Found myself in a strange town
My search for an Aussie life in some conventional and some not-too-conventional places
It never occurred to me that moving to a new country in your mid-30s would be a whole different kettle of fish to moving to a new country in your 20s.
I’d lived in Spain for going on 7 years when I moved to Australia. During my first two years in Madrid I was engulfed in the warm embrace of my fellow international colleagues. Our work hours were late and so were our drinking hours. 2 or 3am finishes on a week night were not entirely uncommon. 6 or 7am finishes on the weekend were standard. During those first 2 years, I can’t remember a single evening when I didn’t count the number of hours of sleep I’d be able to get or plead with myself to have an early night the following evening. I didn’t know then that I was living in Europe’s officially most sleep-deprived capital.
Around that time, a uni friend put me in contact with her best mate; an English girl with a Spanish boyfriend who was looking for pal. We met at a terraza in Opera. She had a coco-cola, I probably had a beer. I talked incessantly and she grinned. It was like an awkward first date and after an hour or so we said our goodbyes. I had the impression that I’d overwhelmed her with my buffoonery. She was much quieter and more considered. I doubted we’d catch up again.
Two days later, I got a phone call. “Oh my god, my Dad is visiting with his evil girlfriend. You HAVE to come to dinner with me.” OK. I guess we were friends. At dinner, I talked and talked — as was my party trick - and she seemed to survive a bit better thanks to my presence. We became best friends.
She had one or two other best friends — Spanish friends. My Spanish was still very rusty. With a certain amount of alcohol, it was much better . Too much, it was worse than stone cold sober. It was a delicate balance. We met them in bars. They brought more friends. Soon 5 or 6 of us were meeting up on a regular basis, and overwhelmed by the speed of the conversation, the slang, the sudden change in subject, the flying insults and compliments and general volume of the noise — which even I couldn’t compete with — I would sit, like a stunned fish in the corner, inanely grinning and nodding at any word I may have understood, regardless of whether I’d understood the context or not.
I would be both excited and terrified by the prospect of being able to contribute something, anything to the conversation — ideally in context. My “sííí’s” were long and emphatic. My “no me digas” (no way!) confidently projected, even though there was only a 50/50 chance of understanding what I was in a state of shock about.
My worst misunderstanding occurred when my beautiful Spanish friend, who spoke zero English, invited me go to her parent’s country house in the mountains outside Madrid. I was delighted to accept, and in relief at having understood the departure details, paid no attention to any subsequent information. As I excitedly approached her at the bus station the following Saturday, she pointed at my handbag and said “where’s all your stuff?” “What stuff?” “We’re going away there for the weekend. You didn’t bring any clothes?” Shit. Saturday night, I was out in the best of cousin Maria’s wardrobe.
Such social disasters made me feel like the special kid whose friends had taken pity on her — a charity case. I had no idea why these Spanish chicas invited me along to participate in almost everything that they did; parties, trips to the cinema, weekends away to meet the family. They really liked me and I really liked them, but it was based more, I guess, on the recognition that we were similar people, rather than any sparkling conversation I was able to contribute. It was a completely new kind of friendship for me and it was kind of amazing.
So, with a successful track record of creating a social life in a new city where I couldn’t even properly communicate with the locals, I landed in Sydney feeling fully equipped to do the same in Oz. I had the language, I had the contacts and I knew what a quoll looked like. No ex-pat life for me. I would have Australian friends and live The Australian Life.
Plan A — Live with Aussies
I’d had my own apartment the whole time I’d lived in Madrid, but, practically speaking, had been living with Australian friends for the previous 2 and a half years. They liked to cook and knew how to download movies.
It wasn’t just me “living” there. There seemed to be a never-ending stream of family, friends, friends of friends, couch surfers and others who were invited to stay. No stay too long, no claim to friendship too tenuous. Having heard of many Aussies living 8 to a 2 bed apartment in London, I deemed that this was, indeed, The Australian Way.
So, when I moved into a shared house in Paddington, it never occurred to me to get the “ok” signal from my flatmates before I started filling the calendar with visits from friends and family. I have to say, on the whole they were awesome. The first few batches were welcomed into the home, and pals on blow-up mattresses on the dining room floor were courtesly tip-toed around when leaving for work in the morning. However, understandably, this soon became a little tiresome for them.
Then there was the weevil incident. Well, 2 actually. Being new to Oz and not understanding the proliferation of all types of wildlife into the human living area, I didn’t realise that all food kept in cupboards needed to be stored in such a way that it would survive a nuclear attack. I know I absolutely should’ve learnt my lesson after the first time we had to throw out all rice, bread, cereal and other foods. But I didn’t. It happened again. It was no fun for anyone and especially not for my flatmate that found herself, once again, waging war against the critters while I was out God knows where.
Shortly after, the shared living experiment ended. Best to be left to create my own mess and run my own hostel.
Plan B — Do Stuff
I like doing stuff, so this part of the plan to meet Aussie mates was going to be easy. The first bit of “stuff” I did was to sign up for a charity ocean swim. This would surely take me straight into the inner-sanctum of Aussie life because there is nothing more Australian than a good ocean swim. We’ve all wanted to be a member of the Summer Bay surf life savers’ club. I was about to make the fantasy of millions of Brits a reality.
Now, the problem with this as a tactic for meeting people, and especially potentially meeting guys is a) you’re in a swimming costume, a tight plastic cap that makes your face look like Joan Rivers’ and goggles and b) your face is in the water 90% of the time. Makes chit chat a bit tricky.
It was an incredible experience, but did basically nothing for my social life.
Another bit of stuff I did was to join a Mountain Biking group. I scoured the internet for ages looking for a cycling group that didn’t cover 80km before work on a Wednesday morning. Not much luck.
I did, however, find a mountain biking skills course, which led to a mountain biking weekend in Canberra which was absolutely fantastic. One of the girls on the weekend was much fitter than me, but much more of a scaredy-cat and, consequently, we ended up being at the same level. She suggested I join her Mountain Biking group via the Meetup website (I joined other Meetup groups too — more sappy ones which I abandoned early on).
It was great. We headed off to Wingello State Forest and did another muddy track closer to Sydney. For the first time in 18 months I encountered a group of predominantly heterosexual men. It was unbelievable. Scaredy-Cat and I dilly-dallied around at the back while the others catapulted themselves ahead. It was fantastic.
Alas, the lack of a car to get to many of the locations ended up putting a dampner on this hobby. Scaredy-Cat was able to give me a lift when her pro-MTB pal was away, but otherwise it was a little tricky scamming lifts off people who generally lived much further away. I should’ve really looked at another solution — like buying a clapped out anything, because it was really ace.
Plan C— Invite yourself to dinner
An Aussie friend in Madrid had shot a few emails ahead of my arrival to friends of hers in Sydney. We made tentative plans to meet, but time passed and the emails disappeared into the back pages of gmail.
Some 18 months later, I saw a Facebook interaction between my pal and one of these “introductions.” Puffed up with courage, and a certain amount of desperation, I joined in, offering a great bottle of wine in return for a dinner invitation. A date was set. Other friends invited. A great feast was planned. As the date approach, I realised, with total mortification, that I was travelling with work that day. I called and apologised profusely. No matter, the generous pal said. We’ll just move it.
And he did. It was a great night. We ate stupendous food, drank stupendous wine, swapped tales of Madrid, Sydney and life in general and I came away full of glee at having made two new lovely friends.
In return for their hospitality, I wanted to return the favour and set a date for dinner at mine. I knew I couldn’t cook, but I wanted to show how much I appreciated their effort so spent the weekend honing my culinary skills. The Italian chicken cacciatore came out a blinder first time round. No need to worry about that. The self-saucing lemon sponge took more effort but by my 4th sponge I was confident that I had a crowd-pleasing dessert ready to go.
By the time the boys turned up that evening, my nerves were fraught. It’s very annoying how nervous I get when I entertain. I think it’s the anticipation that you’re not just being judged on your personality but your whole kit and kaboodle. They were greeted by a stiff smile and a manic invitation to make themselves comfortable at my best Ikea formica table. Shortly after my other pal rocked up, having had a shit day at work. She was lovely, warm but similarly frazzled.
The cacciatore came out. It looked a little different to the prototype. “Oooh,” proclaimed the recent arrival. “I love hotpot.” “At least the dessert’s safe” I thought. We picked our way through the chicken drumstick dowsed in its watery sauce and had a nice old chat. I got up and popped the dessert in the oven, and after what seemed like an eternity, but in fact was obviously about 3 minutes, took it out and served it — cold self-saucing lemon sponge and ice cream. Outstanding.
I saw those lovely boys once more after that. They invited me to a party where I drank, moaned and made poor song choices for the dance floor. Never mind.
Plan D— Volunteer
I’d always wanted to volunteer. In Spain, I’d been a little intimated by the prospect of trying to console a desolate Spaniard with less than perfect Spanish. Australia was my opportunity to get stuck in.
I fell in love with The Wayside Chapel from the moment I stepped through its doors. With its $8 million make-over it looked nothing like a drop-in centre for the homeless, which, to all intents and purposes, it is. They said all the right things about the importance that my contribution of handing out towels and toiletries to the city’s less fortunate and clean would make. More importantly, they had over 500 other volunteers on their books. This was where I was going to meet my Aussie clan.
I signed up for a fortnightly shift of 2 and a half hours. With an air of great trepidation and a little fear I arrived for my first shift. The girls on my shift were very nice. Both English, which I was more than a little disappointed with, but I watched as they warmly greeted each visitor, offered towels, jumpers, and clean undies. I began to join in.
A few people began to arrive asking where the Narcotics Anonymous meeting was. “4th floor,” I said with my most understanding smile. I noticed a guy in a suit having a snack in the cafe. “He must be here for NA too,” I thought. I was learning quickly. As he approached, I cheerily called to him “4th floor!” and helpfully directed him towards the lift. I continued to do the same with anyone else who I judged to be slightly better dressed than your average homeless character.
Later on that evening, one of the permanent staff members approached the front desk. “The Honeybees are practising tonight. They’re amazing. Do you want to come and hear them?” “The who?” I responded. “The Honeybees. The gospel choir that rehearse in the main hall here. Come on, I’ll show you.” We walked up the back stairs and crept into the main hall. Sure enough, there was the suit guy and a handful of other “well dressed visitors” I’d helped earlier on in the evening.
I fell happily into my fortnightly routine with another beefy lad who always wore a flat cap. Between switching on showers or charging phones we listened to his favourite jazz musicians and he shared an array of his political views. But with commitments of travelling for long periods of time, I reluctantly, but temporarily, gave up my shift.
When I returned to Wayside a few months later, I decided to up the ante and commit to a weekly shift. The Monday evening slot became free and I turned up to be greeted by a lost, lovely friend from my shared-house days, another bright, smart young girl who wouldn’t be out of place modelling in Harper’s and a shifty looking guy in his late 50s, with a worn rosary bead tattoo and a single headphone always hanging from one ear, who shuffled about smoking and directing the visitors wondering around in circles outside. Not for the first time, I wasn’t sure if he was a volunteer or a visitor, but that’s the point of Wayside — to be a community with no “us and them” which is why I no longer change out of my work clothes before I arrive. They can take me as I am. It turned out that The Shuffler had credit in the cafe which meant free tea deliveries from the twinkly-eyed, eternal truth-seeker who fed the visitors both with stodgy pound cake and music from his self-made ukuleles.
Monday nights are now my Saturday nights. I can never resist an opportunity to go for a few post-shift beers to listen the tales of The Shuffler. They make my eyes water and my toes curl, but I know I’ll never have another friend like him. As well as putting the world to rights, the 5 of us also get together to form the most feared trivia team in Kings Cross. “With not even one glance at their mobile phones, they have got the highest ever score. They’re just amazing,” declared the obnoxious quiz master. Really, we were the only team of over-20s (except the Harper’s model), but, still, it’s nice to hold some kind of status in the Cross that’s not linked to crime.
Looking back now, I guess I was never really looking for an Aussie life. I was looking to find a place in my new country where I felt like I fitted in. It’s been one hell of a ride testing many waters, trying on different hats and helmets and I’ll continue to do so. But in one of the grubbiest parts of Sydney, I found a little pot of gold which gives me a great deal to look forward to on a quiet weekend.
Cover photo of Malcolm Turnbull, ex-Leader of the Liberal Party and now Liberal Communications Minister and Animal, Kings Cross’ “favourite biker” taken at The Wayside Chapel’s 50th annivesary.
