Prelude
I have horrible vision. Nearsightedness, astigmatism, lack of depth perception: you name it, my eyes have it. When I wake up in the morning the world around me is a blur of foggy shapes and muted splotches of colour. I need my glasses, or better yet, my contact lenses, to set things straight, to see the world as it really is. Plop in one eye, then the other and ahhh, there you are, much better.

If anyone else tried to use my lenses, to wear my glasses and read a newspaper, or put in my contacts and go for a drive, they would only see hazy chaos, deformed figures, misconstrued shapes. They would see entire constellations where there is really just one point of light. My lens is like no other, and depending on the skill of my optometrist, what I see may not even be true.

Keeping my visual impairment in mind, have a peek at what Australia looks like to me. This is the director’s cut of the documentary of my time here. It is not the romantic comedy or the historical fiction. Grab some popcorn and let the show begin.

Scene One
Here’s a montage, Tarantino style, of the kinds of things our main character has had to endure so far. It’s sort of like the anti-travel brochure for Australia: Since arriving in Sydney I have been mugged by a 14-year-old kid on a bike. Come back here you little... I have been in not one, but two bus accidents. Screeech... Smash... Ambulance! I came home one night to find that my flatmate’s cat had left a pile of poop under my bed covers. Eww. I had another flatmate who, after being fired, intimidated his boss enough to have a restraining order taken out on him. He went into hiding and our flat was put under police surveillance. It's 7 a.m. and the cops are banging on the door. If you’re in there, open up!

This is all true. These are the facts. I have not altered them through my personal view, my skewed lens.

And yet, although my glasses are not rose-coloured, it seems that for every disappointment, for each set-back, I have seen even more acts of kindness and compassion. There have been policemen who listened and cared. I’ve met bus drivers and train workers who were happy to give me directions and let me know which stop was mine. I left the horrible flatmates, but found new ones who were respectful and friendly and didn’t own any cats.

Scene Two
I take my camera to a friend’s house on the north shore for lunch. This is my first time taking the train far out of the city limits, deep into Australian suburbia, the fabled land of Kath and Kim, Australia’s version of American soccer moms. It’s my first time seeing how a real family lives. This isn’t a messy share house or student flat. This is a home.

Outside in my friend’s backyard I feel like I’m at the zoo. Dogs run through the grass, brightly coloured parrots lounge in a large magnolia tree, a possum hides in the bushes. It’s incredibly peaceful. Inside, away from the menagerie, it’s just like any other house. The walls of the living room and hallways are covered in milestones: snapshots of birthdays, weddings, graduations, debuts, the birth of the first grandchild. They could be any family, anywhere. I try to take photos of my hosts, but as I press the shutter, suddenly they become my family. Click. My parents. Click. My cousins. Click. My aunts. Click. My home.

I am fed and pampered and fussed over for a few hours. When I get on the train to head back to the city I am replenished, refuelled on the warmth and comforts of home, even if it is someone else’s.

Intermission
About a month after arriving in Sydney I entered a photo contest. In the essay that accompanied my submission I wrote that being an international student and experiencing Australia with the international friends I’ve made is a bit like standing in a hall of mirrors. Each one I look in shows me a slightly different picture, a new perspective, a unique way to be exposed to the same material. But each one also shows a different version of me, an Australian version, a student version, an ex-patriot version, a mutation of who I was before. This is about Australia through my lens, but what do I look like through Australia’s lens?

Scene Three
I see Australia as a stopping off place more than a final destination. Backpackers, students, people in need of a holiday, some time to escape life, they all find what they’re looking for here. The continent used to be the perfect prison because it was inescapable, a super-sized Alcatraz. Now it’s a sanctuary for animals, marine life, botanical life and humans, a remote place of asylum for everyone except political asylum seekers. Downtown goes from the hostel district to Chinatown to little Spain to the gay capital of the world. Everyone is welcome at this party. Aussie hospitality was here long before the Olympics and will far outlast the memories of it.

Scene Four: The requisite Girl-in-the-Big-City collage, preferably set to music by an Aussie chick band like George or Killing Heidi
This is me stepping out of my Sydney terrace house, scarf lounging around my neck, hat pulled down to warm my ears, camera bag over my shoulder. Here I am riding the bus. A small boy in the seat in front of me turns around and gives me a gap-toothed grin, his lips pink and sticky from lollies. I grin back and he crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue. I tisk at him with mock disapproval and we both laugh at our private joke. Now in Hyde Park I stop to write in my journal and as I sit on a bench near the large fountain, four silver Rolls Royces pull up and a wedding party tumbles out, slightly tipsy and ready for a party. Photos first though and the photographer shouts orders. Just the men! Just the women! The bride and groom and parents! The bridesmaids! The whole group! The wind picks up and the bride has to hold her veil in place.

Finally I sit by the water in Darling Harbour. Tourists and couples and students and locals and backpackers rush by, in a hurry to get to dinner a club a bar a drink a movie a store a toilet a date a taxi a hotel room a boat. I sit motionless as they speed up, now being shown in fast forward. The sun goes down in a matter of seconds and the harbour lights begin to glow while I remain unchanged.

I wind my way up George Street, past convenience stores and hoity toity restaurants, overdressed for a late night rendez-vous, but just looking for a place to set up my camera and capture a bit of Sydney. I end up at Circular Quay where the same old man has been busking with his violin-type instrument for years. I don’t think he ever leaves. I stand and listen and throw a coin into his hat. He stops to say ‘thank you’ and I jump because I thought he was just on auto-pilot, not really aware of anything around him. His song follows me as I walk past the Aboriginals performing their own music and dance, sharing their traditions with those who have a few minutes to spare for culture and history between their first round of martinis and their dinner reservations.

At the Opera House I stand transfixed by the sails which always appear larger, more grand and magical at night when they are illuminated. I turn and the view is just as spectacular the other way, the bridge and the city skyline and the night ferries gliding across the harbour. I rest my camera on a ledge, but where to point it? What image can I frame that hasn’t already been done?

The screen freezes on me as I stare off at the city laid out in front of me. There’s a chill in the air, cutting through my jacket and wiggling into my shoes, but I don’t feel it. I notice a young couple snuggled on a bench to my left, giggling and kissing and whispering in French or Swedish or Hungarian or something I don’t recognize from this distance. Every story has to have a love interest. The corners of my mouth begin to pull up into a grin and I raise my camera up, ready to take the shot.

Now what about the ending? Will it be neat and tidy? Open-ended? Sentimental or post-modern? Predictable or with a big twist? Or maybe there is no end, maybe the action will just continue until