Getting on the bus out to Sydney’s eastern suburbs today, I realise I’d forgotten just how irritating it is to be able to understand the conversations of all your fellow commuters (something I can easily tune out in the Netherlands).

But in the act of kindness of the day, the bus driver tells me to just give him $1.70 instead of the usual $2.90 adult fare (it’s the first time I’ve not been a student in Sydney) – “It’s new year’s, mate.” (Still!?) An Indian girl getting on behind me asks him “Do you go to Sydney Uni?” “No,” he says. “I drive a bus.”

Out on the street, too, I realize I’m well out of practise in this part of the world. Used to waiting (im)patiently at red pedestrian lights even on streets cars haven’t driven down since the Renaissance for fear of over-diligent German cops, here not crossing against the light is enough to get you committed, or at least badly trampled.

Stop on the curb at a busy intersection on George Street and you’ll find yourself bowled over by the mass of shoppers who hunt in packs and never stop for the small matter of pedestrian lights.

Just as road rules in Italy are more suggestions than anything hard and fast you ought legally to stick to, little red men here are more like gentle reminders to at least pause mid-step to glance about before you charge across six lanes of oncoming traffic.