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'.
