"Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie"

You don’t need poems when you have shanties.

All day Thursday I boast to my colleagues that I am taking the fancy XPT to Sydney this afternoon. Despite a dull headache (the result of my period) and despite going nonstop in March’s entirety, I am desperate to drink wine on the train, open my laptop, put on my headphones and stare longingly out the window pretending I’m the heroine of a Zach Bryan song. My carriage calls. The expensive train (20 bucks!) with assigned seats and a cafe car will take me to Sydney faster than any cheap pleb train ever could.

I have signed up to take a poetry workshop Friday morning. I’ll connect with Sydney poets, and then later catch up with friends. My throbbing head and overworked mind pine for escape. Everything I’ve ever wanted lies in the form of the XPT to Sydney.

At 3:45 I hum Johnny Cash.

I slam my work laptop closed and say goodbye to my colleagues. I bounce down High Street with nothing but a handbag and backpack, my urban future deliciously close.

”I hear that train a comin’ it’s coming round the bend.”

At the Maitland train station, I’m confused. Where is XPT on the screen? No one else on the platform has any luggage. At 4 I walk hastily across the bridge towards the only man in high vis to be found. My chariot should be here by now.

”The next XPT isn’t meant to be until 5:30, and it’s running half an hour late.”

My heart plunges. I show him my 4:06 train ticket. He examines my phone.

“That was this morning. That left at 4am.”

Yet again, like I have done so many times in Australia, I forgot to check for the am and pm. I always forget, everything is on military time. There is only one 4:06 time in Australia and that is the morning.

I sit grumpily on the boring normal train, where no wine nor snacks are available for purchase. Hooligans flood in, speaking loudly and playing terrible rap music. My headache strengthens as the train heads back to Newcastle, where I wait 45 minutes at Hamilton Station before the next (very slow) wineless train to Sydney arrives. I toss up not even going.

I buy a gelato to soothe my troubled mind and wait patiently for the 5:40 train, which, they soon announce is also running late. I put my finished gelato bowl in the trash, imagining it’s my heart.

I wait at the platform for a train that continues not to come. My backpack straps dig deeper and deeper into my shoulders. I look to my right and suddenly recognize a woman. She had a very calming affect on me the last time I saw her, at a wedding towards the end of the night. Out of words, I felt happy just to sit close to her. I remember remembering how rarely I could sit next to someone I didn’t know well and feel fine not saying a thing.

Her lined, expressive face lights up when she sees me. I light up too. She is angelic. I feel silly for feeling dramatic about the XPT.

“How are you?”

“What are you writing? What are you reading?”

I beam. What great questions to start a conversation!

”I am reading Confederacy of Dunces.”

I tell her the story of the author, John Kennedy Toole. This leads us to talk about death, fear and illness. Then we talk about nature and land ownership; she tells me about the alternative lifestyle festival Confest she attended decades ago. (It’s still going!) Lots of people were naked. It sounds like my kinda vibe. I tell her about my upcoming poetry gathering in the mangroves at twilight.

My sadness and my exhaustion dissipates. No matter where I am or what is happening I love people. I love them. I love them.

The late train eventually arrives. We sit together briefly and she leaves at her stop shortly thereafter. I watch her go and we wave. I feel better.

At the next stop I receive an email that my poetry workshop, the reason I am going on this emotional journey, has been cancelled. My joy skips away like she did leaving the train. I’m devastated again. Why am I even going to Sydney? Is it too late to return to Newcastle and crawl into bed? Why do I do these stupid things to myself?

I text my partner asking him if I should come home. The universe is ending, again.

But, then I receive a text from an acquaintance that I hope to soon make a friend.

“Shanties?”

My heart lifts. Previously he told me about these Sydney sea shanty singing groups, and I was not sure how serious he was me being welcome to attend. He meant it! I’m not tired anymore! I’m going to go!

I take a pill for my headache, a rare concession to modern medicine, but I want to be in good form. The train flies the rest of the way to Sydney. It’s a beautiful ride. You don’t need poems when you have shanties.

I get off at Central Station and power walk to The Nocturne in Surry Hills. Naturally, unexpected friends from Newcastle are out front, watching through the window at the fun being had. They have come from Lottie Consalvo’s new art exhibition up the road. We are surprised and happy to run into one another.

I tell them of my ups and downs in the last five hours. They laugh and hug me and offer to drive me back to Newcastle in the morning if I decide not to stay.

Again I’m overwhelmed with my love of people. I love them, I love them, I love them.

I wave goodbye and hurry into the bar. The sailor songs are siren-like. It’s a cozy room where people are dressed casually and also in suits. I see different shades of skin and different shapes of faces, all ages and accents sing together in powerful, stirring harmonies. I don’t know the songs, but still they make me cry.

A woman sings a song about not being buried on the loan prairie and tears pour down my cheeks. My voice cracks as I try to sing along. It reminds me of church.

People on the streets walk past while peeking in. Then they walk back, then gingerly come to the circle to sing. I buy myself a Rose and wonder if church came with a bar if I ever would have left.

We sing shanties and a woman starts instructing the next song: “How long do you want to be loved.”

My ears perk up.

“Hey is this the Dixie Chicks?”

It is, or the artists formerly known as such. She’s pleased I knew the reference.

”Is forever enough, is forever enough?”

We sing it in rounds. All of Surry Hills must be singing now.

Everyone is buzzing. I want to stay, but my emotions are teetering on the edge of oblivion, and I would prefer not to embarrass myself in front of my acquaintance and his cool friends. It is time to find my bed. I had no dinner, but the gelato from earlier will suffice.

My Uber drops me at my Cityview budget hotel in Liechhardt, no city view that I can see, but I don’t care. I fall into a feverish sleep, woken first by a man and woman discussing life out my window late into the night and then roaring planes overhead as the morning comes.

I awake to the old familiar headache. I’m no longer a drunken sailor.

Eventually I climb out of bed and draw my blinds and see where my cheap hotel gets its namesake. The city shines as the sun rises. A perfect view of Sydney lessens the pain.

Another day, another battle with conflicting realities.

I watch the distant buildings glimmer as the morning sun beams into my tiny room.

I love you. I love you. I love you.