I hate New Year’s Eve. Like, haaaaate. Detest! Hell! The worst! If I could track this vehement dislike of the celebratory day back to its origin, it’s probably linked to this horrific time my best friend invited, then DE-invited me to an NYE party while I was also in the middle of a soul-destroying situationship.
This supremely terrible New Year’s Eve left me with some genuinely deep anxiety around the annual date. From then on, I wanted to be anywhere but in Sydney, my hometown. Didn’t care where, just AWAY. I’d organise group trips with friends, force my immediate relatives into beach escapes, whatever it took.
This year, my boyfriend and I were thinking the beach. But it turns out that the cost of living inflations extend to Airbnbs and motels, apparently. Places were so damn expensive, I’d have to have taken out a personal loan just to do a week up the coast. So we scoured the map and decided on our second favourite kind of local holiday — a road trip.
I’m obsessed with road trips. If you’ve read my travel stuff before, you’re probably familiar with that time I did the Oodnadatta trip
