Expectations were low. All the long-term locals in Sydney recommended not to go to Kellyville. They remembered old, poorly maintained buildings, large empty spaces, garbage everywhere, a faint idea of alarming crime statistics. However, as another victim to gentrification, Kellyville has polished its image vehemently. The new metro line helped. A lot. Now the traffic-burdened car drive to the city can be swapped for an hour and a half of aircon and reading time. Quite pleasant indeed. It is still a suburb though, and a very prototypical at that. Rows of spacious modern houses, glorified cement blocks in white and grey with large curtain-covered windows, surrounded by narrow strips of garden, fenced-off to preserve privacy, neatly trimmed lawns in green to retain an illusion of nature, frame side by side remarkably spotless streets like a movie set without the actors. A perfectly human-less construction. Made for cars, not people. Static not dynamic. Sidewalks look like reluctant after-thoughts, unorganized, skittish, random. Family-friendly to the last dot but where are the kids? Clearly not on the streets. More likely hidden in their back yards, learning the peaks of self-imprisonment from their equally adept parents, under no circumstances spoiling the appearance of utopia a casual visitor might get upon setting foot into the neighbourhood. This is where the lower upper-class lives, even some upper middle-classlers from times before the housing crisis, when prices were still low enough for an average family to buy some land and build a house for themselves and their five children. Some have survived the makeover. Most didn’t and were replaced. Still an area with a surprising number of immigrants, first and second generation. Indian, Pakistani, Chinese. All in all, some would find it quaint, others simply boring. They escape into the city, Sydneys multi-cultural, exciting centres, where sound-levels are high as well as the number of people on the streets, like ants scurrying around in and out of shops, metro stations and restaurants. No language that is not spoken here, no fashion that is not worn, no opinion that is not expressed. This cheerfulness attracts others, especially during the holidays. The most famous occasion to visit Sydney is of course its New Year’s Eve’s firework over the harbour bridge. Millions arrive just to get a glimpse of that. The most famous firework all around the world. No wonder it gets full here towards the end of December. Although many locals leave for the summer vacations, many more arrive from anywhere else, young adults piling up in overcrowded and overpriced hostels, families taking up AirBnB’s and the wealthier one driving the hotel prices into their yearly highs. It’s a costly business for just one glimpse. Luckily, the glimpse itself is free. And so, on the last day of Decembre, they start filling the place, every available spot along the harbour with clear and not-so-clear view of the bridge gets occupied by nightfall, some already camping out for hours. Like a family picnic they bring food and blankets and children. It is for those the 9pm-firework is meant. A precursor to the real one later on, like an appetizer, to give a taste and still the more impatient souls. It is cute but not comparable. The real one is stunning. Not very long, but those twelve minutes are enough to make a proper spectacle of colours. Totally worth the waiting time.