I realized that spending a long period in a specific context makes you becoming porous to its exact opposite. It’s probably the reason why, as I familiarized myself with Sydney’s streets, I could feel a slightly disproportionate excitement. As if I’d never seen shiny windows and lavish storefronts before, or large avenues lined with buildings. It’s simply that after months spent in the slow hustle of New-Zealand, I’ve been missing the energetic vibe of big cities.

It’s grey and warm at this very minute. Rain falls on my bare arms. A curious Ibis comes pecking my Banh-mi crumbs straight between my legs. Not quite shy those fellows. I stroll around The Rocks market. I’m almost a little lost here. But in that case, you need to walk. Walk and nothing else. I walk until I reach the Opera, and seeing it makes me something, surprisingly. I didn’t expect it. Its lines and reflections fascinate me.

I come back there three days later for sunset. In the meantime, I followed the coastline between Bondi and Coogee under a scorching sun, I visited museums, parks, neighborhoods, each floor of each old arcade. The perfect tourist.

I once more take photos of the Opera from every angle. Its beauty is strange, it doesn’t match any standard. And yet. On the promenade, lovely couples are passing by, finely dressed for tonight’s show. Tuxedos and colored dresses. Sky is pale, ground is mauve, ferries are sliding on the water and buildings sparkle with a dull glow.

It’s time for an old fashioned. 

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