The moment I knew I definitely wasn’t in London anymore came a couple of weeks into my move to Sydney, when a fellow expat approached me at a run club and asked what I do.
“No, I meant what sport do you do,” she laughed when I told her I was a journalist (no one cares about your job here, apparently). We spent the rest of the evening talking about how big the swell was for our morning swim (“great white shark season is pretty much over now, don’t worry about it”) – until I got stuck in the corner with another British expat who told me to ditch the call I’d scheduled with my best friend in the morning. He was that person when he arrived too, apparently. I’d forget about everyone back at home soon enough.
