Springfield Lodge

I've lived in Australia almost half my life - tho' it seems shorter than that, because it's the second half, and the first was much longer. Anyway, I always mark the anniversary of my arrival here in some way or other. This year, on the actual day, I was in Newcastle wittering on about the muses (never thought that would happen) but today, a few weeks later, I found myself up at Kings Cross, sitting on a bench in the early afternoon sun, eating sushi and looking at a Thames & Hudson book of Sidney Nolan's Ned Kelly paintings ... right outside the hotel I first stayed at way back when. Various toothless or otherwise subtracted locals passed or paused, making their accommodations with fate and/or addiction. Amongst the smart people, who clip by fast and don't stop. And the workers lounging ironically around in their Blundstones and shorts and fluorescent yellow-green safety vests. A classy looking hooker was standing outside the ice cream parlour. We almost smiled at each other. The Manzil Room is long gone and I couldn't work out if the allegedly legendary nightclub Baron's (it did exist, I've been) has been demolished yet or not but the Piccolo Bar is still there. It felt ... familiar. Like it hasn't really changed that much, or not in essence. I was happy. As if I was home, even though I wasn't. No regrets. The sushi was good too.