Australian almanac

A series about what I've missed in 23 years away from home.

Not long after the triumphant Sydney Olympics in late 2000, I was asked to be the New York Correspondent of the Australian Financial Review. I don’t recall the exact date. But I do remember the sense of pride—what young, ambitious journalist doesn’t want a foreign posting? And I remember immediately shifting my news consumption toward North America, eager to immerse myself in the world I would soon join.

That was partly about preparing for an exciting new role. But it was mostly about beginning to separate myself from my home country. I couldn’t wait to escape. I was as much if not more driven by the opportunity to run away than run toward the excitement of living in New York City. I turned 28 in April 2001, and already thought Australia was just too backward for me; too provincial; too insignificant.

I clung for a long time to the notion I’d moved to the center of the universe, substituting what I’d always known for the possibility of something more important and more rewarding. But as one year turned into two, two into five, and five into ten, a different, more worrisome thought began to form. And after the multiple-car pile-up of the break up of my marriage and my looming 50th birthday, I truth was clear: I wasn’t merely a lapsed Australian, but an actively bad Australian.

I’d consciously forgotten people and places and events from home. In the handful of times I’d returned home before my father’s death in 2014, I felt like a stranger in a strange land. Australia was now familiar but foreign; the States foreign but familiar. I’d convinced myself I was a citizen of the world rather than a specific place, when the truth was I’d gone walkabout for the better part of two decades only to realize what I really needed was where I began.

So, that’s what this post and others that follow are about.

In the six months between being offered the New York gig and landing in the States on June 4, 2001, I distinctly recall just two things: seeing Neil Finn on the telly, and the joy that is moving across the world when someone else is paying and you’re specifically instructed to pack absolutely nothing yourself.¹

Everything else that has happened in Australia from January 1, 2001 until today is basically blank. When I go home—I’ve been twice in the past 18 months, after a nine-year gap following dad’s death—I love seeing family, drinking the world’s best coffee, and generally feeling like my whole body has exhaled. But the newspapers are filled with bold-faced names I’ve never heard of; the airwaves with singers I don’t know; the television with celebrities I could trip over with total ignorance. If I met anyone famous in Australia, every conversation would end with them saying: “Don’t you know who I am?” Er, no. I don’t have a clue, mate.

Some find ignorance blissful, given our heads are full of information either trivial or that we’d care to forget. I don’t feel bliss about this, though—it’s instead a sense of deep embarrassment. I buy the Wisden Cricketers’ Almanac every year, but couldn’t name a single member of the Test team. I’ve no idea who runs the country beyond the name of the Prime Minister. Whole careers have been forged in my absence, everyone owning a home has become a millionaire, and there are so many varieties of Tim Tam and Vegemite products that I’m less impressed than I am intimidated.

The bottom line is I need to rediscover Australia. So, in the weeks and months ahead, I’ll be working through each year since I left home, starting in 2001 since I can at least bluff my way through what happened in 2000. My hope is that by excavating the past that passed me by, I’ll learn more about both Australia and myself—and I’ll be fully prepped for August, when my boys get to feel for the first time what it’s like to be in the country that makes up a big chunk of who they are.

I hope you enjoy the ride. I’ve no idea what I’m writing about or why—or even how often—so we’ll take this little adventure together. But, unless classic Aussie vernacular has evolved along with everything else: “She’ll be right, mate!”

1. It’s apparently an insurance thing: the movers could only insure items they’d packed. So, I woke as usual in my two-bedroom flat at Bondi Beach, made a coffee, and finished packing my suitcases for the long-haul flight. A SWAT team of movers arrived, packed the whole apartment, and everything arrived six months later at West 76th Street in New York City—at which point I wondered why I needed any of that stuff.

Note: The image accompanying this post is by Debra Law on dreamstime.

A note about whatever this is …

After writing a few thousand articles for newspapers and magazines, I spent a long time trying a bunch of other stuff. I guess I figured what came (relatively) easily must by definition be less valuable, so I wandered in the corporate wilderness, becoming increasingly frustrated and doing work that felt increasingly lousy.

Sometimes with age comes wisdom, and I’ve realized finding something (relatively) easy ain’t a bad thing. So, this is a space where I’m resurrecting writing for myself, on topics weird and wild and wonderful, all from the perspective of an Australian living in the United States.

Posts will appear when the mood takes me, but I do try to be consistently inconsistent—sometimes it’ll be a couple of days between drinks; sometimes a week. But if you subscribe, you’ll get a email letting you know I’m ranting. Again.