One of the trees that points a person in the wrong direction. RBG.

I grew up in a world of grids: fields, sections, and town lines and you always knew what direction you were going because there was no escaping the sky, and consequently, the sun – and even if you didn’t know your compass point heading, you knew that the Johnsons lived there, or oops, was that the Langen’s place?
    But when the First Fleet arrived in Sydney, they set about the business of basic survival; roads led to Tank Creek (the fresh water supply) or to the quarry where all the sandstone was extracted for structures. I don’t think the military or the convicts worried about a grid that would be easy for 21st Century travelers to follow. The travel agent I worked with is native to Sydney, and warned me that I would find Melbourne’s mass transit much easier to navigate. But the mass transit is not an issue; I’m not driving the bus. Her apt comment was that Sydney streets evolved “higgledy-piggledy.” Apt description.
Each suburb (inner suburb, anyway) has streets running at odd angles to each other, some curve around one way, then another, snaking through one city and then into the next, and then back again into the same town where it started. Streets end, interrupted by developed blocks or train tracks. Dead-ends don’t always show up on maps. One night in Newtown, it took 45 minutes to find an address. (After a point, these things become a matter of principle.) I stopped in various cafes and shops, asking locals where are Station and Bedford Streets? “Oh, I think I’ve heard of Bedford … Mike – d’ya know Bedford Street? No?  Sorry luv. Good luck.” Finally, I found the address with the assistance of a very nice Irish girl who has been in Sydney only a couple months and snorted in derision at the locals not knowing other streets or addresses  – “They just know their own little grid and fuck-all about the rest.” That can probably be said about most of us.
   Which brings me to the case of the Royal Botanical Gardens. My second day here – after 11 hours of much needed sleep that one would think would have rendered my brain functional – I asked about directions down to The Rocks, the oldest part of the city. I asked at the nice young man at the desk how I could get to 83 George Street, near The Rocks. His face was blank.
   “The Rocks?” He asked.
   “Yes, The Rocks. I think it’s down by the Opera House? Down near the harbor?”
   “Ooooh – yeah, The Rocks. Well, the train is the quickest, but you have to switch at Town Hall to another line to get there.”
   He looked at me with – what? – regret? Sympathy? He could read my disability.
   “Or you could take the bus. You can catch it right over there, across the street. Goes straight down there. Take you awhile, though.” More sympathy.
   “Oh. Well … what about walking? Is it far?”
   “Walk? You want to walk? It’s about half an hour. All you do is …”
   And I didn’t even hear the rest. Pure gibberish.
   The solution: Googlemaps. Looked simple enough. I printed it out. I walked to the door of the hotel, stepped out onto the curb and hailed a cab.
   Sigh.
   So, like most days I’ve spent here, once I was dropped off at the Rocks, I walked nearly all day. And decided instead of trying to catch a bus, or figure out the train, I would walk back to the hotel through the Royal Botanical Gardens. I had my map. And there was another one right there by the entrance gate.  Go kitty-corner across the park, and out through the Woolloomooloo Gate on Cowper Wharf Roadway, and up those steps, and down those, and a quick left then a quick right, then onto Macleay, and I’m back.
   Right.
   I still haven’t figured out that the harbor really is north of the city. Until I conquer that bit of information, maps will probably continue to be nothing more than mysterious drawings. The directory through the Royal Botanical Gardens was never clear to me, and although I thought I was going in the direction (does anyone really ever think they’re going in the wrong direction?) I was not. There is the Palm House and Tropical Center. Then around the bend to the … Palm House and Tropical Center. Finally, I was close to the Macquarie Street gate, and, by that time, knew it was the wrong way for sure, and asked someone for directions.
   “I need to get the hell out of this park.”
   She stared. “Well, you are. Macquarie is right there.”
   “No, no. I need to get out of here … at the … Wooomooomooo…. That gate.” I pointed to my pitiful map.
   “Oh. Well, that’s where I’m going if you’d like to follow me.”
   Sydneysiders walk fast. But I got out at the right gate, down the steps, across the street, down two blocks, up the steps, etc., etc. and all that.

St. Mary’s Cathedral.

   The thing about the Royal Botanical Gardens is that a whole lot of interesting things are in or around them, notably the Government House, the State Library, Parliament House, the Mint Building, St. Mary’s Cathedral, and the Art Gallery of New South Wales. Hyde Park is adjacent, as well, yet another expanse of green to navigate.
   The Royal Botanical Gardens actually started out as the Governor’s land. The RBG portion was farmed originally, but poor soil, rats and planting at the wrong season messed up those yields, so the servant who was farming them found land farther west, and Governor Macquarie decided he and his wife would have traditional English gardens. They built all kinds of high walls, and used land (The Domain, or “Desmesne”) as a buffer between their home and the penal colony. But they weren’t above using inmate labor; in 1816, convicts declared Mrs. Macquarie’s Road complete. Gov. Macquarie liked rules and regulations, though, so no one was allowed in the park. As time passed, he allowed people of good standing to use the green space. And now it is a public reserve, Macquarie’s residence now a museum, The Government House. It’s situated just south of Bennelong Point, where the Sydney Opera House stands.

Sydney Opera House and Sydney Harbor from the Royal Botanical Gardens.

   The next time I wandered into the RBG, I was with my hostel roommate Scott. This time I kept to the outer perimeter of the park, on the sea walk which borders Farm Cove, the inlet between the Opera House and the terminus of Mrs. Macquarie’s Road. We walked by the carved wall that was carved after Queen Elizabeth II arrived Australia via Farm Cove, the first reigning monarch to stand on Australian soil. We walked all the way up and around and go to … Mrs. Macquarie’s Road. And a little further down the way, to the Palm House and Tropical Center. Haven’t I been here before? This time, though, I found my way back and saved face as a tour guide. Along the way, Scott pointed out the bats, which are really flying foxes. Think Corgis with wings. Cute, yet somehow sinister with those leathery things, and the little claw on the tip.  They make an inordinate amount of noise. I was a bit disappointed that the call wasn’t from some exotic bird native to Aussie-land. And then we were accosted by cockatoos. Which was Scott’s fault because he saw a woman feeding them and wanted to do it, too, and before you know it, I had one on my head.  Not long after that, I was done with the Royal Botanical Gardens.

Bats. The red furry things are bat. Ok, flying foxes. Whatever.

   The Art Gallery of New South Wales stands in the part of the RBG that is still referred to as The Domain. Before attempting another excursion that went anywhere near the gardens, I consulted my guide to Sydney, ascertained the correct train station, looked at the maps again and yet again, and set off. To make sure I knew where I was going, I asked the nice ticket agent at the St. James train station which direction I should go on the way out. He pointed out the way.
   “Up the steps here onto Macquarie (Macquarie again!) then right, and you can cut across the park if you like, it’s shorter.”
   “Oh, no, I get lost when I cut across parks.”
   He looked baffled. Probably my American accent.
   Up the steps … uh … left on Macquarie? Or right? Well, there are all those museums … left. It’s a left. 

   I should have known something was up when I went by Martin Place, which is a stop in the Central Business District, which is south of The Domain, but I thought nothing of it, possibly because I was distracted by a large group camping out in the mall area that is synonymous with corporate Australia: Commonwealth Bank of Australia, Reserve Bank of Australia, Macquarie Bank, and other powerful corporations are headquartered there.
   A 99% demonstration had been assembled in solidarity with their American friends on Wall Street, protesting the same sorts of things that aren’t nearly as prevalent in Australia – yet. And that’s the way these people want to keep it. They resent how their country has started to emulate the U.S., particularly how company CEO’s pay keeps increasing. The demonstrators I spoke with really weren’t fans of former PM John Howard or his buddy George W. Bush, either. Interesting that these folks are protesting, even though their country has been relatively unscathed by the current economic conditions and has about five percent unemployment, as opposed to our nearly 10 percent. They didn’t have the real estate debacle that we enjoyed, either. Yet they’re quite sensitive to going along with what they consider bad examples, most notably those on Wall Street.

More shouting needed – like those Americans.

 “Yeah, we’re goin’ good but we need more shouting and chants, I think. I saw the Americans on the news the other night and they shout and chant a lot.”
   I hung around probably too long, and kept walking to the left, finally coming across the Australia Museum, which houses the natural history type of stuff. I knew that this was not necessarily close to the art gallery. So once again, I ask for directions.
   “Not that I don’t want to visit this museum as well … but I’m looking for the Art Gallery of New South Wales.”
   Blank stare.
   “The art gallery, you say?”
   “Yes.”
   “Well, it’s out the door, go left, and you’ll find it just down Art Gallery Way. In The Domain, you know.”
   Yes, I know. But left? I had been going left. Ooooh … left. Which is really right. Oh.
I head into The Domain, even though I know as soon as I walk into a green space I’m done for. And I find the signs for … the fucking Palm House and Tropical Center. This can’t be right. I go the opposite way.

Sydney Conservatorium of Music. Not where I wanted to go.

  And end up at the Conservatorium of Music. Which is quite close to the Government House. Down by the Opera House, almost. Not anywhere near the gallery. How the hell did I do that?
I am beaten down by green space. I accept defeat once more.

   Morning often brings optimism with it, so I set off again in search of the art gallery. This time I went right instead of left on Macquarie, and saw St. Mary’s cathedral (where I stopped for a rest the day before, just before I got lost in the RBG once again.) With only one wrong turn, I found the Art Gallery of New South Wales, where admission is free and one can view classic European and Australian art, as well as contemporary Australian art. There was also an exhibit of post-World War I German art, but I decided to stick to the free stuff, of which there was plenty.

Art Gallery of New South Wales.

    It’s tough to visit an art museum in one day, and I decided to cruise through the galleries. Like the maps I’ve used, the galleries had quite a lot of missing information on their paintings, especially the contemporary Australian galleries. Little interpretation or history was given for many of them, and I got frustrated looking at work that might have been even more pleasing or disturbing with the right info. I took a minute to chat with one of the docents about the upcoming Picasso exhibition (opening November 12), and she urged me to be sure to visit the Aboriginal Gallery as well. “Just down the escalators all the way, and on the left.”
    Easy. I went down the first escalator, stopped for lunch (an average Caesar salad) and then down the next escalator. And the next. And yet one more. And down there on the left appeared to be a theater … but if I took a hard left, I saw a gallery. With art that blew my socks off.
    I do not know a lot about Aboriginal art. What I do know is that the original inhabitants of Australia are thought to be the most ancient race of humans and that they speak of the time of creation as “dream time.” My perception, from what little I’ve read, is that these people have a true understanding of the “all is one” concept, and act according to those principals. The tribes were nomadic, and some still are. Their story is similar to the American Indians, in that many tribes were made extinct by murderous attacks and diseases against which they had no immunity. No photographs were allowed in the gallery, not even those taken without a flash. I can’t even begin to explain the impact all the work had on me, both contemporary and traditional pieces. But I can share the text of the last piece I viewed, a piece created in 2009 by Vernon AhKee, born 1967. It is a large canvas (5’ x 5’, I’m guessing) that is painted completely white, with large letters stenciled on it – a poem in which all the letters run together as though it’s one entire word per line … here’s the text of the poem:

In the desert I saw a creature
naked bestial who
squatting upon the ground
held his heart in his hands
and ate of it.
I said is it good friend
it is bitter bitter he answered
but I like it because it is bitter
and because it is my heart.