Love letter to Melbourne

Dear Melbourne, Thanks for treating me like the daughter you never had. You've been good to me. Sorry I acted like a sixteen year old most of the time I was here. A club rat, dancing until the sun came up and not waking up before dinner time. But what do you expect when you give me a nightly playground full of rooftop terraces, hidden clubs and dj's who fill the city with funky beats? It was you who told me about the secret gig De La Soul played next to a train station. And it was you who decided to turn the heat up that day. 41 Degrees equals one small sauna full of uncomfortably hairy people for a Belgian girl like me. So don't be surprised the walls and ceiling were dripping as fifty screaming fans danced their asses off in a bar so small it could be somebody's bathroom. Melbie, you're a handsome bugger. You've got it all, don't you? Your concrete center decorated by colourful art, cosy pubs and interesting people from all over the world. Parks and gardens where you can spread your picnic blanket and chill in the shade. Neighbourhoods embraced by bearded hipsters. Packed with vintage shops, garage sales and live music. The beach, where guys and gals get to show off their muscles and golden bikinis while working on that tan. You also satisfied the fat kid inside of me. I had at least one huge chunk of cake, pie or another unholy big piece of sweetness a day, without feeling like a pervert. You make the best damn sticky date pudding in the galaxy. Now everywhere I go, I bring an extra twelve kilos as my plus one. I squeezed the bejeezus out of every hour spent with you. You've been a great friend, the kind that tells me when I have stuff in my teeth. I'll miss you. Now, off to Tassie!

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