Holed up for a few days in Sydney, a city which I’ve always found kinda objectionable – I do my best to come here with an open mind, but it’s just the general ambiance of the place, some indefinable feeling about it that shits me. I think it’s that it’s so sure of its place as one of The Great Cities of the World, a vaguley arrogant self-assurance that’s just as unattractive in a city as it is in a person (if you can ascribe such characteristics to an entire city).

Anyway, despite all this, it’s been an enjoyable couple of days, mainly because we’ve been able to hit the beaches. If there’s one aspect in which Sydney undeniably shits all over Melbourne, it’s in the fact that it has surf beaches. We’re in Waverley, a 10-minute walk from the lovely Bronte beach, where I spent most of yesterday and this morning. There’s a certain naive joy about getting into the surf to catch waves, an unaffected pleasure that gives a sense of satisfaction and calm, a feeling of renewed possibilty. After months of sitting in an office during a Melbourne winter, being able to go for a swim in the morning makes me feel that all of a sudden there are a million things that I could be doing with my day, a sense that things are possible after all. It’s good. I like it.

It also feels like a reminder that in all the drinking and everything else, something’s been lost along the way. Lost, but not irretrievably. A sense that it’s never too late.

And looking at the ocean, it strikes me that months of travel stretch out before us like the ocean, like Patti Smith’s sea of possibility, months that can take us anywhere.

Bring it on…

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