Macquarie Street, Sydney down on the waterside where it runs into the Domain. State Parliament was up a way, you remembered from old ABC newsreports. The Sydney Conservatorium of Music it appeared on the map must be the turreted old building directly in front, where Nellie Melba had held court. An anchored battleship behind some trees and Circular Quay, the Opera House and the Bridge spitting distance. In the morning the water had sparkled and late afternoon a burst of sunlight jewelled the buildings on the opposite shore. Drought and signs of autumn across the greenery was unapparent; the world headlines of fires and smoke a few months before had vanished like a bad dream. Christmas Day or Easter Sunday it might have been in the window, without a single mask in sight. (Later on the first afternoon a young Asian woman had donned one.) Yacht sails lonely like Wordsworth’s cloud perfect for isolation. On the plane the first Magnum (mini) in at least a decade had been quaffed; when the hostess offered the tray there had been only a momentary hesitation, as if struggling to recall an old acquaintance. The meals were sizeable at the Inter, the first night’s supper and all the following. (Down in Melbourne at Crown where a friend of a friend was being quarantined the man complained of salads day after day.) Two Kit-Kats, one packet of Smiths crisps, the heavily sugared yoghurt and the brownies have been returned. The brownies were standard, expected fare in five star accommodation, presumably. Giving credit card details over the phone was only briefly resisted like for the Magnum—against the offering in the bar fridge, the Indian at reception suggested, where champers, Chivas, beers & Cokes tempted. Landlord Tan’s adapted garage housing his bike, weights and automotive parts in G. Serai had been replaced by the magazine spread window and the room furnishing at the Intercontinental. The high stretches on the toes preliminary to the touches were much easier on carpet. A Mindfood mag on the shelf below the TeeV offered a feature on Future Beauty Forecast and bedside lay the Bible. The best book around, the best, Donnie had told his admiring audience at one of his rallies. Better than “The Art of the Deal,” he cracked. Sameer the Kashmiri had forwarded the Stephen King item recalling his 1979 book which pre-figured the advent of the current President. On the night of arrival the Army man marshalling the bus and making the selections—couples, smokers & the remainder—announced there would be no laundry service at the hotel, suggesting travellers might wash clothes in the bathroom basin using the shampoo provided. (Nonplussed Singaporeans leaving their domestic helpers behind you could understand.) Even in Sing thought had been to up the exercise regime during confinement, adding a morning session. Like in the prisons, some content needed to be found for the stretch,180 pushes fitting for the challenge. In the mirror here the blood rushing to the head was noticeable, the quick draining likewise. Ten paces from window to door. Ten per minute x 30 = 3kms x twice daily. Unlike in some other reported cases, there would be no marathons here during confinement. With the Nutrigrain cereal meagre the resolution against muffins could not be maintained, but certainly the desserts and Kit-Kats were declined. News continued of increasing infections in the foreign worker dorms up in Singapore, the huge warehousing of the young men beginning to alarm the domestic population no doubt. Jakarta and the other Indo cities would face dreadful hardship. Turned out in fact craning the neck from the right window sash a couple of the shells of the Opera House were indeed visible from Room 1209. Location to die for.
Sydney, April 2020
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