I wrote this on July 4 while enjoying my first Sydney cappuccino and waiting to check into my hostel.
July 4. Funny how July 3 just disappeared somewhere into the realm of airspaces and time differences. Anyway, I have just arrived in SYDNEY, and I know that I shouldn't, but I have trouble not comparing it to my only other solo travel experience of Nepal. Sydney lacks the quaintness, the childish and endearing appeal of the broken-downness of Pokhara. It is urban to a fault. It is developed. It is its own thing, not trying to fit into its big sister's high heeled shoes. The people here are no people of the mountains. Perhaps they are people of the ocean, but it is too early to tell. Right now, they are still just the faceless people of Sydney. Of course, there are many escapees from expat paradises, but they don't expect you to be interested in their back story - because that's not what most tourists (or any other tourist except me, for that matter) are here for.
In my only other quasi-solo traveling experience (Nepal), you could identify a tourist a mile apart, and everyone loved each other for it. I don't stick out like a sore thumb here because of my hair and skin tone. Perhaps the side of the street that I walk on will give me away eventually. The air here feels less clean than Spain, with its dusty cars coming at you from the (wrong!) side of the road. Its advanced state of development breeds a deliberateness that is borderline cocky, a self-assurance that is borderline arrogant. And yet it is neither of those, so you can't quite fault it.
Ah, let's give it another hour.
July 4. Funny how July 3 just disappeared somewhere into the realm of airspaces and time differences. Anyway, I have just arrived in SYDNEY, and I know that I shouldn't, but I have trouble not comparing it to my only other solo travel experience of Nepal. Sydney lacks the quaintness, the childish and endearing appeal of the broken-downness of Pokhara. It is urban to a fault. It is developed. It is its own thing, not trying to fit into its big sister's high heeled shoes. The people here are no people of the mountains. Perhaps they are people of the ocean, but it is too early to tell. Right now, they are still just the faceless people of Sydney. Of course, there are many escapees from expat paradises, but they don't expect you to be interested in their back story - because that's not what most tourists (or any other tourist except me, for that matter) are here for.
In my only other quasi-solo traveling experience (Nepal), you could identify a tourist a mile apart, and everyone loved each other for it. I don't stick out like a sore thumb here because of my hair and skin tone. Perhaps the side of the street that I walk on will give me away eventually. The air here feels less clean than Spain, with its dusty cars coming at you from the (wrong!) side of the road. Its advanced state of development breeds a deliberateness that is borderline cocky, a self-assurance that is borderline arrogant. And yet it is neither of those, so you can't quite fault it.
Ah, let's give it another hour.
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