Sydney brunch

After a quick hop from Melbourne to Sydney, I find myself chauffeured by a bus driver who’s clearly under the impression he’s auditioning for Formula 1. I swear, if Max Verstappen ever needs a backup driver, this guy’s ready to go, using the streets of Sydney as his personal racetrack. The radio blares out Australian rugby, which takes me back to a time in Perth when I had a surprise elevator encounter.

Picture this: I’m in the hotel elevator, minding my own business, when someone yells, “Hold the door!” Being the Good Samaritan that I am, I stick my foot in. In walks ten very large men… and one tiny one, all dressed in black. “Where are you from?” they ask. “Holland,” I say. “What about you?”

“Oh, we’re from New Zealand, mate,” they reply.

“Oh? What are you doing here?” I inquire.

“We’re the All Blacks,” one says, with an air of self-assurance that clearly expects me to fall over in awe.

“Football?” I say, oblivious.

They clarify, “Rugby,” and I go, “Oh.” (Way to play it cool, right?) Later that night, I bump into them at the bar, and we have a beer together—turns out, they’re really nice blokes. The next day, when I mention this casually to my hosts, they look at me as if I’ve just revealed I dined with the Queen. “You met the All Blacks?! And their coach?!” Safe to say, the FOMO was palpable.

Back in the present, our driver—who’s navigating the surprisingly smooth new tunnels from the airport—mentions how construction is everywhere, but these tunnels have shaved a 45-minute traffic nightmare down to a breezy 10 minutes. Mid-rant about Sydney’s skyrocketing costs (apparently it’s now one of the priciest cities in the world), he suddenly cranks up the radio. “Sorry, mate, these are my horses,” he says. Turns out he’s into horse racing. His favorite, Esquema, is racing, but as the race ends, he grumbles, “Lilac wins… Esquema came seventh.” So close yet so far.

Sydney, I quickly learn, is a bike-sharing paradise. Green rental bikes are scattered all over, but the problem is, people seem to think it’s okay to abandon them wherever they please. A favorite spot turns out to be any water ways. Reminds me of the canals in Utrecht—filled to the brim with discarded bikes until they send a boat to dredge them out. It’s a tradition, I suppose, if you’re into pulling rusty bikes from murky water.

On the way to one of Sydney’s northern beaches, I spot smoke in the distance. “Ah, that’s a controlled burn,” my Uber driver explains. “Problem is, they often go out of control.” Sad truth—every year it’s the same story, and the wildlife and native plants take the hit. You’d think they’d learn by now.

Apparently, Sydney is also building a shiny new airport, set to open in 2026, with planes landing 24/7. Great news for night owls, I guess. With two airports soon competing for flights, my bet is the budget airlines will be sent packing to the outskirts while Qantas gets the prime central slots. Because, you know, prestige.

We finally pull up to my destination, one of the northern beaches. The driver praises my choice, saying, “If you’d gone to the southern beaches, you’d be swamped by bottomless brunchers—young women who start the day all dolled up and bubbly. But by the time you pick them up? Oh boy, they’re a mess. You’ll need to disinfect the car after they stumble out, lifeless and completely inebriated.”

And, last but not least, the final nugget of wisdom from my Sydney adventure: don’t swim at dusk or dawn. That’s when the sharks start their buffet run. Normally, they’re chill, but at those times, it’s like walking into a McDonald’s full of ravenous brunch-goers—except the sharks are much less forgiving.