It was in that moment, chasing a Sydney bus down the street, tears dripping on to my clown costume as I wailed and waved, that I thought coming to Australia may have been a mistake. I was in town for the continent’s grandest event: the Sydney Royal Easter Show. The Easter Show is something to behold, part agricultural fair on steroids, part mini-amusement park, and all parts beloved Australian madhouse. I’d sought my place among the ranks of whip-cracking farmers and meat-pasty judging grandmas to help run the midway’s bestselling attraction: Hollywood Horrors Haunted House. It was a hard gig, working 16-18-hour days in the scorching sun with no rest, but tonight was my special night, the evening I got to leave early in hopes that a few hours of sleep would restore my sanity. I boarded my bus from Sydney Olympic Park and sighed with relief as a mechanical Aussie voice assured me that I had indeed picked the route headed for Rhodes. Visions of massive crowds, physically abusive teenagers, and the endless cacophony of the haunted house soundtrack melted away into the rumble of the diesel engine. Stepping off the bus, however, my empty pockets betrayed that the apartment key remained in my coworker’s possession…at the fairground. As I'd taken the last bus for the night, I flailed after it, the fragrance of frangipani mixing strangely in my palate with the salty taste of tears. Alas, it was no use. The bus disappeared into the night, sputtering fumes like an old man clearing his throat. I flopped onto a bench, the strangest caricature of a sad clown Down Under had ever seen. The Paramatta River lapped sympathetically at a nearby retaining wall. Sydney, while a sharp modern metropolis, is defined by this waterway, an adamant reminder that natural resources are the true heart of Australia. I doubtfully pulled out my Opal transit card and shuffled over to the ferry timetable. There was one last route scheduled for the evening. The large boat toddled cautiously towards the dock, the khaki clad ferryman doing his best to stifle confusion as a lone, bloodstained clown waited at the turnstile. In a diverse city like Sydney, even a horrific American harlequin’s money was good, so I stepped aboard. For the next few hours, wherever the F3 transit line went would be my sanctuary. As the ferry chugged onward into the darkness, the velvety night air was cut with cool sea breezes. Next stop, Chiswick: bobbing palm tree silhouettes dancing along the shore. Next stop, Bangaroo: an entire flock of cockatoos chirping themselves to sleep. The natural wonders of Sydney seemed as fantastical and fake as the makeup smudged on my face. There was a glow approaching on the horizon. As the ferry moved closer, a postcard unfolded itself before me—the Opera House, the Sydney Harbour Bridge, Circular Quay—everything I was expected to visit in Sydney presented itself in one convenient package. However, there was one additional figure that was missing from that postcard: a giant moon face grinning dreamily from across the river. Before me thousands of neon lightbulbs twinkled like a chandelier on the water, an elegant glowing ghost of an art deco amusement park façade. Perhaps my exhaustion had melted into a fever dream? Like a moth to a light, I stepped off the ferry, basking in the cheerful glow of Mr. Moon. The sound of ragtime music raged in the distance. The sign read “Luna Park.” Standing in the presence of this oversized relic I could have mistaken the reverence I felt as a religious sensation. I stepped through his mouth into the multi-sensory embrace of a 1920s fantasyland. I closed my eyes to soak it in—a wooden roller coaster clicked overhead, popcorn perfumed the air, a mechanical clown toss game squeaked with age. Where the Easter Show was brash, modern, and crowded, Luna Park possessed the smooth, slow self-assurance of a landmark that had survived a century. When I opened my eyes, a new friendly figure waved in the distance. Wild hair and striped stilts... it was another clown! At last! Somewhere lost in time I was home in Sydney.