Finally arrived. Sydney. Seven days. Eight nights.
An unavoidable stopover between Honolulu to the final destination of New Zealand, where we will spend a whole year. Déjà vu.
A little nostalgic, I get off the plane. My wild year in Australia, in which I hitchhiked around the continent in my early 20s and slept almost continuously with strangers in different cars, is almost half a decade ago.
Today I am less alone. Today, I am less suicidal. Today, I am older. More wrinkled. Wiser. Recognizable only by the ever-steady balance in my bank account. And so we spend seven days and eight nights in Sydney. Walking. We walk and run and go.
Once, a seagull snatched a bag of fries out of our hand. Once, we took a water taxi to the zoo to look at Australia’s cheekiest birds behind bars, out of revenge. Always in front of our eyes, the incredible skyline of the city.
Ach wie gut, dass niemand weiß, dass ich Rumpelstilzchen heiß.
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