One of the very few benefits of jet-lag, is being wide awake at the time of day in which your part of the earth wakes up before its people. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t caught a sunset without being jet-lagged, since the days of thinking there was no better drink than a Cointreau and lemonade and no better way to spend a Saturday night than drinking ten of them. In Europe. Because no one in Australia does what the Europeans do, which is drink at home until 1am then hit the bars, which means leaving the bars as the day dawns. I think I saw a sunrise once after a night at the uni bar in Sydney, whereas it was all part of a night out in Greece, and I watched day break over Münster many a time in my nubile early twenties.
Last month, for the first week or so of being back home by the Pacific, I woke the precise second the sun began inching over the horizon. I’d grab the camera and go out over the crunchy, wet grass to the yard’s edge, which fed into scrub which fed into soft yellow sand. And even though it felt longer, within minutes and a rush of gold, pink, lilac and grey, the sun would be burning in the morning sky.