My dear Sydney,

My dear Sydney,

Thank you for the best three weeks. To be on the other side of the world, exploring a beautiful city with company new yet familiar, feeling the heat of Australian sun on my Indiana-winter pale skin, reading my book to the white noise of ocean greeting sand, eating well and feeding my soul.

People have been asking me my favorite parts about you. Impossible to choose just one. I loved Royal National Park—hiking the trails of the second oldest national park in the world, crossing unhurried rivers and scaling rocks that looked like another planet, cliff diving, snags and Elliot's fresh salad (starring heirloom tomatoes from his garden) for lunch. After a wonderful but busy and notably nature-deprived fall semester, the lap of ocean waves, the low hum of cicadas, the trickle of streams underfoot were exactly what I hadn't realized I needed.

I also loved your food. I already miss your hand rolls, halloumi, and pistachio gelato. Anthony Bourdain wisely said, "If you're twenty-two, physically fit, hungry to learn and be better, I urge you to travel—as far and as widely as possible. Sleep on the floors if you have to. Find out how other people live and eat and cook. Learn from them—wherever you go."

Indeed, I turned twenty-two a few weeks ago, we stayed at Lake Central Cairns (which was akin to sleeping on floors), and our dining experiences were a bridge to the Australian way of life I could spend the rest of my life crossing.

Food is connection as much as it is sustenance. To sit down with someone and share a meal is to enjoy good company, good conversation, perhaps an appetizer or two. They have already heard this, but thank you to the wonderful company who never said no to gelato, who made long waits for open tables feel like ten minutes, who never failed to check the menu for vegetarian and GF options, who made 22 feel special. With or without the 36 Questions to Fall in Love, I love you all dearly.

I can't leave out Glebe! Per Saturday tradition, we enjoyed our last Saturday afternoon in Sydney farmers-market style. Floating through stalls, finding gifts for friends and family, enjoying one of the rare occasion on which we opted for an activity other than the beach...I was soothed by the sound of clothing brushing up against clothing in tight stalls, by the sight of people trying on earrings and smelling candles, by the sense of community, by the aroma of fresh flowers and pastries and homemade soaps.

I, of course, loved your Sydney Opera House. Getting to tour it and finding myself inside one of the most recognized architectural structures in the world, I felt the smallness of my existence but also the magnitude of what human collaboration can achieve.

I have been dipping in and out of Gaston Bachelard's The Poetics of Space the past few weeks. Bachelard says, "A house that has been experienced is not an inert box. Inhabited space transcends geometrical space" (p. 47). How true of the Sydney Opera House. The thousands of hands and minds who labored beam by beam, tile by tile, over the course of 14 years; the thousands that go into its maintenance today; and the millions who flock to it year after year to celebrate the arts, culture, and togetherness—this is a place that has been experienced. It is a labor of love, a transcendence of geometrical space.

I loved your sunsets and blues and greens. That goes without saying.

I loved getting to ring in 2025 (a perfect square, by the way) on Sydney Harbour, watching the New Year's Eve fireworks over the Opera House. I even loved camping out for 11 hours in the heat, on the ground, with overpriced vendors our only dinner options. Like many Americans, I grew up watching the countdown in Australia before it began anywhere in the US. I could feel the excitement, through the screen, of being one of the first places in the world to welcome the new year. To find myself part of that celebration was surreal—over one million voices counting down, faces turned toward the sky, loved ones embracing and laughing and being together. I felt the fullness of the people and choices that had brought me to these moments. Gratitude isn't a strong enough word to convey that fullness.

I loved that you call lines "queues" and that your "Yield" signs are "Give Way" signs. I loved your accents and the fact that I have caught myself walking on the left side of the sidewalk since being home....I love that you brought me to new friends I get to take back with me to Purdue. I love your gloriously pulled espressos and sand in my suitcase. I love your landscapes and people-watching spots and park benches. I love your beauty in the details.

I am sad to leave you. It struck me on my last night as I was packing that I will never be here again. By "here," I mean that I will never be a 20-something living in Sydney. The next time I visit, I will be older, hopefully wiser, perhaps with different friends or a family of my own—and my experience will reflect these changes, the past three weeks inimitable.

I am going to miss the warmth of morning sun on the walk to the gym, the late trains back to Chatswood, the dinners and Yo-Chi with strangers turned friends, the dry skin and heavy eyelids after a long day at Manly.

I suspect that 20 years from now, I will look back on this trip and feel a pull at my heart. But I lay these speculations to rest because 20 years is 20 years from now, and I just can't know. I know only what I have now. And Sydney, you have given me so much.

With love,

Kate xx