THIS CITY SYDNEY.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVIII, Issue 156, 3 July 1937, Page 8

THIS CITY SYDNEY.

SIDELIGHTS IN COLLECTION

(By F.C.J.)

To-day I took some friends to luncli and told tliem about Sydney as I saw it—Sydney, that great, roaring, uncultured, virile, easygoing, self-centred, kindly yet hard little New York. It is the home of that elusive quantity, the so-called "typical Australian," who will take you down for your last penny and then proceed to give you hits. It is purposely called a "little Xew York"' rather than a "little London," because while the Sydncvite affects to despise the Englishman, he has an immediate affinity with the American. They are two of a type, and he would rather hear about the latest doing in the "States" than hear anything of Melbourne, while lie is only vaguely aware that there is a place called Perth. Many of the Sydney folk have heard of Xew Zealand; but tney are not sure whether it is one of the States or whether it comes within Federal jurisdiction. Besides, Xew Zealanders are more like Englishmen than American*: and you have got to show that you feel no embarrassment when your lady friend speaks easily and adjectivally—pardon the coined word—about "bloody" before ihe incipient barrier i- broken down. The First Contrast. I enter a large building—large and magnificent beyond the meaning of the word in Auckland—and I use the lift. 1 remove my hat—one does, you know—and then I read a notice: "Men arc asked to keep their hats on in this lift. It saves room." I do not know whether to put mine back on my head or leave it 'where it is. I leave it where it is. though I am the only one who has a bare head. A tram takes me to King's Cross. Tt is full to overflowing. I stand and offer my seat to tlie nearest woman. She looks at it and then at me. and then deliberately turns her liack on l>oth me and it. Xo, I did not want to "pick her up." but how was she to know? I sit down hurriedly and bury myself behind my paper. Beggars and Others. I get to King's Cross, that most cosmopolitan part of a city altogether cosmopolitan. Some years ago I listened to General Booth speak of faces bitter with sin. T thought she was using a merely oratorical phrase: but the face of the woman who accosted me as I turned into McLeav Street was definitely that. A friend and T decide to go to a Chinese restaurant for supper. We climb some stairs. A\ e make a wild guess at an order, for the menu is in Chinese. Apparently it is more blessed to give than to receive, because our order was enough for a baby elephant. We eat with forks, and then, coming up for breath, we become aware that we are the objert of interest for two young women sitting yonder. We return the gaze with interest. Why not? But our interest waned when we disi-overed that their parents might have been Chinese and aborigine. I do not know Sydney very well: but I cannot help wondering if there are as manv beggars in other suburbs as in King's Cross. One horrible stream of sound comes from a bent and boarded man churning out noise from a barrel organ. Further along, round a corner, a man is playing a violin while a woman holds out a tin. Further still, a woman does nothing, except that the little girl reaching up to hold her skirts is perhaps the incentive. Sunday Charity. It is Sunday morning. A line of men file along a little backwater blind street. They carry tins and they carry newspapers. They seat themselves on their papers in the Tutter. Presently a large and high door opens. A woman carries a great and steaming pan of soup. She goes along the line. Tins are filled. She returns whither she bad come. I did not hear anything said; but then I watched from the second storey of an apartment house near, so that perhaps I could not hear. The line of ragged men drink with audible satisfaction. They finish; they move off; and one among them carefully gathers up the papers the others have left. The street is again deserted. The Little Sisters of the Poor hare unobtrusively done their Sabbath charity. Tt fe now Saturday morning. I «m disturbed by hearing a terrific din from outside. Yes, it is bagpipes. Every Saturday morning at that time this piper comes; maTches up and down outside the frontage of one bouse; and then goes away. It is the invariable procedure. One night in the same street T hear someone singing. I go to a window, and there below ia a man with both arms outstretched singing "Home to Our Mountains." His hat is ready to receive at his feet. He receives nothing, so after a few minutes "Home to Our Mountains" gives place to a carefully-thought-out Australian expression of disgust. The Drinks. Sydney beer is terrible. (Australian papers please copy.) But the win® ia both cheap and fairly good. Visitors, however, are warned to refuse firmly all invitations to drink what is very properly known as "plonk." Ido not know what this is, but tradition has it that it is the dregs of port wine. In some quarters the populace of both sexes have a great addiction to it. As a matter of fact, both sexes have ample opportunities to become addicted to all forms of Bacchus. The buildings that are not banks or insurance companies are hotels, and they have .a notice, coy but prominent, stating that this is the way to the women's lounge. Incidentally, they have dozens of bars, where all the world seems to meet. This is particularly so of the Hotel Australia, in the fover of which everyone seems to meet- There are seen smartly dressed women—and how smartly do the Australian women dress!—sleeklyimmaculate masculine lounge lizards, and men in their farm clothes. But the latter are given due attention, because it ia quite likely that they have more money than all the rest "of the lounge put together. How the Sydnevrte loves money!

Well, these are vignettes of Sydnev, which isone of the growing cities of the world. But *1. ft dty; a city of wealth bevond the New Zealand conception of money," and of poverty such as the Aucklander does not dream of I