Impressions from Kings Cross

I’m back in Kings Cross. I have nothing against cockroaches. Only if they’re dead on my pillow in the morning. That’s why Eva’s Backpackers is the only choice. I’m sitting on the roof terrace. Bats fly over the Sydney skyline as the sun sets. The evening begins. The only backpacker-budget-compatible drink is wine from the carton.

We have plenty of that before heading to the mother of all bars one last time. The World Bar was magical two months ago. Magic can’t be planned, maybe not even repeated. I know it, but I never want to believe it. The evening is weird and wobbly. In the end, four girls sit down at my table for Hen Night. Two are devils, two are angels. The angels are devilish, the devils speak English.

I’m touring Sydney. National Gallery with old Ross predecessors, thousands of cockatoos in the botanical gardens. At the end of the peninsula, the wind is blowing. I sit down, look at the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. It would be great to launch a kite here. All I need is 10 knots more wind.

Opera House, white tiles in the sunset. I’d love to see the inside. But once again, as so often before, Australia, a country for travelling millionaires: two-hour tours cost $150. They’re crazy, the Aussies.

A walk through Kings Cross. A cockroach crawls through Mac Donald’s. Shredded pigeons fly through the dining room. Business as usual on the main street in front for the whores and bums. That means the latter are sleeping a little less today. The police briefly pack up the bum broom and smash up a car in the middle of the strip in search of drugs. The driver smokes next to it, trembling.

At the Backpacker Car Market, I get my entire insurance premium for my wrecked car back. Thank you very much for that! I use the money to get through the last few days. There are several wanted adverts for stolen cars on the wall. My hostel lets me deposit the money for accommodation directly into the bank. We’ve been robbed too often, despite the fully barred reception.

I walk behind Kings Cross. Bays full of yachts. Interesting houses clawed into the rock. No ground floor window is without bars. Every street is a dead end. At the end, funny signs in front of millionaires’ complexes: Trespassers will be executed. Or was it per- ?

Kings Cross has a peculiarly beautiful ugliness. A place of great contrasts. I prefer colour pictures to black and white. And I’m already looking forward to Thailand: finally seeing everything I want without going broke.