***

Written in pale blue chalk on the dark sidewalk of Victoria Street:

“I said I loved you

But I lied.”

***

Also on Victoria Street, as Michael and I ventured out for our city walk, we saw, walking briskly far ahead, a slender young blonde woman in black leggings, a slinky black top that slid halfway off one shoulder, and bare feet.

***

At the finger wharf a tall, white haired fellow about our age waiting for his wife gave us directions to the “best walk in Sydney.” As he was immersed in drawing us a map in my notebook, his dark haired, attractive wife approached with their black spaniel, wordlessly put her arm around him and kissed him. “I have no idea who this woman is,” he said. “They just come up all the time and do this.”

His advice was to climb the steps leading from the quay up to the “domain,” a beautiful stretch of green near the Botanic Gardens, and walk along the path near the water. In particular, he said, we should check out Mrs. McQuarrie’s Chair, a stone seat on a cliff where, a couple centuries ago, a governor’s homesick wife would sit and watch the ships from England coming in. “There was nothing here,” he said. “Sydney was a penal colony, and the poor woman was top of the heap and lonely, a cut above you understand, not to sound snobbish. Everybody else here — well, rum was the lingua franca…” Perhaps suddenly realizing we were Americans, he added apologetically, “That means the common tongue.”