Ten months and one day ago, I arrived in the sunburnt country. I came in search of untold stories, deep skies, wobbling heat and glimpses into another, older world.
I’ve found lime green Imprezas, well-kept mosques, delicate pho, 6am jogging clubs, stunning wines, frigid June rooms, sausage sizzles, expensive beers and cheap Chinese shoes. I’ve seen a niche where solar power must sit, a fear that open attitudes to immigration could dissolve and a can-do positivity that should conquer every short-termed questionable choice out there. I’m leaving and I haven’t even scratched the surface of this country yet.
Next week, I fly from Australia. I head to New York, via a string of dastardly transit halls, to begin work for a British paper’s US office.
I’ll be blogging and writing from the Big Apple, about the Big Apple. It’ll make a change to cliff-top walks next to crashing white waves, surfers on bicycles, boutique cafes and horrible public transport – well, maybe not the last one, but at least there’s a 24-hour subway system, which cannot be a bad thing. It’ll also be a challenge, a bit of a wake-up call and a whole new chapter of the tale.
Here’s to returning to Sydney, as I have promised.