We take a last stroll along Oxford Street. At 7:30 in the morning, the last of the bar queens are dragging themselves home, their skin-tight black tee shirts dark with dance-sweat.
We stop in a local patisserie for a meat pie and a flat white (strong coffee with steamed milk). After five days of crystal clear weather, the first gray clouds we’ve seen in ages roll in off the harbour. The temperature drops rapidly. We are glad for our sweaters, but stunned that, in just four hours, we’ll be in the steamy tropics.
I’ll miss Sydney.
Our last stop is at the YWCA, where we use the most tortorous, ill-conceived internet terminal known to man to post this entry. (Note to public internet terminal designers: a jelly-based keyboard that forces you to pause one second between each keystroke is a very bad idea.)
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