Every picture tells a thousand words? This is a picture of me and 355 words. I am the one in the middle of the picture. Not the woman, nor the two kids, nor even the Sydney Harbour Bridge. The man with the goatee. I look angry here. Even though I wasn’t.

I am standing on the balcony of the Sydney Opera House. We’d just walked from the MCA where we’d pooled our change to see if we could afford coffee. We managed one cup and a muffin between the three of us. And we drank lots of the water. It was free. The waiter glared at us.

We walked around under the bridge. You forget how big it actually is until you are standing under the huge curvy arch of steel and bolts. We watched the little ant people climb the arch. Then we walked down to the edge of the water and watched the old men fish. Every day they return to the same point, with the same buckets and the same styrofoam coolers. They never seem to catch anything. The Japanese Tourist snapped more photos.

We move on. Walking through the Rocks. Past Doyle’s and the busloads of Chinese cruise ship passengers on their organised tours. I ask the Japanese Tourist if she wants to shop. Face cream. Only in Australian can you get her face cream. We shop for face cream. We walk past the mime, the flute player and the man with the bagpipes. More photos. A homeless man lies asleep in the grass. We translate - homoresno-hito - homeless person. The Japanese Tourist nods. There are many in Tokyo but everyone pretends they don’t exist.

We stroll back through George St. Suddenly we are away from the meandering movement of tourists and into the purposeful walk of business people. No one makes eye contact. Everyone asserts their space on the pavement. We feel out of place dressed in our casual clothes amongst the sea of dark business suits. Sarariman the Japanese Tourist calls them with disdain. “Suit” I say. The English equivalent is “suit”. The Japanese Tourist thinks that’s funny.

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