#60 The Blue Mountains Aren’t Really Blue, My Fingers Are – Sydney #1

Never doubt the weather report. Even if most of the time it isn’t too accurate. Because most of the time it is, as much as you don’t like or want to believe (for fear of disappointment or overconfidence in own abilities to predict weather). Arriving at Katoomba after a gruelling (ok, it wasn’t so bad…just really excruciating slow) 3-4 hour train ride from Sydney’s Central railway station, we hopped off the train, ready to stretch our legs but were instead greeted rather rudely by the startling chill. How cold can it get? We scoffed, but now we swallowed hard and braced ourselves for the 4 deg C cold at an altitude of more than 1,000m.

Confident that there would still be hostel vacancies (since it’s off peak season and all), we marched up to the YHA in the dwindling sunlight, a half an hour trek around the town area of Katoomba which felt like 3 lifetimes, and managed to secure some beds for the night. The YHA hostel was a cosy wooden two-storey building with the likes of a ski lodge, complete with a rec room, a dining hall, a spacious kitchen, and all the things you’d find in a comfy hostel. (Wished I remembered flipflops though, because I ended up walking around in socks.)

The town was awfully eerie after sundown, especially with the teeth-chattering wind chill that seeped through to the bones, and the occasional strong gusts of freezing air that rushed up to us whenever we passed a street junction, where the straight and squat rows of cinnamon-red cinderblock buildings gave way to a little road for cars to pass through. Popped right into a toasty and busy little pizza parlour where business was brisk and people wove in and out endlessly. It was as though the whole town felt like pizza that night — rowdy families, cosy couples and raucous college kids formed a varied backdrop whilst the stifling aroma of ham and cheese sizzling in hot oil filled the boxy little space. You wouldn’t have expected this from the silence of the streets outside. Post-pizza, time for a little drink to warm us up a bit…!

The Old City Bank Bar & Brasserie looked rather inviting with warm orange lights illuminating the interiors of the stately-looking brick house. In here, it was like a completely different world from the pizza place, sophisticated twenty to thirtysomethings gossiped and flirted with one another in little pockets, nursing one fancy cocktail after another, while the older crowd looked like they were having one of those “philosophical chats” over a gin and tonic or two. It was virtually impossible to talk over the cacophony of 2,000 simultaneous (non-)conversations in the cavernous high-ceiling room, but somehow messages were conveyed through an overly vehement nod or merely a seductive gaze in one’s direction. The atmosphere was a little sultry with a live band blaring right in our faces, the music had a vintagey, folky feel… a symphony of sounds from a classical guitar, harmonica and drums, and the singer’s hauntingly high warbling notes. For a moment, everything seemed to blur into the background, into the orange light, into the many beautiful alien faces…and you could almost, just almost, forget about the world.