<< We Have Incoming! | Home | Out of Context >>
Catching Up
I could call it writer’s block, I suppose, but that wouldn’t be quite right. I haven’t sat in front of my laptop, staring at the screen, hesitantly pecking at keys because I don’t know where (or how) to start. Instead, the reason I’ve sat here for the last several hours, resolutely ignoring the laundry that needs to be folded, is because nothing I’ve written thus far has done this experience justice.
So, let me just say this: no matter what you read below, the words are a shallow and passive recounting of what I’ve been through. No prose, however well-crafted (and mine isn’t), can truly explain the experience of interacting with another culture entirely on its own terms. There will be stories—happy ones, sad ones, silly ones, gross ones—told on this site over the next four months. But reading them and living them are miles apart.
**********
I was awaken from my second attempt at sleep—this one more successful than the last—by the crackle of the plane’s public announcement system. ”Ladies and gentlemen, good morning. We are currently an hour and a half away from our destination of Melbourne, where it is currently 8am on the morning of 9 February…”
There was more to the announcement—I vaguely remember something about customs—but I tuned it out. I couldn’t help be intrigued by the words the ninth of Feburary. I had left New York on the evening of the 7th… and some 25 hours later, was entering Australia on the 9th. I understand about time zones and the International Date Line, but it was decidedly odd to realize that—for me, at least, there would never be a 8 February 2004.
The next odd thought came while filling out the questionarre for the Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs: in international parlance, I am an alien. I am not an Australian citizen, nor national, nor permanent resident, nor someone seeking refuge from a foreign government. And I most certainly am not the official representative of a foreign government—no matter how much a lust after a black passport. My standard blue American passport makes me someone who must now—for four more months, at least—check ”other” on every reasonably official-looking document I fill out. As much as I dislike bureaucracy, I never realized how comforting having a nine digit Social Security Number was when filling out paperwork.
With those thoughts in mind, I deplaned. I hope I was reasonably polite—that I didn’t leave litter around my seat, that I thanked the flight crew, that I didn’t block the exit for those leaving after me—but to be honest, I don’t remember. I was too intent on grabbing my bags, getting through Customs and Immigration, finding the people who would drive me to my new apartment—and calming the butterflies in my stomach. South Pole excepting, there was no further place from home that I could go, and I was basically on my own.
Except I wasn’t. Oh, I got my bags on my own, went through Customs by myself. But when I exited the terminal and started looking for the airport shuttle service that was supposed to pick me up, someone called my name. Someone recognized me—my face, despite the haircut—and had come to pick me up, buy me breakfast, and chat.
Enter Corinne.
Corinne, my program director, had been a name until then. Given the huge time difference between New York and Melbourne, we had never talked before—not even over email; all my details, all my questions, had gone through the main office in Chicago. I had her mobile number in case of an emergency, but had no idea what she was like as a person. I suppose I had the vague hope that she would be easy to get along with…
The first thing she did was give me a big, beautiful, heartfelt hug. And—oh, God, are there even words to describe this?—after you leave all you know, after a very long flight halfway across the world, after jet lag, after your stomach has half-turned to ice from uncertainty, the power of such a hug is beyond all measure. The long and cozy breakfast we shared that morning—cracking jokes, telling stories, getting to really know each other—was wonderful. But that hug will be a cherished memory for the rest of my life.
Later that night, long after Corinne had left, I went out to dinner with some new friends, other American students in my program here. Part of that was practical—we were leaving for orientation the next morning and buying groceries made no sense. But much of it was sentimental—we had made it, we were finally here, it was actually happening. We went out to celebrate.
”To a wonderful semester!” we toasted. And, as I sat there, laughing with people who had been total strangers just 24 hours before, watching the sun set over Lygon Street, I knew for a moment that so many of my fears had been groundless.
I had made it, I was here.
To a wonderful semester, indeed.
**********
I slept like a baby that first night. I couldn’t tell you whether it was because I’d had a wonderful day and my mind was at peace enough to sleep, or if my body was just so grateful for the chance to lie down that it didn’t take any chances with this rare opportunity for uninterrupted slumber. Whatever the answer, I woke up refreshed.
And I had a good day. Nothing worth recounting in detail, really—another good chat with Corinne, some silly ice breakers, some easy chit chat over dinner and drinks, a failed attempt to conquer jet lag, and an incredible discussion with another new friend about all the Dangerous Subjects. It may be impolitic to discuss religion, war, politics, and family history with someone you just met, but we did it and we did it well. I went to bed happy, glad that I’d come.
Only to wake up in the middle of the night in the jaws of culture shock. Or, perhaps more accurately, just plain shock. It suddenly hit me exactly how far I was from home, and that I wasn’t going back for a very long time. I hated myself for putting myself and my family through this, I missed New York (which I never miss) and Washington desperately, and I wanted my old friends. There was no rational catalyst for this—no precipitating cause. Not four hours after one of the most synergetic conversations I’ve ever had in my entire life, I was ready to get on another 26-hour flight and head home. I cried myself to sleep that night…
...only to wake up, willing to give Australia another shot and very unwilling to let this opportunity slip through my fingers. I was determined, even eager, for the challenges this new continent promised. Just like that.
I had always assumed culture shock was a mental thing. But after that night, I’d be interested to see if there’s some correlation with hormonal activity.
If you know anything about this, feel free to email me.
**********
Things have happened in the days since. Had I been able to access the internet, I might have considered it important to record what I’d gone through. But the truth is, trips to wineries and beaches, shopping and taking a cruise along the Yarra river , going to a pub and learning lewd drinking songs, getting my student ID aren’t all that important. They were all mildly interesting experiences, great ways to spend an afternoon or evening and meet some of the people studying here. But, unlike my first morning here, unlike that brief but vivid instance of panic, there is very little in them worth writing down for posterity, or for an audience.
Socialization is socialization is socialization, even to an American in Australia. There’s no purpose in recounting events that could just as easily happen back at home every night—and most certainly do. Especially not in an entry that is already too long.
Some stories are just a waste of bandwidth.
And for the record, it feels odd to have a tan in February.
**********
So, what’s next? Well, classes begin next week. I need to get my stove fixed and go food shopping. There’s laundry to be folded, and paperwork to be filled out. To some degree, it’s a very normal, very familiar life, no matter the geographic distance.
And there’s some comfort in that. In these uncertain times, it’s nice to know that there are cultures that can coexist peacefully. It’s good to know that there’s something inside me that still finds a simple joy in walking through Melbourne’s streets and doing some so mundane as finding places to eat.
And it’s good to know, too, that—at least, to some degree—I’ve started to adapt. That the little things aren’t nearly a big deal as I thought they’d be before I left—adjusting to public transit, paying with Australian money, dialing phone numbers with eight digits, walking on the left side of the street. As sad as it may be for those of you who read this site, I haven’t found Aussie life jarring enough to write entertaining stories, yet.
Don’t get me wrong; I have noticed some things that are unfamiliar—and maybe I’ll post an entry about in the next day or two. I’m not denying those differences exist, and I’m not trying to imply that the cultures are identical. But, for what it’s worth, I feel comfortable and happy here.
It was, without a doubt, worth the trip.