There’s something I need to admit. Despite my lovely pics of the place here and here, the city of Sydney and I don’t really get along. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I suspect it has a lot to do with the fact that I’m not really interested in shopping here:
And I don’t look like this:
and I don’t have the $50 million spare cash to live here:
So I don’t feel as though I really….fit.
Sydney’s been described as the LA of Australia, and it’s the place to be if you want to be a supermodel, celebrity, or a master-of-the-universe investment banker or lawyer. But I’m not any of those things, and more importantly, I don’t aspire to be any of those things. I want to be a writer, surrounded by nature and animals, and help the human race understand that destroying the only home you’ve got is possibly not the smartest idea ever.
If my dad didn’t live here, and if it wasn’t so important to me to spend time with him as he gets older and more frail, I wouldn’t give this city a second glance. But he does, and it is, so I’ll be coming here to the land of vapid for some time longer. And I’ll try to like it, but I’m not sure I’ll ever succeed. Cos I’m just not the Gucci-shopping, bikini-wearing, investment banker type, you know?