Three Days in Sydney, Australia

It began on one of those listless afternoons after a midnight shift. The kind where time feels elastic and the world, muted. I was idly scrolling through the internet when a message from my friend Jery appeared:

“Nievie and Hana are going to Australia this September. I’ll send you their itinerary. You in?”

There was something impulsive, almost defiant, in how quickly I said yes. Within minutes, I found a reasonably priced flight and booked it. No hesitation, no calculations... Just pure instinct. My younger self would’ve frowned at the recklessness. Back then, everything had to be planned, justified, and secured. But somewhere along the way, I learned that life’s best moments don’t come with advance notice. They arrive unannounced, like a friend’s message on a quiet afternoon.

By September, I was boarding a flight out of Manila, that familiar cocktail of fatigue and anticipation setting in. The layover in Hong Kong passed in a blur of fluorescent light and airport coffee. Eight hours later, Sydney awaited. Normally, I choose an aisle seat—practicality over view. But this time, I wanted to see the city from above. I prayed for a right downwind approach into Runway 34R, and by some alignment of luck or grace, the aircraft turned exactly as I’d hoped.

There it was: Sydney, sprawling and sunlit. From five thousand feet, the harbour shimmered like a living thing. Blue veins of water pulsing through the city, the Opera House catching the morning light like a seashell left behind by something divine. I stared out the window, quietly grateful that some views still have the power to make you forget the rest of the world exists.

At the arrivals hall, we finally met. Friends bound less by geography than by shared history. Our conversations picked up mid-sentence, as though we’d never been apart. We checked into our hotel, splashed water on our faces, and went out into the day, letting the city guide us. The usual landmarks were there, as if summoned by postcards: the Harbour Bridge arching like a question mark over the water, St. Mary’s Cathedral solemn and watchful, the streets alive with that effortless Sydney rhythm. The city has always been confident, sun-drenched, unassuming, and sure of itself.

The next day, we escaped to the Blue Mountains. The air was sharp, honest, and smelled faintly of eucalyptus. We walked for hours, sometimes in silence, but most of the time, in laughter that echoed across the cliffs. There was something deeply human about it. It is the act of being somewhere unfamiliar with people who knew you before life grew complicated.

What I loved most about this brief journey wasn’t the sights, though they were beautiful, nor the food, though it was good. It was the reminder—subtle but insistent—that life is not lived in the constant hum of routine or the sterile glow of radar screens. It’s lived in these pauses: a shared meal, a spontaneous trip, a conversation under a foreign sky.

Three days in Sydney. A short time by any measure, but enough to remember what it feels like to be unhurried, to be present, to be with people who remind you of who you were. And perhaps, who you still are.