The private ferry, Radar (left), Sydney Opera House and the Harbor Bridge (below), New Year's celebration in the Sydney Opera House (bottom)

A Sydney New Year's celebration
By Stan Morse
January 2, 1998

All travel should be like this. Six days in Sydney, temperatures in the 80's, the bush fires finally put out and the air clear again.

I'm back at Syl's Homestay in Rose Bay, and the house is full of familiar faces from last summer. Friends from as far away as South Africa and America have gathered for Paul and Syl's 25th anniversary "renewal of vows", to be "officiated" by a retired judge from Massachusetts.

On the 28th of December 100 guests gather at the Rose Bay ferry dock and pile onto the private ferry "Radar". For the rest of the afternoon we make a lazy circuit of Sydney's harbor, drinking champagne, eating smoked salmon and giant shrimp, listening to a Dixieland jazz band. Sydneysiders (as residents are termed) truly know how to "do it up right". Alas! I've lost all momentum towards losing a couple pounds. But I'm returning to a healthy diet when I reach New Zealand. I Promise. Really!

Just the wedding would have made this visit memorable. But it gets better.

Sydney is famous for its scallop-shelled opera house. I've never attended a performance, and hadn't intended to on this visit. But through a new acquaintance met on the wedding boat, I'm given the Australian Opera's publicist's number, and encouraged to enquire whether a journalist's pass is available. I call the assistant publicist, but hang up somewhat doubtful. New Year's Eve is the opening night of Mozart's Cosi Fan Tutte, and they're booked solid.

The morning of the 31st I take the Dawn Fraser jetcat ferry into the city for some last-minute shopping. When I return to Syl's at 2:00 p.m. I'm told the Australian Opera has called: a ticket will be waiting for me at the information desk.

The Opera House sits on one promontory of the channel to the main ferry terminal of Circular Quay. Looking across the water you see the huge span of the Harbor Bridge. At 9:00 p.m. Sydney is staging the largest-ever fireworks display here.

I take the 4:06 jetcat into the city and search desperately for a men's clothier, not wanting to arrive on opening night, tieless, and in khaki pants. I now wish I'd shipped my tuxedo ahead, but how could I have known?

I'm ready to give up when I run across a tiny shop near the waterfront, still open, where I buy black cotton pants and a silk tie. It's another piece of my good luck, because almost everyone at the opera turns out to be dressed-to-kill in tuxedos and designer gowns. I'm at the low end of acceptable wear, but okay. My road-weary khaki pants would have been a sore thumb.

There is a friendliness that makes even the cream of Australian society a joy to be among. I'm immediately befriended by a lovely woman who is waiting while her husband parks the car. I get introduced to her friends, handed a CD of the musical score for Cosi Fan Tutte, and filled in on some juicy "insider" gossip. That easily, I fall into enjoying a night at the opera.

The production is wonderful. Incredible costumes, great voices. The hall has a gentle brilliance, a charming intimacy. And I'm sitting five rows from the stage. Like I said earlier: all travel should be like this.

We break at 8:30 and flood out to watch the fireworks. They burst overhead for 45 minutes -- a million dollars of continuous pyrotechnic brilliance. The interesting touch is a big smile and two round eyes on the bridge, which makes it look like a half-mile-long flattened smiley-face.

And then it's back for the second act, and a finale cascade of balloons from above, and thousands of paper streamers thrown by the audience towards the stage, leaving the hall a rainbow of spaghetti-confetti and balloons.

I skip the midnight fireworks display. Circular Quay is now jammed with young revelers who are getting progressively "happier", so I catch a train to Bondi Junction, then a cab to the house.

And now, on a sunny 2nd of January with temperatures in the mid-80's, I'm packing for a night flight to Christchurch on New Zealand's southern island. The Sydney Morning Herald says it's cool in Christchurch -- a high of 68, a low of 56. I'll arrive at 1:30 a.m. I'd prefer arriving during the daytime, but it was the only ticket I could find during this "high season" for New Zealand tourism.

At least I'm more realistic than I was with my Los Angeles experience at the start of the trip. If I feel the need for a hotel room, I'll get one, even if it's only for a few hours.

I'm hyped. A new challenge lies ahead. During the next eight days I'll be searching for a chance to cast a fly for the legendary trout of New Zealand.