The temperature in the room is perfect, from a crack in the curtain enters a single ray of sun, under the blankets you are in your preferred position, you're sleeping but not really, you are in a state of drowsiness so perfect that you may remain relaxed for hours. Your thoughts are all extremely happy and at this moment you are absolutely sure it will be a beautiful day.
The peace is abruptly interrupted by the voice of two super hairy Brazilians guys in the next room, like every morning, they get on Skype and scream as if there were no speakers, no headphones and microphones, but they have to be heard from here.
Of course, each of them with their own individual Skype call.
The awakening is more abrupt than getting bucket of dirty water on your the head while you’re peeing in a dark alley.
From that moment onwards you dream to jump in their room, dressed only in a giant blade and dye the walls of their micro-de-evolved brains.
It is not a matter of nationality. The fact is that if you do not give a fuck about those around you and do whatever the fuck you want, then you're hopelessly, sadly, a miserable inferior to others and as such, deserve to disappear between the indifference of the media and even YouTube.
Especially if the call goes on for approximately two hours.
You get up, eat something, get ready and go out.
Fuck it, after all, you’re in Sydney.
If after a couple of hours of walking in the city, you feel hot and want to take a break, cool down a bit, and in the meantime take a moment to relax, listen to good music, then go into a shopping centre and go straight to the toilet.
The bathrooms are something special. Spacious, super equipped, they are ready to accept everything you have to give without disturbing your inner state.
If, during your lifetime, you ever have a couple of kids, then you are entitled to an extra treatment, since here there are even toilets reserved for parents. They’re the equivalent of business class as far as toilets go. Here the space is even better, everything is colourful and friendly and the music is a cheerful melody to listen to for hours.
Long story short: if you want to download your compost heap in maximum comfort and completely extend your legs while doing so, move to Australia.
When you’re done, fresh as a daisy and with a smile of satisfaction on your face, you go back to the streets of Sydney, where every ten minutes you risk feeling like a wuss.
Walking wearing mid-season jacket, cursing the warm heavy jacket left in Italy, trying to shield yourself from the cold wind that blows all day and a then few showers, when, at the bus stop you see a group of girls in summer clothes.
You cannot help but make the manliest expression that you can, while you’re freezing, walking boldly faking that you’re warm and inevitably questioning yourself about your sexual identity.
Sometimes while you’re walking, you hear a turbo from engine that you think it comes from a supercar, but when you turn around to admire it and be thrilled, you understand that it belongs to a family car that is pumping minimum 500cv. Here it seems that one of the popular hobby is to pounce on the machines and change them as much as possible. Here, each grinder can hide a motor of a Nascar, including that small yellow Nissan driven by an old lady...
Spoilers, rims, neon lights and their outlets in their chrome shine in the sun of Sydney. The best is reached by police cars. Equipped with not one, not two, but three lighting systems: a classic one on the roof, one behind the windscreen and one on the radiator, obviously with a bull-bar. Carbon rims, trim down and painted red, compete in the cruel world of tuning. I've never been a fan of cars, but when you see one like this, it makes you want to piss on the back of a cop just to take a ride in Central and meanwhile enjoy the thousands of gadgets inside, hear the engine pumping, illuminating everything with those three fucking lighting systems. Amazing.
Instead you stand there, at the bus stop to wait for your ride.
When the bus arrives, you have to find your way between backpacks covered in sand and surf boards.
In Italy such a scenario would trigger several panic attacks and probably some heart attacks, just at the thought of further obstacles in addition to the usual crowd of people. Here in Sydney it’s fine, especially near the famous Bondi Beach.
My next chosen home, Bondi Beach, is the farthest thing from the lights of the City. Low houses in English style, all in a row to embrace the crescent shaped beach, stationed in their bizarre looking at the ocean, separated from the sea by a road first and then a whole fleet before the actual beach. No hotels visible.
Walking around easy places, with wooden tables outside, including giant burgers and beers, several surf shops, more surf shops and some more surf shops.
I am convinced that if you live here for at least three months, you will have a thick blonde hair, your eyes will become blue and one morning you wake up speaking perfect Australian English.
These, then, are days dedicated to the search for a home that can be called like that, where I expect that the bathrooms are not like those in malls, but at least they are in ratios of one in every three people instead of one in ten like it is where I am now.
What I expect, above all, is not to have two homesick sub-humans on the other side of the wall, interrupting my sleep, bringing me each day closer to that round in the police station.
Now that, would make me extremely manly, along with having my jacket closed up to the neck.
Writer wannabe, mojito and absinthe lover, one day I want to see the Earth from space.
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