brainsnorkel.com

Written by Jessica

The first time, I was eager. Nervous, but keen, I’d heard a lot about it. The build up was tantalizing, the promise of rewards beyond my dreams soon to be fulfilled. I had the protection, I’d made the moves and I was ready.

Alas, my fumblings with the cross city tunnel were not to be consummated. Yep, I missed it, or it missed me, depending on your viewpoint. And now I hear the motorists are ‘dodging it’. Well, bugger me. ‘Dodging’ it didn’t enter the equation. I would have loved to ‘dodge it’. I just couldn’t find it.

That first time, I approached from the east. I’d organised my e-tag and checked the maps but within a nano second, found myself on South Dowling Street, moving at snail’s pace towards Cleveland Street. How did that happen? Still, I knew that nirvana was nearby. I got back on the bike and turned around. I could do this. After one more failed attempt, and another pep talk and u-turn, I finally got excited. I got from Anzac Parade to the Eastern Distributor, via a few obscure roundabouts and minor streets. There was no welcoming party, no signage, no street names, but I had made it. Heart racing, I sped up to 80 km.

The tease! I knew it couldn’t last. In a flash I saw, too late, the chosen lanes moving underground. I had failed to move far enough over and found myself crawling up South Dowling Street once more. Again, I didn’t see the signs. Where were they? Was this relationship just in my head? I longed for an affirmation, some reciprocity. I couldn’t go on. I needed a break. The back streets, old haunts, beckoned.

Our next date was better planned. I had a partner and suggested a threesome. This time, we made it to the tunnel. We were soaring. In fact, we got so carried away we missed the exit and came out at the Domain, instead of the Anzac Bridge. We were told later that we should have taken the Kings Cross exit (for the Western Suburbs?) I knew then that the tunnel was playing hardball.

With courage waning, I next approached from the west. Over the Anzac Bridge, I saw a sign, a billet doux. It winked and pointed. At the last minute, I got cold feet and moved one lane too far. Too late, I saw my error but even at 60km, I couldn’t make amends. I found myself in the bus lane heading into the city. Concrete barriers on either side, I was helpless and left to stew behind a bus with a few minutes to kill before trundling off to pick up its load.

The tunnel stood me up again on the way home. I’m not sure I even made an entrance that time. I emerged, blinking, at William Street. I’ve since been told I was probably only in the Eastern Distributor tunnel all along, which smacks of subterfuge and trickery.

I’m not sure how much I spent so far on this relationship. With petrol at a premium and those tolls where we’ve connected but not climaxed, it’s been adding up. I’m turning into a conspiracy theorist. Have the tunnel operators entered into an alliance with beach residents to fleece us, but keep us out at the same time?

I might have guessed that it could never work. Trying it on with that side of town was always going to end badly. But I’m in too deep. Like a lover scorned, I have lost all pride and become obsessive. I can’t stop now. I will find a path. Cleveland Street is for losers.