Sunny-side up, please
Hobart is a postcard, cosmetic to the point of surreal. Everything's slaked in summer shades, except in the distant horizons, where the hills tire of stunning azure and wash into white. On most days the clouds look like cottoned butter scraped over invisible toast, and the sunlight glints off everything, even the edges of the indigo shadows, and the two coffee cups roasting in the sunny slant of yellow through the kitchen window. Mornings here are drenched in golden dapples and contentment.
And to think that just a few short days ago, I was walking to the airport gate in a kind of dazed disbelief, wondering if I was real, wondering whether the ticket in my hand was real, wondering whether impulse justified insanity, but most of all, walking past a sign that read "Please declare all eggs and egg/poultry products" and wondering if I had to declare my fallopian tubes.
And then, three planes later I was being engulfed in a large trenchcoat, with arms in them. Conclusion: everything looks brighter in sunshine, even the future.