Ships in the Night, Far From Home

During the second half of my year in Australia, I worked in a coffee bar/restaurant on the Corso at Manly Beach called Bar Cirella.  I made smoothies and cappuccinos and fresh carrot juice, carried plates of scrambled eggs and pasta arrabiatta, scooped tasty gelato into crispy cones and misbehaving children OUT of potted plants, and timidly bore the hot tempers of my mouthy Italian bosses

 

In those days I lived in a house in a place called Curl Curl.  The city bus stopped a block away from my little house, so I paid a small fee for a monthly bus pass and took it to and from work most days.  On nights when we closed after 11pm, I wouldn’t get done closing up until after midnight; by that time the last bus would have long ago gone, so those days I’d have to make other arrangements for getting home.

 

Some of those nights I walked to the house.  The walk meandered along the cliff sides overlooking Sydney harbor, winding in and out of suburbs and ranch houses, all paved and well lit and quiet.  I felt pretty safe even alone late at night, though I would always call my roommates before I started off and let them know I was on my way and please send the coppers out to save me if I did not arrive in due time.

 

Some nights, though, I just couldn’t face it.  A four mile walk up and down hilly chilly streets was not always appealing, especially after being on my feet all the way through a slam-packed double shift.  But calling a taxi usually cost at least one hour’s worth of my pay, sometimes more.  Every time I rang them up I would sigh at the futility of staying at work an extra hour and immediately shilling out that hour’s wage, when I could have spared both the hour and the expense by leaving earlier.  Alas, in those days I was too shy to bring this up to my manager.  I worked quietly and diligently until I was told to leave, and then worked out my transport by pay phone outside in the Corso.

 

One night, my driver was cheerful sandy-haired Russian, maybe 40 years old.  He spoke like The Count from Sesame Street, dripping consonants.  He smiled when I got in the cab.

 

“So, vhere are ve goink tonight?”

“59 Bennett Street, in Curl Curl.”

“Ah, ah, Curl Curl.  How do I get to Curl Curl, miss?”

“Um, I don’t know, I’ve never driven it.  I can tell you how to walk there . . .”

“It tis okeh, miss, it tis okeh.  Vith confidence and smiles, ve can find it.”

 

With a flourish of his arm, we set off into the dark.  He clearly had no idea where he was going, and I watched the meter tick tick tick away as he reversed, grunted, sputtered, cursed, and floundered his way through the tiny suburbs between Manly and Curl Curl.

 

“So, where are you from?”

“I em from Rrrussia.  And you?  You are American, or Canadian?”

“American.  We’re both a long way from home, aren’t we?”

“Yes.  Yes ve are.”

 

We drove along the Steyne, past Queenscliff Beach, down Carrington Parade and past Curl Curl Beach (everyone calls it Curly), and finally, finally, turned onto Bennett drive.  I looked with dismay at the meter – 18 dollars Australian.  I made 9 Australian dollars an hour.  That was two hours’ pay gone, plus the driver’s tip.  I gulped and pulled out a twenty dollar note and handed it over, then turned to get out of the car.

 

“Miss, miss!”

 

I turned and he took my hand, folded a ten dollar note into it, and clasped it tight in his two hands.  He smiled.  “Be happy,” he said.  I smiled back and said nothing, then stepped out of the cab and onto my driveway.  I watched him drive away into the night before turning to head into the house, utterly exhausted – but happy, too, my Russian friend, smiling and happy.