Riding out the wave — Local Paddo

Curlewis Street isn’t Bondi’s prettiest but this evening it feels positively enchanted. The last warm days of summer are getting their final say before autumn settles in. Swimmers are wandering back from the beach, languid and pink shouldered. Surfers are dashing down for a late one, their ever-urgent barefoot trot at odds with the sun-drunk amblers.

From somewhere a stream of bubbles appears and they float on the breeze down the street. The first of the Saturday night revellers are out and they squeal in delight, chasing the bubbles in their high heels and sparkly frocks.

I’m taking in the scene from my favourite window seat at Speakeasy. It all feels thoroughly la dolce vita, Bondi style — like a hundred other Saturday nights I’ve seen in Bondi over the years.

Except it isn’t. Not entirely. Another festival has recently been cancelled due to community transmission popping up again so there is a slight edge to the scene. Will we be able to do this again next weekend, we wonder? I make a mental note to pick up another packet of masks. Just in case.

Perhaps that edge is what makes it all feel so sweet. We remember what it was like before. No window-seat meatballs and margaritas, no beachgoers, no high heels in anticipation of a night on the town, far fewer squeals of delight.

I don’t miss the boredom of those months. Nor the home schooling. (My god, the home schooling. How on earth did you do it, parents of Victoria?) I don’t miss the constant feeling of anxiety, the rollercoaster state of my income, the spats with friends about the morality of sneaking in a swim, going on a date, or downloading the COVIDSafe app.

But there are things I do miss about those first months of the pandemic.

I miss the rueful smiles shared with passers-by as we carved out big arcs of space around each other on the footpaths. So much was communicated in those looks: How are you going? I see you. Hang in there.

I miss the delight of seeing how Bondi’s café owners continually adapted to new rules without losing their good humour.

I remember Jane Turner from Gertrude & Alice once arranging for some books I’d bought over the phone to be dropped off at my gate. I could have cried with joy and gratitude (in fact, I may have) at the sight of that brown paper package — not just at the prospect of a new novel to keep me diverted on those endless days, but at the effort and the goodwill.

They were not good days for those businesses, I know. But they made our days better.

I miss the vast beauty of the beach, unoccupied by us. The shock of seeing it closed off was soon replaced by a fresh awareness of how lucky we are to play upon it, day after day. It doesn’t owe us that. It is not beholden to us. It’s a gift we get to unwrap every morning.

I miss all the eye contact. I felt like I made more sustained eye contact over those months than during my whole life. The guy at the newsagent, the ladies at the corner store, clients via Zoom, my parents over the back gate, friends through the car window — every encounter felt meaningful. Every relationship felt more intense.

Now a fleeting encounter feels, well, fleeting again. The rueful smiles a bit more distracted. The emotional reunion hug back to a peck on the cheek. And, of course, the beach is full again of people at play.

My friend arrives at Speakeasy. We will settle in for a long talk over those signature meatballs and strong margaritas. The owners, new almost on the eve of the pandemic, have somehow made it out the other side. They’ll come over with smiles, make some recommendations, chat and share a laugh and we won’t think twice about being less than 1.5m apart.

We will crane our heads out the window looking for the source of the bubbles and admire the outfits of the revellers. But first my friend and I hug. And for just a moment, I think maybe we won’t let go.