Despite our relative ubiquity, I still regularly feel separated by a common language from my American friends. If you’re visiting here, you should be aware that if you talk as you would to a mate in Australia (swiftly, into your beard, full of colloquialisms), no-one will understand you. They may say they “love” your accent and could “listen to you talk all day,” but they’re lying. Some of them think you’re Austrian.
Every expatriate with a crappy blog wants to give you advice about ‘their’ city.
I never used to, but kind of feel compelled now I have a crappy blog. I also consider myself to be of two cities: New York and Sydney, so I plan on being doubly annoying, though I’ll restrict myself to my current abode for the moment.
To be honest, my ‘guide’ to New York after 17 years of residency is a boring disgrace. When friends come from overseas they tell me their plans and I can’t help but be impressed. “I wish I was doing that,” I think as they saunter off to The Frick followed by drinks at Le Bain, dinner at Per Si and catching several bands and an attitude in Williamsburg.