Home and away (but mainly away)

The autumn sun warms my back as I sip my coffee, content that right at this moment the world, or at least my little section of it, is as it should be. Right now, sitting at this Melbourne cafe, listening to the strangely comforting buzz of the coffee machine, I am home. But this was not home 6 months ago. How did I end up here? This new, unpredictable, quirky, arty place full of passion and promise? Well, I decided at the age of 24 that I no longer wanted to work full time in administration, and quit my well-paying job to pursue an illustrious career in... writing. A quick sign-up to a writing course followed. And hence, Melbourne.

Following my move, I soon learned a number of valuable lessons through experience. While fighting my way along the wind-tunnel that is Swanston St, I discovered, to my utter shock, that high heeled boots are impractical city attire. I also quickly discovered that a beautiful sunny day in Melbourne is often somewhat of an in-joke, and while Melbournians play the game, pulling out hidden umbrellas (that I can only assume live in their handbags year-round), tourists and other unsuspecting fools such as myself are caught in intense city downpours with nowhere to hide.

The city's public transport system itself can be unpredictable and difficult to navigate, but given enough time you can get almost anywhere. The making-the-express-train and getting-a-tram-seat moments have become small wins in my daily routine, but the alternatives are no longer causes for anxiety.

I have never been asked for spare change so many times in my life, or thought quite so much about why I am being asked. I have also never been offered so many pamphlets on religion, politics or veganism. But there is a passion here for social justice, and it is contagious.

Even so, at some point you inevitably find yourself wondering why no one warned you that there might be a deranged man in the street, conversing with the ghosts of his past, or a junkie on the train singing Midnight Oil songs at a volume that ensures the whole carriage can enjoy them. Or, more surprisingly, that the surrounding commuters or pedestrians do not react in the slightest.

And while I sit alone in this quaint little cafe, waiting for my very late friend, it finally occurs to me that home has shifted, or at least expanded a little, and I wonder how many times I'll feel this way about a place. How many places will become home for me? And more importantly, what will those journeys entail?