Jacinda Barrett

Seen either up close or from a distance, the Sydney Opera House does not disappoint.  I have always been in awe of our own epic contribution to iconic structures.  I know, it was designed by a Dane, but whose soil is it on?  Eh?  Eh?                                                              Note: last comment made with ocher accent and a poke in the ribs, followed by two thumbs up – Aussie style.  This means thumbs laying out at a 45 degree angle, sort of like they are having an afternoon nap.

Syndey was always the big time growing up and there was nothing more big time than the Opera House.   Almost every Australian kid has a badly posed picture wearing their pants too high and tight in front of the white wonder.  So, on a day off in Sydney, I wanted to learn more about this amazing building that won it’s way into existence.  It was paid for by a state lottery (whatever that means) and Jorn Utzon, the famed Danish architect who never actually visited his completed masterpiece won the opportunity (and 5000 pounds) to build his design from 223 other submissions.

It only went $95 million dollars over budget and took 10 years longer than anticipated to complete – so whaaaaaaaaaat?  If the powers that be had known what they were in for, we’d never have this beautiful building to call our own.

On a drizzling, overcast day, as we sat down with our tour group in the theater I was (much like the first time I visited the Opera House) with my mum.
“So where is everyone from?”
“Canada.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        “Ah yes, our commonwealth brethren.  Nice to have you
visit.”                                                                                                                                                                                                 “Japan.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              “New Guinea.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  It sounded like that last response came from my mum’s chair.  I glance over and she is giggling away.                                                                                                                           “Where?”                                                                                                                                                “New Guinea.” My mum sits up higher in her chair, now that she has his attention.

“Oh great, we don’t hear that often.  Are you enjoying it here?”
At this point I feel compelled to rescue both my mum and the tour guide and all of us from whatever will follow.   No, actually I just want to save myself.
“She’s from Brisbane,” I say.
“Trust those Brissy chicks to be up to no good.”
Mum gets that ‘game on’ look on her face as her smile spreads.
“But I’m not a Fuzzy Wuzzy,” she yells out.
And nothing.   Silence.  No one else is from anywhere and we are soon shuffling out of the theater.
As we exit, I whisper to her that it’s probably not a good idea to yell that you’re not a fuzzy wuzzy in a massive group of tourists from unknown origin.
“Why?” she asks.
“Because I don’t think Fuzzy Wuzzy is an appropriate name for any nationality of people.”
“Well, that’s what we called them.”
“Okay, but is that what they liked to be called?”
At this point she is heavily giggling again on her way to chat to the guide.  With that any further discussion of racism or politically correctness is over.

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