Every morning, by 8:30 a.m., I can be found sitting on a bench across the street from my apartment waiting for the bus. Although it’s technically winter here, all I need is a jean jacket to fight the morning chill. This morning, as I stand up to board, I see a figure out of the corner of my eye: a man clad in a wetsuit, surfboard in hand, running down the street to catch a quick wave before work.

The sight is not new to me. I’m living in Bondi, a Sydney suburb that borders one of the world’s most famous beaches. It’s an interesting place, full of hip models, Orthodox Jews, and droves of tourists. True to the city’s melting pot reputation, the groups are constantly mingling, and my bus seat provides a unique window into it all.

Let me acknowledge upfront that I don’t like buses. I find them slow, unreliable, motion-sickness-inducing, and, frankly, confusing: the last time I attempted to take one I missed my stop and ended up in a deserted Dudley Station—not a cheerful situation. In both my native New York and adopted Boston, subways are almost always the way to go. Otherwise, I walk. Fast.

But here I am, commuting by bus to and from my internship at the Sydney Jewish Museum, and pretty much anywhere else I choose to go. I’ve resigned myself to spending at least an hour each day on a contraption that makes maddeningly frequent stops and drives so fanatically I’m continually convinced we’re about to crash into a eucalyptus.

Over the last three weeks, however, bus riding has grown on me. I like watching the homes change from Bondi’s crowded cinderblock condos to Paddington’s stately Victorian terraces. I like cheering on the pigeons that must battle seagulls and egrets to secure their food. I like spotting date palms and bottlebrushes (a sort of cross between a corncob and dandelion) where I least expect them to be.

Most of all, I like the people. The bus gives me a sense of camaraderie with my fellow commuters. Here we are, pre-morning caffeine, all trying to get to our jobs. As long as I don’t open my mouth and reveal my “amusing” American accent, I am tacitly accepted as a Sydneysider.

I’ve even started to recognize some regulars. There’s the old lady who always sits up front, scolding the driver for not moving fast enough. There’s the guy with the greasy sideburns who seems to own 12 pinstripe suits in various shades of blue. There’s the blazered schoolgirl from St. Katherine’s who spends the whole trip listening to her iPod and texting friends. And there’s the gregarious driver who now greets me as “one of those bloody New Yorkers who won’t give old Russ a break.”

When I came to Sydney, I wasn’t sure what kind of people to expect. I knew they wouldn’t be burly Paul Hogan types who spent their days drinking beer and chasing dingoes with their mates, if only because the only place you’re likely to see a dingo near Sydney is in Taronga Zoo (of course, the traffic cops are called rangers and wear uniforms better suited for the outback, but that’s a whole separate topic).

I’ve discovered that for me, Sydney is defined by the exceptions, by the small blips in daily life that gently remind me that I’m from the other side of the world. Much more than the accents or even the Opera House, the most significant differences between Australian and American society appear in the most standard of routines. My bus to work, with its cross-section of the Sydney population, is a perfect example of that. I’m thrilled to be along for the ride.

Jayme J. Herschkopf ‘06, a Comparative Study of Religion and English Concentrator in Adams House, is a former arts executive of The Harvard Crimson. When she’s not reveling in her Jewish heritage at her internship, she aimlessly rides buses around Sydney in an attempt to become an amateur sociologist