Devonshire Street Tunnel

The Devonshire Tunnel is not something that you choose. It chooses you. Well … unless you’re a bird or a train, the Devonshire Tunnel is the only mobility solution for getting from the Surry Hills side of Central to Railway Square.
Though I regularly daydream about being a bird (or a train, for that matter), I’m stuck with these two feet, no wings, and a long tiled tunnel owned by Railcorp. Or at least I think it’s owned by Railcorp, because of the incredibly ugly rail-​related mural images decorating the tunnel.
I agree with Jo — the best (and worst) thing about the Devonshire Tunnel is the buskers. They’re Surry Hills standard NOT New Orleans standard, so don’t expect miracles.
This tunnel is hot and airless, and the art is bad, but one can’t help feeling a certain affection for the buskers and the dated tiles.
A tip for whoever makes the Railcorp public art: It is never a good idea to run an ordinary digital photograph through multiple «effects» filters on Photoshop and then print it at a large scale in a pedestrian tunnel.

Buskers. Lots of them. Of varying quality but always of interest. The tunnel that leads to Central Station from Henry Deane Plaza is more than your usual walkway. Clomping tiredly to catch my train, I always look forward to seeing who might be brave enough to stand up and busk today. With less of a tourist element than the buskers you see in tourist hotspots like Circular Quay, the ones here range from the talented to the downright oddball all in search of a gold coin or two that you may have to spare.
The other day I passed a dreadlocked guitarist with a surprisingly deep voice and an old bluesman with a face that had seen the devil if not made a bargain with him. I’ve had some amazing encounters here over the years, from a young Aboriginal artist selling her work, to a glorious untrained operatic voice that swelled right the length of the tunnel. Only when you got close could you see that the owner of that voice stood with a white cane; she was blind.
Perhaps the weirdest was a little old lady perched on a stool next to a handwritten sign that said ‘Virgin Advice’. As I was running late for my train, I didn’t get a chance to ask her whether her advice was in regards to maintaining virginity, or whether her virgin state allowed her a particular authority in giving advice. I’ve never seen her again, I wish I’d stopped.