I Thought I Knew the Sydney Opera House—Then I Went Inside
As a relatively recent arrival in Sydney, my cultural immersion has been mixed. I have an Australian partner, born and bred in the city, but I’d never set foot in the country before I moved here, all of which leaves me in a gray area—not quite a local yet, but not really a tourist either. One thing all visitors and residents have in common, though, is their love of the Sydney Opera House, and I’m no exception.
Like most residents, I’ve taken commuter ferries past it, partied on its forecourt, watched New Year’s fireworks burst above its sails, and sipped drinks at Opera Bar. But what surprised me, after speaking to my partner and a handful of other Aussies, is how few Sydney locals had actually been inside. So on a bright autumn morning, I booked the official guided walking tour and did something travelers and transplants often do better than locals: I paid attention.
After a quick check-in at the Welcome Centre on the lower concourse, I collected a personal headset and waited for my guide. Ours was Sheila—who, in typical Aussie style, introduced herself as “a real-life Aussie sheila.” She asked where we’d come from: we were a 30-some strong group of international mix of Brits, Americans, Norwegians, and French travelers, a few of whom were back for a repeat tour.
But before we went inside, Sheila walked us out onto the forecourt. The ground we were standing on, she explained, is Bennelong Point—a place of deep significance to the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation, who know it as Tubowgule. She paid her respects to the traditional custodians past, present, and emerging with an Acknowledgement of Country, and shared how the site had been a meeting place and site for performance long before it became what it is today. Turns out, the story of the building is almost as famous as the building itself.
In 1957, a Danish architect named Jørn Utzon won an international design competition, beating more than 200 entries. What followed was a 16-year saga of budget blowouts, political infighting, and a bitter falling-out with a newly elected minister for public works. Utzon resigned in 1966, left Australia, and never came back. The building was finished without him and opened by Queen Elizabeth II in 1973. “Sadly, he never saw the finished building with his own eyes,” Sheila told us.
From the forecourt, we finally headed inside, but before we saw any of the venues, Sheila wanted us to understand exactly what we were standing inside of. Almost everything we were looking at was made in Australia: the concrete ribs holding up the sails, the plywood lining the interiors, the timber seats and fittings. Only two elements came from overseas—the roof tiles, manufactured in Sweden, and the foyer glass, made in France. The building, she added, was considered more structurally sound now than at its 1973 opening, the concrete having settled into place over the years.
From there, we headed upstairs onto a terrace looking straight across Sydney Harbour, with the Harbour Bridge sweeping to the left and Kirribilli’s shoreline on the opposite side. Residents across the water had initially protested the build as an eyesore, Sheila told us—but those who stayed put had the last laugh, with homes that now boast some of the best views in the city. We also got lucky enough to spot one of the harbor’s most beloved residents: Benny, a fur seal who’s adopted the Opera House as a regular haunt, often seen lounging on the steps or snacking on fish. (In my six months in the country, I’d tried and failed repeatedly to catch a glimpse of him—he comes and goes as he pleases—so on a personal level, I quietly checked off another Sydney highlight.)
Cameras went away in the Joan Sutherland Theatre because a performance was being set up, so we watched the crew at work from the tiered seating. This is the home of Opera Australia and The Australian Ballet, Sheila explained, a 1,500-seat venue pitched at a steep angle for clear sightlines, with a black-painted wood surround to keep attention on the stage. It was the pit she wanted us to notice. Seventy musicians fit down there, and stretched above them was a fine net. The net went up, she said, after an opera featuring live chickens went awry—a chicken (or several, depending on who you ask) took an unplanned descent mid-performance and landed in the lap of a musician. It earned its keep for real during a later performance, when a sword slipped from a dancer’s hand and flew straight at the musicians below. The net caught it. “So,” Sheila said, with a small smile, “we have the chicken to thank.”
As we made our way back out, Sheila had one last tidbit to share with us … though we’d heard throughout the quick-but-thorough 1-hour tour, it should be said. Utzon may have left in 1966 and never returned, but in 2003, he was awarded the Pritzker Prize—“often called the Nobel Prize of the profession,” she said—which seems a fitting reward for a true mastermind of design.
I stuck around after the group dispersed, circling the building and taking in the sails with a new perspective. For six months I’d looked at the Opera House as part of the furniture, a familiar mark on the skyline. What Sheila had shown me was that the building has a biography built on countless details and people: A Danish architect who gave it its shape, was pushed out before he could finish it, and was eventually recognized as one of the greats anyway. A headland that belonged to the Gadigal long before any of this. A single tree covering a ceiling. Swedish tiles, French glass, British engineering, and Aussie contractors. A cultural icon with plenty below the surface, in more ways than one.
This tour was provided courtesy of Viator.
Book more things to do in Sydney
Keep planning your Sydney trip
