atrociously expensive studio flat for six months. It took all of five minutes to move in our meager belongings.

It was due to the location that our modest new home was so costly. A short stroll along steep, winding avenues lined with tastefully designed Victorian homes took us to the ocean, where parkland skirted bays of sparkling turquoise, adorned with picturesque sailboats rocking gently in the breeze. If one was to wander in the other direction they would find themselves in the curiously named suburb of Wooloomooloo, home of Harry’s Café de Wheels, a famous pie cart and a permanent fixture right on the foreshore that daily attracts literally hundreds of hungry customers seeking the classic Aussie staples of meat pies topped with mushy peas and mash or foot long hot dogs. Whether it’s businessmen on a midday lunch break or partiers seeking a grease fix after a night on the town, Harry’s always attracted a crowd.

Employment in the service industry was easy to come by, and it didn’t take long for our newly tanned faces to return to their original shades of white.

Three months later, my two demanding jobs were taking their toll. One, cooking at a trendy Potts Point café owned by a temperamental gay couple whose kitchen was run by a fun but volatile and incredibly moody chef; the other at a posh downtown hotel whose wealthy clientele paid a hefty price for a professional, high-end ass-kissing. I needed space, peace and quiet, reprieve from never ending traffic, beggars and unsavoury characters shouting indecencies. But more than that, I needed a day off and a night on the town!

It was out of cultural necessity that we allowed ourselves, after several stiff drinks at our scantily furnished flat, to be ushered into one of the mysterious clubs that we walked past every other day on the way to the grocery store. After all, one can’t spend six months living next door to Kings Cross and not experience the nightlife.

Entrance was free. Once inside, as our eyes adjusted to the murky darkness, we were herded toward the bar, where we were required to buy a drink. The beer was overpriced, non alcoholic and totally unappetizing. Could they sell sex but not booze?

We took our seats in one of the dark rows facing a small, unimpressive stage. Before us a veteran of the industry was undressing to reveal a thoroughly unappealing, overly pierced middle aged body. Gyrating toward the meager audience, she pulled an unsuspecting male on stage and expertly relieved him of his shirt. A lighter came out of nowhere. Soon she was licking the flame over his pasty body, her clitoral ring glinting in smoky darkness. It was too much! There had to be a classier place with a liquor license.

The city is attempting to clean up the Cross. In fact, a massive revitalization project is currently underway, leaving Sydney’s “undesirables” to co-exist with construction workers, scaffolding and makeshift sidewalks. Seedy pubs are receiving facelifts and becoming hangouts for young well-to-do socialites. On the corner an elaborate fountain has been constructed in a pleasantly landscaped plaza behind which sits a shiny new police station. The homeless are spilling into the neighboring suburbs. Riding the bus home at night through Wooloomooloo, churchyards and parking lots are lined with people curled up in flimsy sleeping bags. A block away, groups of carefree tourists sip martinis on the oceanfront patio of an up-market bar.

Gingerly maneuvering our newly purchased Toyota Land Cruiser through Sydney’s busy streets, we passed for the last time the man on his stool, attempting to drum up business at his club in the early afternoon. Five months had passed. Amidst the clamor of construction, life continued as usual. Prostitutes and drug dealers loitered, newly arrived backpackers ogled and the drunkards had loud conversations with anyone willing to listen. On the next block, trendy socialites spent another leisurely Sunday eating eggs benedict and lingering over lattes while gay couples strolled hand-in-hand along sun drenched sidewalks, unencumbered by the stigma that can accompany any such show of affection.

It was a unique little corner of the world, the place we had, if only temporarily, called home. As we crawled over the Harbour Bridge and caught our final glimpse of the famous roofline of the Sydney Opera House, our anticipation was palpable. Ahead lay the long sweeping beaches of the east coast, the largely unexplored vast expanse of the outback and an entirely different sort of Australian adventure.