A quick search shows that this huge island, a continent by itself, is the sixth largest country in the world, but has only about 26 million inhabitants, a sad number fifty-five in the global ranking. Over fifty percent of these souls actually gather in the four largest cities, Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane and Perth, all along the coast by the way, but taking up only about one percent of the country’s total area. All the other 11 million Australians spread so far, that each square kilometre contains roughly one and a half humans. That’s a lot of space to hang out with just your own thoughts. This country is practically empty. No wonder the definitions of what is a village, a town and a city, greatly depend on where you are. Is it the presence of a supermarket or a gas station, a school or a sports club, a hotel or a visitor’s centre? Along the east coast, the three most populated states, Victoria, New South Wales and Queensland harbour more than three quarters of the people; the reason for which is not entirely clear. Climate, some say, the rain. History, some argue, the colonization. Or maybe just chance? Here, a city is a city, the big fellow, with the skyscrapers and a central business district, with extensive public transport and loads of people, noisy, polluted, disgustingly modern and beautifully diverse, where all your requirements are met and every niche has its own lover. Towns are the things in the middle, less people, less cars, less character. Sleepy, modernized but unused, a collection of strangers procrastinating their lives. And villages, the small ones, far from any comfort, apart from the tight-knit community, that raises the children together to be independent and self-sufficient and still unable to ever leave this place. You know. Same as in Europe. Basically. But then, upon entering the Northern Territories, this whole ranking falls apart by the absence of cities and the lack in towns. Everywhere just villages. Far away from each other. So, villages become towns and towns become cities. Like Darwin. Really? A city? It is a different world. No wonder expectation and reality upon entering a so-called city are miles apart. Everything is smaller than anticipated. Everything emptier. The same goes for the north of Western Australia. The airport in Broome, the biggest in a thousand- kilometre radius, five minutes from the city centre. A paradox in itself by European standards. In the search for the next biggest city, the only criterion remains the existence of a supermarket. Preferably a Whoolworths or Coles, cheaper than the IGA, sprouting in tourist hotspots like Exmouth and Coral Bay, both basically glorified campgrounds hosting the livelihood of the locals employed to clean toilets, serve ice-cream and explain that corals shouldn’t be touched while snorkelling. Always smaller than anticipated. Always a disappointment. No wonder then, that Perth is so much bigger than expected, a proper city again in a forest of villages, Western Australia’s capital, with skyscrapers and all. A small centre, next to a river-mouth harbour filled with dirty water and brownish-red jellyfish, surrounded by a mosaic of suburbs, once independent towns, now glued together by modern highways and an underground train system, each with their own style, attracting different people with different characters, all huddling together in the impression that they have reached the last civilisation hotspot along Australia’s Westcoast. So big, so colourful, so very un-Australian.