TODAY marks one year, five months and two days since I left London…and counting.
I’ve always been a person that believes that one’s day begins the minute you walk out your front door.
In 2009 when I boarded the plane for London with the 20 kilos of stuff in my backpack as my only possessions for the next two years, occupation unknown, my parents thought I was crazy. I was so excited.
I spent two years travelling, making new friends and was lucky enough to work in my chosen profession when I thought the best I’d do would be stacking Tesco shelves (not that there’s anything wrong with that either). My life had never been that hectic and I was thriving out of my comfort zone.
So returning to Australia on 18 August, 2010 left a sour taste.
When I flew in, my father and sister were waiting for me at Sydney International.
I got in the family 4WD and we drove over the ‘Sandstone Curtain’ towards home, or at least the city where I grew up anyway, Orange, NSW.
My definition of home: the place where everything is familiar; where pantry is well stocked; where dust gathers on framed photos sitting atop Grandma’s old piano of mid-90’s Christmas Day family celebrations; where I keep those sentimental childhood mementos I can’t bring myself to throw away.
While away, I had been in contact with my Aussie mates and family nearly every day while living in London thanks to competitive global calling deals and time zone differences meaning I could call for free while bored during the daily overland commute; so I felt like I didn’t miss much important stuff.
All that really changed physically at home while I was away was that my Dad renovated the shed and the fruit trees had grown a little taller. The old paintings still hadn’t been hung on the walls. My Parents were a little grey, but everything else…fine.
However I do want to acknowledge that in the past year while being back, I’ve had the pleasure of witnessing weddings and engagements of lifetime friends, meeting their children and have learnt about the career progression of others that have made them rich. These priceless events are things I couldn’t have been apart of on the other side of the world.
Home was comforting at first, but boredom set in. For me, there was that ‘been there, done that’ element.
It feels like I travelled in a time machine: the world had me spinning while everything stood semi-still for loved ones.
This makes me feel like a snob, even an outsider.
Is it because I don’t want to belong, to conform? Maybe I listened to too much grunge in those influential teen years? Damn you Nirvana!
The only wealth I have lays in my memory built from travelling; and memories fade, unlike property values.
But I don’t regret busting the equivalent of a mortgage deposit on travelling. I have never felt more challenged, alive and educated. I found out a lot about myself and that I can be self-sufficient and independently succeed, even in the most trying of situations. I was an adventurer.
While some may find peace in the comfort of their own house; I’m saving for my big adventure for 2012: moving to Canada.
And hopefully to Montreal, because my French is rubbish and I need something to entertain me while I save enough money to move over there, and learning another language should help ease the pain.
Maybe one day I’ll come home. Or find one. Until then I’m staying out until the after street lights come on.
My advice to anyone still in the UK is make every day an adventure.
Also, to pause and think about all the people you know who don’t have freedom to travel.
It’s part of human nature to be inquisitive and maybe as Australians, isolated from the rest of the world, this plays on our mind state even more and drives us to explore the UK and beyond.
Maybe I’m being too harsh on Kurt Cobain and that’s why we’re the Lucky Country?
[ Source: Australian Times ]