Toppsy Turvy

Countdown to Nostalgia

cattopp — Fri, 8 Feb 2008 16:49:00 GMT

It's funny, isn't it, how packing up possessions can make you feel bereft? As if you are selling, giving away and forwarding little bitty pieces of your self. A metaphoric dicing and dividing of your 'You'.

We are leaving Australia in about 10 days. We planned to stay here for 6 months, and - inevitably, as time is wont to do - 6 months have passed. Finding myself at the tail end of this period, I grab the ends of the threads that were unwound when we arrived, and roll them back up into tidy balls of life experience. And I note - wonderingly - just how many threads can be unwound in a relatively short time.

I found a job. I worked on a project. They liked me. I worked on a second project. Farewell drinks notwithstanding, I may never see these people again. The new friendships are a bonus, alongside the impetus to earn all-important dollars to fund the next stage of the trip.

The lease on our flat is up. All the money we paid out in deposits is flowing back to us. (OK, there's a big 'hopefully' attached to that statement, but I am optimistic. Or simply naive.)

The possessions we bought when we moved in (and I tell you, we did a kick-arse job of creating a comfortable home within a tight budget and the constraints of ebay and a small car) are racing once more through the ebay conduit, waiting to be packed and posted and picked up over the next few days.

The suitcases are ready to be packed. The boxes ready to be boxed. The shipping company will receive a phonecall in the next week, and our possessions will embark on their own adventure across the oceans, to land in England.

We arrived with a suitcase each, and for 6 months we expanded
to create a fun and full life for ourselves in Sydney. Now, we need to contract. We must get down to the essentials. We can only take what we can carry, and past experience dictates - for me at least - that it must be the bare minimum. Objects must become just objects. There is no room for sentimental attachment.

I remember once watching a movie on TV - while still living in London - that captivated me with a long, lingering shot of the Thames, stopping momentarily on famous London landmarks. I looked at the familiar buildings and, even though at that particular time I had no plans to leave, I felt madly and hugely nostalgic for the place. I missed it even while I was still there.

Today, as I know I am leaving, the nostalia isn't misplaced. I look around my flat, and I miss it already. I look at my view over Bondi Beach, and I feel sadly happy. I quietly wish I could take my nice plates with me.

However, adventures beckon. I have a whole bunch of new countries to discover. I can mourn the loss of other views in different places. I can buy some more nice plates. In the choice between experience or possessions, I still choose experience. For now.

A lesson in Australian footwear

cattopp — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 15:31:00 GMT

Having lived in the land of the flip-flop for umpteen years, I'd kind of forgotten that the Aussie term for everyone's favourite rubber shoe is rather more snigger-worthy. When I asked for more thongs for Christmas, my friend misunderstood. The Havianas are very nice, all the same.

Sorry, that was childish. I spent many weeks cracking thong jokes when we first arrived. I thought I'd grown up a bit since then,but it seems there was still one left. Right, it's definitely out of my system.

The great thing about Australia (well, apart from the beaches, the sun, the laid back lifestyle, the... OK let me start again).

One of the nice things about Australia is that the popular and humble thong is accepted footwear in all social circles. Don’t feel limited to wearing it at the beach. Follow the lead of the Aussies around you – flip-flop your way to and from the office to save your feet from the stiletto. Be thong-strong in the pub.

If you're feeling brave, take it to the next level. Ditch the thong and go naked. (Sorry! OK, it's definitely out of my system now.) Of course, what I meant to say is: go barefoot.

But take heed. Be careful if you do decide to bare your sole. I've heard it becomes addictive. You get used to flapping around with no shoes. You begin to never bother wearing them. You drive barefoot. You get complacent.

And then, one day, you want to go to the RSL with, say, your sister. You realise that you aren't wearing any shoes. You don’t have any in the car. 'Who needs shoes anyway!' you triumphantly think to yourself.

You attempt to sneak into the club and hope no-one notices your naked feet. You order beer, feeling smug because; You did it! You got away with it! Unfortunately, the bouncer has waited until after you have paid for the schooners to tell you that your naked feet had not gone unnoticed. He might be a nice bouncer, in that he lets you try to get down as much beer as you can manage in 60 seconds. And then he kicks you out.

Yes, this is a true story. I am sharing so that you can learn from our mistakes. My brother did manage to knock back his schooner in under 60 seconds – but as he was the barefoot one, I'm betting he's been getting lots of practice. I wasn't quite up to the challenge and only managed to get down about half of my schooner. And that, quite frankly, is just a waste of good beer.

And so my message to you is this:

"Always pack spare thongs. You just never know what might happen."

(Oh well,you knew there had to be a final one coming, didn't you?)

What happened to Sydney?

cattopp — Mon, 21 Jan 2008 12:53:00 GMT

I know that talking about the weather is just so very, well, British and that I'm here on my Australian passport and should start acting more like an Aussie rather than a Brit on holiday. But. Seriously. What is going on? It has been raining for the past week, almost continuously. It is grey and overcast. I am wearing boots and a jumper. In summer! In Sydney! Has the world gone mad?

I have less than 4 weeks left in Sydney. I have tickets to Taronga zoo. I have a Beach Project to finish. A harbour to ferry across.

I'm hoping that the weather gods turn this around before I leave. Because I want to come back. And I want to convince my boyfriend to come with me. Which may be more difficult if he associates summer in Sydney with cloudy skies and blustery nights. It's a long way to come to feel like you're still at home.

Super! Bus Driver!

cattopp — Wed, 16 Jan 2008 11:33:00 GMT

One of the side effects of living in London for many years is the great indifference you must learn to feel (or at least display) towards the millions of the other bodies that share the city with you. Try to strike up a conversation with a stranger on the tube, and you will probably be ignored (at best) or institutionalised (at worst). When walking down the street, keep your eyes firmly on the ground in front of you. Do not make eye contact! Perhaps, however, the worst members of the public – and the ones you have to actually deal with - are those men and women entrusted with the task of getting us around the city. Bus drivers. Notoriously grumpy and always willing to make the effort to leave you stranded on a street corner at 3am, drunk and shivering and shaking your fist at the retrieving night bus. Knowing that the next one won’t be along for another hour.

So, it was with part-surprise/part-recognition that I rediscovered the niceness, the downright happiness, with which Sydney bus drivers go about their job. Many mornings my boyfriend and I have turned to each other and said, ‘Well, that wouldn’t happen in London!’ after the bus driver saw us running to the bus stop. And stopped. And waited. Even when there was no-one else at the bus stop. Passengers say thank you and wish the drivers a good day. The drivers respond. They smile at you, for goodness sake!

But this story is about a particular bus driver. One who goes about his day with such infectious glee, that having him drive you home is almost like being taken there by an affectionate uncle. He positively beams as he steers his massive charge through the Sydney traffic, chattering away and bestowing gallons of good cheer on all around him.

I was on his bus one afternoon, and I noticed that the bus in front of us was the connecting one I needed to take me up the hill. As my chuckling chauffeur drove up behind this bus, I was silently willing him to hurry up. I was the last passenger, and I needed to get off, and then sprint ahead to try to intercept the final link in my commuting chain. It is possible to walk those last few blocks, granted, but I wear high heels. OK, and I’m lazy.

‘Hurry up! Hurry up! Hurry up!’ I was muttering the mantra under my breath, willing my driver to let me off in time.

The bus in front stopped. My bus stopped. Not in the bus stop, in the street. The doors remained close. Bus Driver Extraordinaire must have sensed my anxiety (or heard my foot tapping next to him), because he looked over at me with a 1,000 watt smile and said, ‘I’m not going to let you off in the street. It’s a bit dangerous, isn’t it?’

‘I need to get that bus in front,’ I replied. Nervously. Quietly. Not wanting to offend his good intentions.

‘You need to get that bus? OK, hang on!’ With a flourish he pulled out and forwards (I could almost hear the superhero music crescendo in the background – Super! Bus Driver!!) and trapped the bus in front inside the bus stop. Gesturing to the other driver, he made sure that I was not going to miss my connection.

‘There you go, love! Have a nice day!’

I hopped onto my new bus with a couple of breathless thank yous and noted with interest that this new driver seemed to be less than impressed. In fact I’m sure he had a frown on his face (perhaps he was a Londoner who had inexplicably ended up and Sydney and was trying to spread the London Way). I, however, was beaming. Super Bus Driver had made my day.

Some folk just don't know the bathroom etiquette

cattopp — Mon, 14 Jan 2008 10:23:00 GMT

While waiting for a flight between the Gold Coast and Sydney on Sunday night, I popped into the bathroom. Standing at the sink was a lady of some older years. She was washing something in the sink with a great deal of concentration. I looked over absently, and straight away wished I hadn’t.

She was cleaning her dentures. Not while they were in her mouth. No, she was holding them in one hand and giving them a vigorous scrubbing with a toothbrush held in the other. Now, I know that foul taste you get in your mouth after having been cooped up in an airplane for hours. I know the desperate need to get some semblance of freshness. But, seriously? That was just gross to witness.

The Bondi Tram

cattopp — Wed, 9 Jan 2008 14:44:00 GMT

The Bondi Tram. Ever heard of it? I hadn't until fairly recently. In spite of the image of old-fashioned public transport that may pop up in your mind, it's not actually referring to a means of public transport. At least, not in the strictest literal sense.

The surf lifesavers at Bondi work hard to ensure that us mere mortals have a safe swimming experience at Sydney's most visited beach. They put up the swimming flags and then they keep an eye on you. If you get sucked outside of the area, they will blow their whistles and ask you to move across. If you get into trouble, they will hurl themselves into the sea and swim, paddle or ride out to rescue you.

They patrol this beach because - althuogh beautiful - there are myriad dangers lurking beneath the surface of the water. Sharks are perhaps the romantically terrifying, but in fact what you should really be worrying about are the rip currents.

The most infamous of these is known locally as the 'Bondi Tram' (or the 'Bronte Express'). Accidently hop on the Bondi Tram and it will suck you out to open sea. Wave goodbye to Bondi , skip past petite Tamarama and, rumour has it, you will end up in neighbouring Bronte.

Which actually, now I think about it, sounds like a good way to avoid the parking nightmare around Bronte Beach.

Suburban Girl

cattopp — Tue, 8 Jan 2008 16:39:00 GMT

I'm in Australia at the moment. I've been here for the past 6 months. My boyfriend and I are half way through our year-long trip. For him, this is the first time he's been so far away from home. For me, this has been about coming home.

I grew up here, in the Western Suburbs of Sydney. It's a part of Australia that I doubt you'd find in your Lonely Planet. I certainly couldn't wait to leave.

I had always felt restless, and was keen to get out into the world. I was bursting for adventures. Not literally - that would be disgusting - just bursting in the normal metaphorical sense. By the time I was 21 I had saved up what seemed to be enough Australian dollars to get me started, I quit my job, left my boyfriend, and set off with my very over-packed backpack. Then, like many before me, I stayed away much longer than planned.

That was 1997. Coming back to Australia in 2007 was the first time I'd come home for more than a quick visit in all the intervening years. London has been my home for the past 7 years, and London is where I'm going back to. In a strange inversion of my initial travels, I'm taking a gap year (in my thirties), with Australia being part of the adventure, and London being 'home'.