Holidays and Homecomings

It’s December 14^th. In some parallel universe, I am on a plane skimming over the Indian Ocean, a third of the way through the twenty-four hour journey home. I imagine myself in the window seat, plugged into track 9 of The Black Keys’ Turn Blue, mind as empty and strange as it was on my flight to Melbourne back in July. The whole journey long, I don’t believe I had more than a single thought. That thought was: find the taxi rank once you’ve touched down.

I changed my return flight in a frenzy, a mid-semester crisis. We’d hit the halfway point and a whole group of us, on different levels, panicked. One looked into staying an extra semester. Two began to talk about transferring for good. These plans, though grand, didn’t come to fruition; my less ambitious goal proved easier to achieve, and I extended my stay until January. Though made in a flurry, it was most definitely the right choice. I don’t know if I will ever be ready to leave Melbourne, but I know for certain that today is not the day.

A week at Yarra. A week in Gisborne. Australian Christmas. Sydney New Year. A few days in Melbourne to say goodbye.

Then home, to Scotland, to my family, to my purple shaded bedroom and its perpetual mess. To raucous singing and chairtop dancing with my sisters; to my father’s doting on the greedy free range house rabbit; to my mother’s midnight chocolate in our yellow kitchen.

Goodbyes are so hard, but they are matched with hellos.

Rotorua stinks. That’s the first thing you notice. It’s like Haymarket: as soon as you leave the train at Edinburgh’s smaller station you’re hit by hops. But sulphur is much more pungent. From the Redwoods lookout we saw it all, hot springs smoking like dragons’ nostrils, the lake a bright, bitter blue.

Sarah, Kati, and me.

While staying in this dragon town we slept at Crash Palace:  definitely in my top three hostels ever,* and possibly at the top of that list. Providing free pasta, rice, hot tub (!), and internet (a rarity in New Zealand), and a free event every day (including weekly pancake breakfasts and barbecues), it’s perfect both for solo travellers and for rainy New Zealand days. The manager also runs an afternoon tour of the area, mud bath in a hot spring included, for $35, which is a great way to learn about the area without hiring a car.

Rotorua without a car is unusual but perfectly feasible. A bus to Whakarewarewa and the Redwoods runs regularly, with a wide variety of walks and the chance to see the city from above. Some adventure activities, such as Zipline Canopy Tours (which I was lucky enough to win for free!) are based in the town and provide shuttles out. Government Gardens is very pretty for a wander round and a picnic. Crash Palace’s Mud Tour, however, was the highlight for me. We roared round the volcanic countryside to local music, took in a massive sulphurous crater, and fried gently in a muddy batter. The money goes towards local youth programmes via a charity run by Crash Palace’s manager.

If you want an expensive adventure holiday, Rotorua is the place. But if you, like us, are after something gentler and cheaper, Rotorua can be your place too.

The Redwoods are decidedly green.

*The other top two hostels: Hostel Ruthensteiner, Vienna, and The Pickled Frog, Hobart. On the other hand, my least favourite hostel was the Fat Camel in Auckland, where a poorly ventilated ‘apartment’ was shared between what must have been around 30 people, while only one bedroom had any windows (though this was stated in advance, to be fair). By the end of our three-day stay, we were all beginning to get ill from what we suspected was some well-disguised, painted-over damp. The city tour advertised at reception consisted of a brisk walk up Mount Eden to the tune of our guide’s complaints of hunger and chastisement to ‘hurry up, I have a meeting at twelve.’ On the plus, it’s cheap and simple. If you only have one night in Auckland, whatever, go for it.

"Why are you eating her ice cream? Is stealing her food some weird revenge?" "Well, they do say revenge is a dish best served cold."

“I love roses. They’re the only good flowers. Other plants can go fuck themselves. Which, incidentally, they do.”

“‘White girl wasted’? Is that a phrase? I always thought it was waka-wasted, you know, like Shakira’s world cup song.”

A Pitstop

This blog, much like New Zealand’s many volcanoes, has lain dormant for a while now. My attention was focused on the latter. For two weeks Kati, Sarah and I travelled around the north island: Auckland, Rotorua, Taupo, Napier, and Tauranga. When I get back from my next adventure I will write in more depth about the trip – but right now it’s 1am, I have a flight in six hours, and I’ll just say it was fantastic. I’ll leave you with some Ben Merito, a Maori musician perfect for a volcanic, sulphur-scented Rotorua roadtrip. But more about that next time.

It’s very strange to think that, had I not extended my stay, I’d be flying home in just five days. Most of the other internationals are gone already, leaving Yarra even quieter than it was when I arrived. I am not ready to return home. Returning to Melbourne from New Zealand was a homecoming, in a small (if rather cheesy) way. We sat on the balcony, the scene of so many jokes, chats, fights, and make-ups, and drank tea like we always do. And this morning I was back on my bike, warmed gently by the greenhouse breeze, and wishing the one month I have left here were six.

Yarra is almost empty now, but one thing I feel I have learnt this semester is how to be on my own. It’s introspective o’clock and my journey to Brisbane begins at 4am, so I apologise for being so self-indulgent. When I return to Yarra once again in five days, I’ll have a week almost to myself. And yet that’s just fine. It’s been, overall, a very calm semester, and it’s finished gently, not like in St Andrews when I’m left at a sudden loose end, scrambling to fill loose time, keep busy, do something, don’t crash. But the gradual conclusion of my time in Melbourne is met with a very firm idea of what matters. And my ideas for what to do next, once vague wishes, are actually, I’m recognising, real chances.

Quotes from travels. Quotes from my Aussie home. A Mischmasch. Who’s who?

“I can’t believe that when we first met you thought I was a die-hard Tory.” 

“Well, I’m sorry, but you said to me, and I quote: ‘I am a die-hard Tory.’”

In Australia it is customary, when one wins a prize, for all one’s friends to chant “YOU ARE A WANKER” ten times or more. Kati, however, didn't quite catch on. Through the bellowing, I heard her shriek: “WHERE IS THE WAITER?”

In our last hostel, after sniffing a well-worn jumper: “Ew. Wow, that smells.” After a pause: “Smells like I could get away with wearing it for a few more days, I mean.”

A less than fluent Spanish speaker attempted to compliment my cheeks, but ended up complimenting Kati and Sarah: “Me gustan tus chicas.”

Goodbye Unilife

My final 48 hours of studying at the University of Melbourne can be summed up in three scenes. First, the false flat of Heidelberg Road up which I cycled as though on stilts, legs not quite long enough to reach the seat of the bike I’d been forced to borrow, breathless, from a taller friend 40 minutes before my exam. Second, emerging from the exam hall to the sight of the Carlton Gardens fountain, water from the mouths of stone platypuses falling golden in the summer sun, my mind brighter, another box ticked. And third, my bedroom at 3am that night: picnic blanket on the floor, final essay three quarters finished, bike-blackened hands typing away until a knock at the door and three cups of tea signalled the sleepy arrival of friends. The next afternoon, I was finished. I have done little but sleep since.

Melbourne Uni has been so different from St Andrews. There’s the same bustle, a similar workload, but the location makes all the difference. My course back home certainly suits me better, and absence has made the fond heart grow fonder as regards the St Andrews Classics department. I love Swallowgate, the old boarding house where all my classes take place back home, where wind rattles the glazing and breakers surge up white from the sea. I miss Alcaeus and Homer and Herodotus - no Greeks for me this semester. But I will miss this city so much when it is finally time to leave.

Yarra is emptying out. Doors stand ajar, white Ikea showrooms scrubbed pristine behind them. Things will be very quiet when I return from my travels. But that’s okay. I have a lot to enjoy in the meantime.

It’s Melbourne Music Week and Queen Victoria Market has been transformed into a concert hall. On Friday night, Architecture in Helsinki took to the stage, supported by the wantonly gyrating, long-johns-clad Total Giovanni. Architecture in Helsinki were formed in Fitzroy, the much cooler suburb just down the road. With bright pink jackets and five albums under their belts, they’re definitely the neighbours whose parties you want to get invited to. And despite their success, they stick to their local roots:

“This song’s about the East-West toll road. It’s a terrible idea. Any Liberal politicians in the audience tonight can fuck right off.”

“Summer’s coming. Time to set Victorian Spider Identifier as my homepage.”

“I don’t want to leave! Can someone please handcuff me to a gum tree?”

“I’ve never prank called 000 [999], but I did force my friend to call 666 once. She’s dead now.”

 “God, jewellery’s so expensive. Who do you think you are, spending that much money in one go? The one percent?!”

[This article has been edited. A previous edition stated that Stephanie Elizabeth Laucks merely persuaded her friend to telephone the devil. Ms Laucks emailed to assert that force was most definitely used.]

The End is Nigh

It’s 6am and I’m woken by the red dawn washing like watercolour behind the silhouette of the eucalypts. Red mingles with gold and blue, birdsong with the hum of cars. In exactly a week, all my assignments will be complete. The past week has been hectic, full of hurdles and turning points, and this one will be, too. But Melbourne is big and blue and busy and as I cycle down Swanston Street into the city I think that, if I must be stressed and worried and tired, there is nowhere I’d rather feel that way than here.

Having completed two classes (!) and treated myself to an early weekend, I am ready to face the library again. Amid the chaos there are many things I am thankful for. Bicycles. Balconies. Green tea and the gibbous moon. My favourite tree, which crouches outside Ormond College in the perfect position for climbing. Carlton Gardens, looking almost European in the sun, rainbows shining through the mist of water droplets kicked up by the fountain.

It’s not all work. The end of October was aca-crammed with performances at a very swanky old folks’ home, a 1920s themed university do, and, finest of all, a small yet sparkly karaoke booth on Bourke Street, to which I caught the train alone in full Halloween costume. I also experienced the joys of Long Room all-you-can-eat tapas, which I heartily recommend. Ten days later, I’m still full. As for the future, travel ideas are becoming realities. It’s almost the end and I’m caught momentarily in the empty space between memories and future plans. But it’s not for long. Time passes so quickly here.

I was warned that Halloween in Australia wasn’t much of a big deal. The warnings were false – at least as far as Yarra was concerned. Polka dot scarf and can-do attitude firmly fixed atop my head, I cavorted and careered around the Games Room, an alien Rosie the Riveter performing some absurd imitation of what I believe they call dancing. Our ersatz attempts to blend in with the human race were documented by the weird yet talented Flash, whose testimony to the evening may be viewed below.

Yarraween from LV Media on Vimeo.

Cheers to a week of PG-rated conversations.

“God, distance is hard. He’s so far away I want to die. But he’s what I live for.” 

“Hmm. Doesn't that just make you kind of neutral?”

 “When Harry Met Sally is so stupid. Of course guys and girls can be friends. Just like brothers and sisters.” 

“Can brothers and sisters just be friends? Game of Thrones begs to differ…”

“Are you okay? You’re awfully quiet this evening.” 

“Actually, I was just thinking about what a wonderful muse Harry Styles has been for Taylor Swift’s new album.” 

 “I can’t study in my room. It’s like a prison cell. God knows how the priest managed to teach Edmond Dantès comprehensive philosophy, history, and ethics in the Chateau d’If.”

 Great Snakes!

Snakes alive, Snowy, the snakes are alive!* And ready to party with the best of them. Little yellow signs have cropped up in the flowerbeds, bearing the fearsome slogan: SNAKES SIGHTED. As it stands, no snakes have been sighted by me – rumours of a brown snake sunbathing on the steps outside the bike shed have been chased away by my deliberately loud footsteps every time I ride to uni. A fearsome hissing from ground level sent us running indoors when we attempted to study on the balcony, but who knows what that actually was. Probably just an Australian taking a low blow at the weird internationals. But it’s not just snakes who have started to get friendly. Bluetongue lizards roam the corridors unchecked and spiders attempt to scratch their way through our window frames.

Not getting bitten, eaten or killed is fairly easy, though, as it’s all about mutual respect. Snakes are cool. They’re just doing their thing – whether that thing is slithering around the short grass of the memorial garden or setting up camp in the laundry room, which happened last year. Same with sharks. I for one am a big snake rights advocate. Just so long as they don’t come too near me.

In other news, classes have finished, and my time at Unimelb is almost at its end. Last night I drank wine from a mug on the balcony and perched on the fence at the viewing platform over the Merri Creek, the city a warm shadow on an orange sky. The heat broke at around two and I woke at seven to thunder and lightning. I lay on a park bench in the hammering rain and let the downpour drench me.

*That’s a Tintin reference, for the uninitiated reader.

On our first day of enrolment at Unimelb, Sarah, Louis, and I captured the rather marvellous self-portrait you may admire below. Look at us: young, fresh-faced, and innocent, toothy grins hardly masking the trepidation boiling in the pits of our stomachs. We were the newbies, thrown together by chance, Yarra House, and the 546 bus. We were as unknown to each other as the coming months.

Fast forward twelve weeks and here we are again, quite unintentionally, bright red and beaming at the end of semester ball. The photos from early evening were much more elegant, but this diptych is all about realism. The night gradually unravelled into rakish chaos, much like the bow tie of a certain wildly dancing Flo Rida fan. Gone are the newbie nerves, and with them any vestige of coolness which, like a faerie glamour, might once have persuaded me that these two were anything less than the wonderful weirdoes they truly are.

And these pictures, dear reader, sum it all up quite nicely.

Bumper pack tonight, kids. But watch out. This week we have five swears and one potentially R-rated bedroom.

-

 “Why won’t you let us into your bedroom? What are you hiding? Is it a mail order bride? Or a guinea pig?”

“No, Miriam, Justin Bieber’s not a social construct. He’s just a fucking prick.”

 “Cute sweater vest!” “Thanks. Classes may be finished, but style never goes on vacation.”

"Where the fuck is the fucking bus? Shit, why do I always swear? Shit."

"I'm going to wear my deadlines as my Hallowe'en costume. Because they bloody scare me."

The Tragic Inevitability of the Passage of Time

The sun is out, the wind is warm, and Australian summer is on its way. Blustering breezes and blistering heat* propel us along Heidelberg Road as we cycle towards Parkville, bags full of books and eyes on the sky. It is getting increasingly difficult to study when the world outside the library window is such bright blue.

Despite having reached the final week of classes, I’ve been surprisingly relaxed. This is not St Andrews. No claustrophobic cobbled streets, no gusts of wind pursuing you down them. I am so much happier in a city. And yet there are things I miss about St Andrews. I miss the small classes and knowing everyone’s name. I miss Classics and studying texts rather than Ancient History and archaeology, my subjects here. I miss my friends and the bizarre small-world sense that somehow everyone knows one another. Perhaps I am glad I was given a semester abroad rather than a year.

No. I can’t type that sentence honestly.

Since coming back from Tasmania I’ve just been living. Little else. It is so wonderful just to be. I lay in the brown-sugar sand at Brighton Beach and swam in the Tasman Sea. I explored the painted, café-crowded laneways near Flinders Street and ate doughnuts in the sun by the Yarra River. I danced in the train station, danced in the kitchen, danced in the laundry room. I mistook a lizard for a snake, twice, and saw my first huntsman spider. Summer is coming, and with it the beasts they all warned us about.

*25 degrees does not actually blister me. No sir. I’m just taking poetic licence. And marveling at how this isn’t even summer yet.

Winterbourne, who supported Patrick James when I saw him live back in August, have released their first music video! They are up and coming and kept talking about how much they hated Geelong (a nearby city which is not, to my shame, pronounced the way it looks), having had an unenthusiastic crowd at their gig the night before. Have a listen. They're pretty fab, and Geelong evidently didn't appreciate their talents.

Lewd and crude, this week's instalment of Top Quotes contains three whole swears. Cover your eyes and ears, young children.

-

“Nobody should be self-conscious about how they look. I
don’t care if you walk into the room with a boat on your head like Marie
Antoi-fucking-nette, I won’t judge you.”

Through a mouthful of someone else’s food: “Why would you
leave chips in the Games Room if you don’t want them to get stolen? Like, come
on. You had to see this coming. It’s not my
fault. Get your shit together.”

Scrawled on a library desk: “When I die bury me next to
bitches.”

On Tasmania and Birthdays Abroad

It wasn't until midsemester break arrived that I realised just how much I needed a rest. I went straight from class to Tasmania, travelling for two days from Launceston to Hobart via, among others, Wineglass Bay, a beautiful curving beach reached via scrambling rocks cast with the dappled shadows of eucalypts. In Hobart we spent two days ambling slowly from cafe to bar, as well as visiting the infamous MONA.

The Museum of Old and New Art was founded by multi-millionaire gambler David Walsh. From the surface, it looks like a shopping centre mid-renovation; inside it's a web of windowless stone catacombs worthy of a movie supervillain. Upon entering you're given an iPod loaded with information about the artworks. Most people would just put a sign next to the art, but Walsh is too rich for that. MONA is a thrilling lair of decadence, its art a combination of the grotesque, the humorous, and the macabre. One room stinks of shit from an artificial glass digestion machine; 151 vagina casts line one wall like stag heads in an English country manor; a beanbag cinema displays around forty Madonna fans singing the Immaculate Collection. A bloated red Porsche squats near a waxen little girl who is entombed, glassy-eyed and drooling, in a rabbit hutch. A carved door is notable for its caption: 'David made too much money on this trip to South Africa, and had to spend some before leaving the country.'

I also met a wombat joey called Tina. Photo by Sarah.

While in Hobart we stayed at the Pickled Frog, one of my favourite youth hostels. Cheerfully decorated, with its own bar, cafe, and very lovely staff, the Frog is the place to be. Not least because of Baloo, an enormous three-year-old malamute, affectionately dubbed the 'resident wolf'. I've never been so in love.

BALOO.

I’m not very good at birthdays.  I’m a people pleaser. I’m very indecisive. I’m a massive fan of democracy. Being the designated centre of attention for a day is something I always find pretty daunting.

And, of course, I’ve never done it so far away from home before.

Fortunately, I have some super cute friends here.

We ate a lot of food – Indian dinner, cheesecake, Lentils breakfast, pub pizza. We hunted out bars in Hobart and did a lot of beer tasting. After arriving back in Melbourne I had a nap and was woken by a knock on the door and presents from two friends I hadn’t seen while I’d been away. I lay on the grass outside with two friends and talked about the ups and downs of study abroad. We went to the city for pizza, then found ourselves firstly in a terrible Lizard-esque club and finally looking out over the city from the Rooftop Bar, my new favourite tourist trap.

Birthdays are all about the people you spend them with. It was strange to be so far away – no breakfast with Christina, no evening with Harry, no family within an hour of my term address. But it’s the people I’ve met here that meant that, despite being so far from home, I had something to celebrate.

Cheesy or what?

In the scrapbook this week is a spot o' Yeats, prescribed by a Red Cross poet doctor, some gratuitous Shakespeare, marriage equality rally scraps, and some Tasmanian travels.

x

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

The daily journey into the city has been a bit of a nuisance. Fifteen minutes waiting for a perpetually late bus which takes half an hour to get to campus. I'm, like, so done with that, man.

It’s week 9 and I’ve finally sorted out both my life and a bike. (Zeugma.) Better late than never, right? A great thing about res is being constantly surrounded by helpful people. With the aid of a few res-mates, I now have a third-hand bike complete with helmet, seat, and working brakes – all without spending a cent. I bought some lights and a lock for a total of maybe $40, and, after a few chicken-outs, am finally on the roads.

I’ve never cycled in a city before. In St Andrews, I’m never on the road for more than fifteen minutes at once. There are two lanes and some nice shortcuts through the park. Here we’re a clattering crocodile of uni-bound cyclists as lorries zoom past the bike lanes of main roads. We set out in sunshine and came home in pouring rain. It’s real city cycling.

From my so far limited experience, Melbourne is very cycle-friendly. There’s almost always a bike lane. Helmets are a legal requirement. We left res as a group of four, but by the time we were nearing uni we were part of a flock. Melbourne is not really a public transport city – I’ve never been somewhere before where I’ve actually seriously wished I could drive. But though it’s a car city, it’s also a bike city. I hadn’t realised until this week how much I’d missed having my own wheels.

I’ve spoken a little about how things are different in Australia to the UK. But it’s not all external – I’ve noticed I’m pretty different in Australia, too. I’ve had a chat with some other internationals about this, and found that, in different ways, we’ve changed.

Or maybe we haven’t changed – maybe different aspects of our personalities are just emphasised. It’s funny how malleable you are depending on the situation. Priorities change when you’re somewhere big, when you know your time is limited.

In St Andrews, I’m rushing everywhere. I leave the house at eight thirty in the morning and return home no earlier than ten at night. I’m active and outgoing, my days meticulously planned and constantly busy. I thought I’d be like that here, if not even more so.

Instead, I’m quite happy just soaking it all up. I’m floating slowly through life, enjoying the little things: cooking in the shared kitchen on a busy weekday evening, wandering through the city with no clear purpose, spending time with the friends I’ve made rather than being constantly on the lookout for new people. It bothered me when I first noticed it, this newfound quietness and slowness. But it’s an appreciation for the small things, I’ve decided. Quality over quantity. In St Andrews, you have to seek out entertainment – but Melbourne itself is entertainment enough for me. 

Every week, the uni hosts two bands. Some of them are local, some from further afield. There's free beer and a barbecue - with classic Australian hot dogs made from sandwich bread. Broods, an up and coming New Zealand band, played in one of the first weeks, and I've been listening to them a fair bit since. Lend them your ear - this music video landed the same day I did.

Off to Tasmania tomorrow. Have yet to pack or even write a to do list in preparation. I don't even know what time the flight is apart from somewhere in the broad region of 'afternoon.' Time for an adventure.

Busy busy busy

I am not going to write about the referendum here. It’s all I’ve been thinking about. It’s all I’ve been talking about. It’s all I’ve been worrying about. So I’m going to write about something else.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been so busy. The mist of coursework fell heavy across the land, and my home became overshadowed by the stormcloud of important political decisions. But I still found time to get mobbed by parakeets, stalk Tony Abbott on his University of Melbourne visit, acquire a rickety yellow bicycle, see the Twelve Apostles on the Great Ocean Road, compose a nightclub anthem, book a holiday to New Zealand, and buy a tacky little landmark ornament, my signature tourist purchase for every city I visit abroad.

Today we went to St Kilda and had lunch at Lentil as Anything. Lentils is a chain of five vegetarian restaurants run entirely on donations: rather than paying a fixed price, you give however much you can afford or think the meal is worth. The food is delicious, so well worth the suggested price of (to my memory) around $15 – but the donation box means that you don’t have to feel bad if you can’t spend that much. We also had a wander around - and lie down - at the Veg Out Community Garden.

I am midway through the semester and my days are spent in the library, my evenings in the city, my nights in the shared kitchen, and my money on coffee. (Zeugma.) Summer is on its way. My time is beginning to run out. I’d better make it count.

Simple steps to creating an Aussie nickname:

1. Shorten the word to one or two syllables.

2. Add 'o' on the end.

That's it. Congratulations. Servo, bottle-o, Johnno. Works every time.

Anything is peaceful from 975 feet.

These past two weeks, Friday evening has become my Sabbath. I’ve finished uni after the last bus and headed into the city, walking down Swanston Street and breathing everything in. I don’t know how I will go back to my small quiet town. I love it here. The glass towers reflecting a sunset concealed by skyscrapers, the warning ring of the trams as they creak along their tracks towards you, the sense of insignificance which is so freeing, so welcoming, so calming. There is no pressure on you when nobody knows your name.

We climbed to the top floor of RMIT University and found a balcony. Through a gap in the fence I gazed out at the yellow streets below me. Trams slipped by, ringing gently as they went. A group of skateboarders hurtled down the hill. We were at the corner of the city grid, where the map tilts forty-five degrees and the blocks shift from rectangular to rhomboid. Night had fallen, but the city still shone. 

*

It's been a weekend of vantage points. Twenty hours later I was looking down at the city from the Skydeck, 975 feet above the meticulous grid of the CBD. Things move slowly when you see them from above. I leaned my body against the glass and thought, the world is quiet here.

*

I have 99 days left in Melbourne as of today.

Did I ever mention that I'm a National Gallery certified artist? No? Good, because that would have been a filthy lie, and lying is wrong, kids. Well, lying is usually wrong. We can debate that point some other time.

I  call this one Self-Portrait on a Friday Afternoon. (Don't worry Mum, don't worry Dad - I slept until ten today! Score!)

“I love Melbourne. I love it so much that I’m going to name my future daughter Mel, and then she’ll get my surname, and she’ll be called Mel Bearn.”

Lecturer, mid-slide: “I’ve played over 440 hours of Skyrim.”

Residence manager, after a 17 degree day: "Cold outside, isn't it?"

Mondays and Fun Days

Today was one of those Mondays which just wouldn’t cooperate. You might as well call me Garfield. I woke up to a spotlessly clean room, having scrubbed it the night before, only to knock all my food off the top shelf. I hoovered it up, but then I had an altercation with my cooking oil – all over my clean laundry. I missed four buses, handed a book back overdue, got fined, missed both a capella and an Aboriginalities lecture, and made zero progress on the two essays I have due on Friday. The day hit a record low at 3pm when I made an important phone call from up a tree in the pouring rain with a poorly chosen cup of iced tea, soaked through.

Then I went home and complained.

Here I am again complaining now, but I promise there’s a point to my gloom. I’ve talked about the good side to study abroad: the excitement, the bustle, the tall buildings, loud evenings, new faces. Study abroad is utterly wonderful in countless ways. But this episode is about a couple of things study abroad is not.

Study abroad is not a holiday. I suppose it’s kind of in the name. Uni keeps me constantly busy. I’m in the library most days. I still haven’t been up the sky tower. I sat in Fed Square for the first time just this Friday. Two hours of each day is spent on a bus. Study abroad isn’t time out from normal life. It is life.

Study abroad is not a chance to reinvent yourself. New country, new me? Nah. Sure, maybe you’ll try out that lipstick you never quite had the guts to wear at home. Maybe you’ll go to that society your friends thought was stupid, because here, nobody can judge you. The anonymity is very freeing. But at the end of the day, if you’re the kind of person who stresses over deadlines, you’ll still stress over deadlines abroad. If you’re not a party person, being away from home won’t make you magically become one. You’re in a foreign country and nobody knows you and you can do whatever you want - but you’re still you. Those little negative traits you wish you didn’t have don’t just disappear. That’s okay though. because nor do the positive ones.

Basically, study abroad is not just the highlights reel you see here. I blog once a week (ish) because that’s how often something exciting happens. The rest of the time I’m just living life. Some days are good. Some days are less so. All the good bits of life, and all the mediocre bits – just further away. Life isn't perfect, but when was it ever?

I love this new normality.

I had a little moan, so I’ll make up for it now. Things have been pretty fab. I went to the 1000 Steps in Dandenong National Park, a walk which felt easy enough at the time but by the next day had definitely made a lasting impression on my calves. I went to Brighton Beach and posed in front of more beach huts than I can count. I decorated my bedroom and put my postcard arrivals (thanks Sarah, thanks Sani!) in pride of place against my upside-down wall map (about time the southern hemisphere got to come out top). I finished a long week in the library by soaking up the city down Swanston Street and sitting in Fed Square under streetlamps like stars. The sun is emerging. I have always loved second semester. Summer is coming and the sky smiles, not long.

Those kangaroos are as vicious as they say.

On Saturday night I went to see Patrick James live. He was fantastic, as were his support acts, Winterbourne and Gena Rose Bruce. For his encore (or as they say back home, One More Tune) he and his band came into the crowd and performed approximately a meter away from me. No biggie. Another day, another celebrity throwing themselves* at me. Here’s my favourite song of his, complete with lyrics for your karaoke convenience:

*I utterly adore “they” as a singular gender neutral pronoun, but could we have some consensus as to what the reflexive form is supposed to be? “Themselves?” “Themself?” What’s a girl (or rather a person of unspecified gender) to do?

Time for bed, I reckon. That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.

Weddings, Singers

Ten years ago, some key words were added to the Marriage Act. Marriage was formally and legally defined as a `voluntarily entered-into union of a man and a woman to the exclusion of all others'.

This weekend I attended a rally organised by Equal Love to commemorate this law and call for change. Standing in the crowd on the steps of the State Library, I listened to several speakers, including Tony Briffa, the world’s first openly intersex mayor. Briffa made sure to point out an often-forgotten yet hugely limiting aspect of marriage inequality: as an intersex person who identifies as both male and female, they cannot legally marry without defining themselves as either a woman or a man – they cannot marry without lying. The term ‘same-sex marriage’ does not cover the problems faced by intersex people, nor trans people, who, when marriage is not equal, must annul their marriage for their gender identity (NOT necessarily sex) to be fully recognised in law. Equal marriage is not as simple as 'same-sex marriage'. And while we’re at it, the idea of sex as a simple binary doesn't take into account all the variables: sex can be defined through chromosomes, hormones, and both external and internal genitals.

After a performance by Monique Brumby (video below), we marched to Parliament, signs aloft: the serious (‘Marriage Equality is a Priority’) and the scandalous (‘I love vagina, but Tony’s too much of a c*nt even for me.’) When we reached Parliament, a collective illegal marriage ceremony was conducted on the grass, each set of vows the couple’s own. “Say what you want,” the conductor said ruefully. “It’s not legal anyway.”

Despite the absurdity of having to protest this injustice, the rally had a sense of optimism, I felt. With 72% of Australians in favour of equal marriage, and plans for two bills on their way, Australia seems to be reaching a turning point. I can only hope change happens swiftly. Equal marriage is just one rung on the ladder to dismantling our societies’ shared homophobia and heteronormativity. Both Australia and Scotland are climbing – slowly.

Disclaimer: word count approximate.

Ever since deciding to study at St Andrews, home of The Other Guys, I’ve wanted to do a capella – but, for some reason, it’s never made it to my weekly schedule. Until now. I can now call myself a member of Ring of Choir.

Ring of Choir were going to be called Student Union Voices, but it sounded too much like the socialist political campaigners who stand outside the library. The campaigners are just as loud as us, but have a slightly different focus.

Sunday was the University of Melbourne Open Day, and we spent our morning flashmobbing campus, lining the echoing stone pillars of the Old Quad and greeting prospective students with Vance Joy’s Riptide. If you don’t know it, here it is. Obviously our version is far superior, but it’s the kind of spiritual experience a video wouldn’t do justice to, even if I had a recording.

Here, neds are called bogans.

Barbecues are shockingly common. To the point where it’s not a special enough occasion to buy hot dog or burger rolls. A burger, two slices of white bread, and Bob’s your uncle.

Tim Tams are Australia’s answer to Penguins. I’m not being snooty, they actually are.

CBD, MCG, ETC.

I worked far too hard this week. Tutorials freak me out: eighty pages of reading, eighteen classmates, and the presence of an eminent professor combine into enough pressure to make me miss high school. Fortunately, I completely overestimated the intensity of these classes, and next week will be a much more relaxed affair. But, by Thursday, I was extremely ready for the weekend.

Thursday took me to two Central Business District clubs: Utopia and New Guernica, resulting in some mostly flattering photos. Thursday was also the day of a major tagging-and-bagging purge in which I gained six points and lost them all in the space of two hours.

Saturday took seven of us to St Kilda for a picnic of Mexican soup and flatbread and a walk down a teetering driftwood pier. Next was Aussie Rules Hawthorn vs Melbourne, a game Harry described fairly accurately as “rugby crossed with football crossed with quiddich”. We newbies picked our team on the day, but our #alwayshawthorn Instagram looked genuine enough to feature us on the big screen at quarter time.

That night was another CBD night out: Wah Wah’s is small, sweaty, and smoky, serves vodka slushies, and is my favourite place so far. The night ended with sushi in China Town and singing Wonderwall with four drunk Uni Lads from the colleges, who topped up our water with goon from their goon sack* and pretended to be Irish, fooling nobody.

Sunday was spent at Melbourne Museum, taking in the Aboriginal exhibition, dinosaur skeletons, and some cool rocks. We then went to Lentils for dinner, a restaurant deserving of its own blog post. Lentils is a thirty minute full moon walk away through the park along the Yarra. I can now attest that werewolves are not native to Australia.

*Disclaimer: No Mum, no Dad, I did not drink this strange drink from these strange men.

*Disclaimer #2: footnotes not included in word count.

“I really like that white thing you have on your front…” “Thanks! You mean my dress?”

“Wait, I thought Schlampe was the German for ‘see you later’…”

“Plagiarism? I go by traditional Spartan laws. Sure, you can do it. But if you’re caught you suffer the consequences.”

My scrapbooking ventures include a spot of Ovid's Actaeon, some of this week's events, and a very relatable poem about university.

There we go. That's a wrap.