On New Year’s Day in Sydney I spent seven hours at the beach. Doing what, I can’t quite tell you. But seven hours spent in a shady spot by the sea with friends and food went by in the blink of an eye. I haven’t had a hangout like that since college. Here, that is typical on any given Sunday.

Part of the beauty of the way Australians hang out isn’t just how relaxed it is, but the inclusive, rolling nature of how they socialize. I showed up for a drink at a friend’s place one evening last month and within an hour four people had turned into eight and by the time I left more were en route.

Happy hour is simply not a thing because it lasts only an hour. I went to an office Christmas party that began at 3 p.m. in one venue, stumbled into dinner and then morphed onto karaoke. When I hailed a cab at 11:30 I was the first to leave. In my experience, American office Christmas parties mean that everyone gets a thimbleful of lukewarm Champagne in a plastic cup. We have a lot to learn.

Which brings me to another thing Australians do better: vacation.

My local cafe here closed the day before Christmas. It reopens on Jan. 15. And no one here thinks that’s strange. January here is like August in France. The only labor taking place in summer seems to be tunneling into coconuts to sip from by the pool.

Many public pools, by the way, are called “baths” in Australia. Parks tend to be “gardens.” This makes me feel like I am in a Jane Austen novel.

Word play here is a national pastime. Christmas presents: Chrissy prezzies. A bar mitzvah: a barmy. McDonald’s: Macca’s. Breakfast is brekkie, Australia is Straya, avocado is avo, but you already knew those.

You can roll your eyes or you can appreciate the fact that everything here sounds a bit cuter. I opt for the latter.