Yesterday at the Hiscoes gym on Crown, I was trying to figure out when I’d last been in. “Um, I think it was Monday,” I told the desk lady. “Yeah, no, Tues—no, Wednesd—wait, no, oh yeah, yeah, it was Wednesday, for sure, Wednesday.” Which is pretty much how vacation is going these days, which is nice, because the days are blending together in the best possible way, kind of like a chocolate-banana smoothie, or some cauliflower soup. Tasty, and good for you.

Where Singapore was a social whirl of neverending social whirliness, Sydney is hang-out do-nuthin’ sit-around chill-out, laundry on the line, hot tea and honey gingerbread biscuits. Holiday in Sydney is—just off the plane—a first homemade breakfast of scrambled eggs and hot tomatoes on Turkish toast while looking at photographs and unpacking the food box from Mowmy. It is Spiderman 2 on cheap movie day, with a berry freeze and a box of hot, crispy potato wedges, and screaming when James Franco looks over the balcony and a Doc Ock arm comes grabbily up. It is also an excursion to Coogee Bay, where there is the beach, and where sky and sea are blue, blue, blue. It was warm enough that we could walk barefoot on the sand and put our feet in the sparkling water. Just for a moment, it is winter after all. Later, there were gelati while sitting in a sunny spot. On the bus home, the sun and curvy streets lulled into a happy sleepiness.

Holiday in Sydney is also a DVD doublebill over Turkish pizzas on a Thursday night, where the doublebill is Bring It On Again and 21 Grams, and the pizzas are sausage-garlic-egg-spices and pumpkin-onion-tomato-cheese. 21 Grams is amazing, each scene like a photograph, like a piece of the heart.

Holiday in Sydney is, one afternoon, a snacky lunch of a char siew bao—steamed perfectly so that when nimble fingers pry the bun open and the wizard steam curls up from the inside, we yell “Luckkyyyy!!!”—a curry puff, some leftover garlicy hummus, a hunk of blue, and a blushing Corella pear. And then a trip to the city, where we discover Esprit pants on special.

And holiday in Sydney, satisfyingly, belly-fullingly, is a deep, wide bowl of scallop–fish cake–wonton–saté egg-noodle soup from Happy Chef in Chinatown, and then walking home with a scoop of sticky rice ice cream and a scoop of black sesame ice cream on a cone.

Somehow holiday in Sydney is also early nights—because doing not so much tires out a girl?—and long sleeps on CC’s red corduroy pull-out sofa, where boy friends and dead aunts live in loopy dreams.