It is not lost on me, the stinging, cinematic irony of being quite literally on the other side of the world. Another hemisphere. Another season. Another everything. My phone has been lighting up with photos from home: the driveway swallowed whole, cedar shingles barely peeking out, trees entombed. Twenty-five inches in Westhampton Beach. 9 to 15 inches in New York. The kind of snow that muffles the world into a snow globe and strands you in it. And here I am. In Sydney, Australia. Bare legs. Salt in my hair. My $24 , which, against all odds, have emerged as the true hero of my suitcase, along with a few (, last pic, and , above), catching the sea breeze. It feels almost illicit. And yet in just a few hours I’ll be folding these sun-warmed things back into my suitcase and flying headlong back to LA reality. So right now I am lapping it up. Every last golden, salt-tinged second. Another iced coffee. I am storing it all away like a squirrel with sunshine, ready to unpack it on the other side of the world. I’ll share everything when I’m back: the long coastal walks, the Bondi Beach finds, the light, the feeling of being deliciously misplaced in the calendar. For now, I remain your correspondent from summer, reporting live from the upside down.