It seemed strangely fortuitous that I woke up to clouds and sprinkles today. Perhaps just because it was different from the long string of warm and absolutely clear days Sydney has had lately. Perhaps because it reminded me of London. I was planning to start the new branch of my job search today, and I found the weather strangely motivating. I discovered a library and its printing services yesterday, so went there straight away this morning to print out a stack of resumes for different purposes—theatre jobs and café jobs. I decided yesterday that working in a theatre would be fun, so I decided to pursue that in addition to café work.
I walked out to find the bus to Circular Quay waiting at the stop right across the street. I trotted across the intersection and boarded, intending to visit the four theatres clustered together in the Rocks area near the Opera House. The bus driver was cranky and the jerking motion of stopping and starting made me quite carsick. But that failed to make me feel downtrodden. It was lunchtime when I alighted in the Rocks. I figured that anyone who managed front-of-house staff would be eating, so I decided to do the same.
I wandered until I noticed a kebab stand. The food was a decent price and the structure itself didn’t look nearly as dodgy as most kebab shops do. I think grime is actually a hallmark of a respectable kebab place, but it’s still something I can do without. I ordered a falafel with tabouli and hummus sauce and enjoyed it quite immensely. The packaging was very innovative. It’s usually impossible to eat a kebab without half of its contents spilling out. But this kebab was wrapped in paper and slipped into a foil-lined sleeve. You simply pull out part of the kebab, roll up the resulting slack at the bottom of the foil sleeve and tear off the paper to eat it. Genius!
I crossed under the Harbour Bridge after lunch, and the rain began to fall quite a bit harder. Rivulets of cold water dripped off my umbrella and down the back of my shirt as I approached the theatre area. I was happy at the prospect of taking shelter. But my time outside didn’t end simply because I’d found the building. It looked nothing like I’d expected. It was a low, grey, wooden structure that occupied the entire length of a pier built out into the harbour. I slogged to the end of the pier through the gathering puddles, looking for the Bangarra Dance Company. I saw numerous fire doors, but no appropriately marked entrance.
I turned round and headed for the more visible entrance to the Sydney Dance Company section of the building. The space I entered looked like a cursorily renovated warehouse. The floors were constructed of well-trod diagonal wooden planks. Rows of windows were located near the ceiling and the floor, admitting a grey, hazy light that added to the careworn atmosphere. Thick, square, diagonally slanted slabs of wood obscured the top row of panes. A hip, bustling café counter was located near the door, and ambient house music throbbed through some suspended speakers. I loved it.
After wandering the interior for a bit, I saw a sign stating that the Administrative Offices were upstairs. I climbed the open, winding steps to find an empty reception desk just inside a glass-walled office. I timidly stepped inside, and a confused-looking man sitting just beyond the desk stood up to attend to me.
“I was wondering if you happen to be hiring,” I said.
“Wot, are you a teacher?” he inquired.
“No…I was wondering if you had any sort of front-of-house roles.”
His expression changed from quizzical to amused and slightly disdainful as he said no.
I was a bit put off, but not deterred. I went next door to the Sydney Theatre Company and dropped my CV off with their much friendlier receptionist. When I left I happened upon a map that showed me where the Bangarra administrative offices were located. I traced my steps back to the end of the pier, again without finding an appropriate door. I turned back once more and entered the only door I could open without setting off an alarm. Once inside, a piece of paper taped to a heavy beige door informed me that the Bangarra Administrative Offices lay just beyond. I’m not sure all the effort was well spent. The receptionist gave me the company’s card, saying that I should email my resume because all the entire production staff was on tour until the second week of November.
Shortly after leaving the pier, I happened upon the Sydney Theatre and decided to try my luck there. My shoes squeaked obnoxiously as I crossed the floor to the box office. The sole worker there said that they were always on the lookout for front-of-house staff.
“Do you have an RSA?” she asked. Huh? A what? I grudgingly had to display my ignorance.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a Responsible Serving of Alcohol certificate.”
“No, I don’t,” I answered. I assume she’d already gathered that, since I didn’t even know what one was. She said that since front-of-house staff man the bar sometimes, she thought they were required to have an RSA. But she took my resume anyway and assured me she’d pass it on.
I attempted to find my way back to George Street, where I would find the two additional theatres I was planning to visit that day. I soon had no idea where I was. It was thrilling. I had my map in my messenger bag, so I could easily have figured out my coordinates. But I resisted looking at it. I had a good sense of which way I needed to go in order to reach George Street, and my roundabout route took me down a few new streets. When I emerged onto George Street, I saw a sign for Martin Place right over the road. Perfect! That was just where I needed to go!
I wound my way around a corner to the City Recital Hall and queried the box office attendant as to whether they were hiring.
“I’m not sure, but I can take your CV and pass it on,” he said. I was in the process of extracting it from its folder when he added, “You need an RSA to work in a front-of-house role.”
“I don’t have that,” I said disappointedly, thankful I now knew what it was.
“Everyone who works in a job where they serve alcohol needs to have one,” he stated matter-of-factly. I put my folder back in my bag.
“Do you know how I go about getting one? Is it a course?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s a one or two day course. A lot of places do them. Just Google RSA. It usually costs about $80.”
Right. I decided to skip going to the last theatre until I had obtained said RSA. On the way home, I did made one last stop at the Fair Trade Coffee Company. I’d gone in the day before to inquire about whether they were hiring.
“We’re having a few people on and just seeing how they go,” the woman replied. “Do you have your CV?”
I didn’t at the time, but said I’d bring it by. I dipped in today to drop it off. It’s a relaxed, comfortable, slightly hippie café. Having a nose ring seems to be a prerequisite for working there, so I think I’d fit right in.
I didn’t get hired quite as fast as I thought I might today. But the process of searching was surprisingly fun. Despite the rain, going about and talking to people is much more enjoyable than sitting at home and typing a string of inquiry emails. I’m still inspired. Once my money finishes its electronic journey from the US to Australia, I’ll probably book myself into one of the RSA courses. Unless the café calls back first. I still don’t know what’s going to happen from here. But I’m getting used to liking that again.
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