A new home and an old one.
A home can be two places, but it's messy and wonderful all at the same time.
Have you seen that Qantas ad? You know, the one with the overseas-based son who surprises his mum in Australia for her 60th birthday, after years of living thousands of miles away?
It’s heartbreaking and beautiful and for everyone living abroad, it reflects the reality of living on the other side of the world, away from your family.
It’s late-night phone calls, it’s missed birthdays, it’s family dinners over FaceTime and it’s messages at 2 am asking your mum a weird medical question. It’s care packages (because Australian Kit Kat is superior to any foreign kind), it’s weekly, fortnightly or even monthly recaps with friends from home depending on how hard it is to pick up the phone, and worst of all it’s loneliness.
In February, I returned home to Australia for a short two weeks after living in London for over 12 months. It took two long-haul flights, one stop-over, four movies, an over-priced Joe in the Juice airport smoothie, two glasses of champagne and a sleeping pill that did not work, but after 22 hours I arrived back in sunny, 34 degrees Adelaide.
And it was weird, but also… it wasn’t. Because everything was the same, but somehow different?
My childhood bedroom which was once filled with photo frames, messy clothing racks, old fashion magazines and teenage memorabilia, was now a near-empty bedroom full of cardboard boxes. Anything that resembled my childhood or my personality for that matter, was all neatly packed away, almost as if I was never there.
The kitchen pantry, which I once knew like the back of my hand, was stocked full of my favourite snacks, but everything had been organised and placed in a way that I wasn’t used to. The tea box that once strictly held peppermint and English Breakfast tea, and sat on the upper shelf in the middle, was now to the far right and filled with weird fruity teas that I didn’t even know my mum liked. The cookbooks had been rearranged, the chip packets (or crisps as the Brits like to call them) were now down the bottom instead of on the top shelf, and there was now a new hiding place for the chocolate (my dad found the old one).
It’s a weird and trivial thing to notice, but it was a reminder that the house I was once so in sync with, no longer belonged to me, at least at this very stage of my life.
But what was the same, other than my family where it was instantly like I never left, was the slow-paced, coastal, and family-orientated Adelaide lifestyle.
And I quickly fell back into it.
6:30 am beach walks under the blue sky and sunshine. A strong coffee or three along the esplanade, because yes, as cliche as it is, Australia really does make the best coffee and London could learn a thing or two. Reformer pilates. Afternoon naps with the dogs. Red Rock Deli Honey Soy Chicken Chips. Driving and reaching the destination within 10 minutes. Family dinner every night. Fresh fish. Fresh fruit. Fresh vegetables.
Sushi train. Sushi train. Sushi train.
For a hot minute, I questioned why I ever left.
My whole family is here and the beach is a five-minute drive away. There’s job stability and higher salaries compared to the UK and the people are much friendlier because they’re actually getting some vitamin D - on my first day home, the barista at my local coffee shop told me “to have a great day” and I almost fell over.
My friends are here, and so are my dogs who love me unconditionally. Mum and Dad are here to save me if anything goes wrong.
That’s the thing about security, it’s warm and comfortable and a luxury that many don’t have. The cotton wool is wound so tight that it’s nearly impossible to leave.
But as I got on the plane back to London without knowing when I would see my family next, I was glad to be returning to the vibrant little life that I had created all by myself, without the bubble wrap.
Whilst London is loud, exhausting, overcast and dreary for most days of the year, it’s also electric, buzzing with energy, and pulls you out of your comfort zone more times than not. The city encompasses every assortment of character; there’s the elderly gentleman in the perfectly primed striped suit and handkerchief, and then as you cross the road you’ll see a studded mini skirt tied with fishnet stockings or a person rolling past on roller-blades, wearing a retro jumpsuit and mix-matched socks. There’s every different type of accent and nationality, and when you see someone break-dancing or decanting a bottle of red wine on the tube, you don’t even bat an eye.
This city just asks us to be ourselves.
It couldn’t be more different to where I grew up, and yet I’ve never felt more sense of a community.
I have more friends than I ever thought was possible (yes they are mostly Australian because it seems like we all congregate together in solidarity), and every week there is something to celebrate together or a reason to drink. This month alone, I’ve had a housewarming, a pub crawl birthday complete with a Colin the Caterpillar cake, two bank holiday weekends that were mostly spent at the pub, a live podcast event, and a gig.
And if there isn’t something on, I’m usually planning my next weekend trip away to Europe.
My immune system isn’t thanking me, and I’m chronically dehydrated because there’s nothing worse than needing the bathroom when you have an hour tube ride. I’m also a little overwhelmed by this adult life, but I’ve never been more happy to call this place home.
The cotton wool has been pulled apart, and there’s no stitching it back together.
Really love your writing - identified with so much of this
Ah! That was amazing. I kept highlighting stuff to quote, but there were too many. I especially love, "the city just asks us to be ourselves." That's so beautiful. Please write more stuff. Please. Thanks for sharing this, it out such a smile on my face.