Sydney is a city riddled with wrinkles. It is the ‘Benjamin Button’ of cities. Founded on the edge of a steep drowned valley, the topography is ‘wrinkle’ personified: ‘a small furrow, ridge or crease caused by crumpling, folding or shrinking.’ Sydney was born wrinkled and its inhabitants are doing their best to iron these out, to flatten them.
As you travel east from the city centre, it is all up hill and down dale, and onto these furrows and ridges and creases cling small, dishevelled suburbs that are a testament to man’s vision and perseverance. One such suburb is Darlinghurst, which sits atop the second ridge east of the town, wedged in by old cart tracks which are now eight lane highways.
Darlinghurst is a balagan, similar to Kings Cross but minus the sleaze and the criminal element. It is chaotic and messy, but with a warm welcoming embrace. The people hail from the furthest crevaces of the planet, encompassing all ages, all religions and all colours. Darlinghurst is a joy.
A member of the Theme Thursday community.