We stayed in The Rocks.
Where old stones remember stories
better than people do.
Where mornings feel slower.
Where nights feel earned.
We crossed the water to Taronga Zoo.
Posing with koalas and kangaroos
we used to see only in books and documentaries.
Suddenly, they were real.
Blinking.
Breathing.
Existing in front of us.
So were we.
Whenever we were hungry,
we kept finding ourselves
near the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
Sharing fish and chips
as our go-to merienda.
Salt on our fingers,
wind on our faces.
Coming back again.
As if the view needed to remind us,
over and over,
that this wasn’t a screensaver.
This was our life,
at least for a week.
We dressed up.
Trench coats on.
We strolled like tourists who finally made it
along Hyde Park and George Street.
We slowed down inside
the grand Queen Victoria Building,
staring at windows
we couldn’t afford,
and smiling anyway.
In the evening,
with confidence borrowed from movies,
we stepped into the
Sydney Opera House
like we belonged.
Carmen was in French.
We understood almost nothing,
but applauded anyway.
Whenever we wanted a sweet fix
on the way back to our hotel,
we would either stop by Copenhagen for its gelato,
or by Godiva for its drinks.
Treats we knew would taste different
once we were home.
Come morning,
we would wander through the weekend market,
letting time slip through our fingers
without guilt.
Simple.
Perfect.
When it was time to go home,
we packed our bags
with Vegemite,
Beerenberg jam,
and TimTams.
Back then,
Sydney felt impossible.
Going beyond Asia was too ambitious.
A dream you postpone
until “someday.”
And yet,
there we were.
First time seeing
how wide the world could be.
First time realizing
that distance is often
just doubt
wearing numbers.
If you are reading this
and thinking,
“Maybe not for me,”
Let this be your sign.
Be brave.
Try.
One day,
you will stand somewhere
you once thought
was unreachable.
And you will smile,
quietly.
Because you made it.