Legs numb, rheumatism approaching, and back indented by the inner springs of the upright seat on the $15 Sydney-Canberra bus. I mentally wave at my mum’s house as we pass by. I’m bursting to tell her about my culture-shocking trip to Mt Kilimanjaro and Egypt. She lives only 10 minutes north of the city, the city that tourists accidentally drive past because it’s so small.
‘Just ask the bus driver to drop you off’ my mum says so casually, as if Canberra isn’t the conservative, almost regimented small town that my brother and I grew up in.