Commuting in and out of Manhattan is like having chicken pox: Once stricken, you're immune to its effects forever. Hence, when Sydney is in the grips of 'commuter hell', it's water off a dusky moorhen's back to me. A North Shore train broke down on the Harbour Bridge last night, providing a choice between squeezing onto a bus or walking over a magnificent, Depression-era structure and marveling at the glorious harbour below.
I chose the latter. Wouldn't you?
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