The walk along the bay was as good a morning introduction to Sydney as we could have, much better than the patchwork chaos of yesterday. On one side was the Bay, on the other the green of the “Domain.” Trees with unbelievably thick roots and heavy green tops, swards of green, strange looking bushes, the ibis in the grass, the occasional cockatoo overhead. Joggers passed or overtook us, the girls usually blonde with skin tight tops and leggings and bouncing pony-tails, the men with very close cropped hair and thick arms. We paused at a place where Mrs. McQuarrie’s chair was supposed to be, but I couldn’t see it, and it was crowded with a party of tourists taking pictures. I got the impression of a shady, rocky overhang. We moved on. Sometimes ahead of us the path would curve so we could see the Opera House far ahead, like some exotic shellfish. Wet stone stairs, the smell of the water, sound of feet on gravel, standing aside to let more joggers past.

Sometimes we’d pause to sit on a bench in the shade and look at the water.

When we at last reached the Opera House, we walked up a broad mountain of stairs and crept about its immensity, peeking through its windows to see gray lit chairs and tables, desks, and one lonely janitor pushing a floor polisher. Every now and then we would step back and look up at sheer glass walls and white peaks.

A girl was taking her boyfriend’s picture as he leaned against it, resting his hand against the wall, pretending to hold it up. “When I was in Europe,” Michael commented, “I remember putting my hand against some ancient wall and wondering what other hands had rested there, over all the centuries. But of course, this place is only forty years old.”

 “So our hands are what people may wonder about centuries from now.”