snapshots of moments made vivid by goodbyes

7/1/15, 12.45pm

On a heady 37 degree day, as the warm wind blew like bad breath across my face, I hurtled out of Darling Gardens and over a pothole, over my handlebars, and into the road. The tarmac reeked, molten under the stinking sun, and what remained of my skin stung in six different places, but the eggs I’d just bought were still whole. The eggs were the first thing I checked, before I noticed the bloodstains on my purse, the buttons ripped from my dress, the deep gashes on my palms quickly sullied by bike oil as I struggled with my chain. I walked the rest of the way, black and red and purple all over, the heat nettling my skin with a sweat-salt sting. The weather broke later as I washed my wounds, thunder like a lover finishing lightning’s sentences. Fat raindrops drummed on the tarmac, cooling it until it smelled like home.

8/1/15, 9pm

Southbank glitters and I spin. The fairy-lit trees are blurred blotches, skyscrapers cradle street-level lovers, and I am alone with my coupled-up friends but I am happy. They hold hands and walk on as I lean backwards over the railing of the bridge, ponytail swinging towards the slow Yarra below. Brown in its daylight lethargy, the silt sits on the water’s surface, and so they say the river flows upside down. But tonight Melbourne is upside down, shimmering blue and pink and gold on the slow black swell, and the real city reaches towards the sky, but the mirrored city reaches towards me.

The sun has set pink and red. Now the sky is black, and the storm never came.

9/1/15, 01.34

It’s early in the morning of my third-last day, and the clock hands have tipped me deep into my thoughts. And I wonder if back home I’m known as the yellow girl with the swinging ponytail and strange fascination with rooftops who wastes no time working out who she likes. And whether I was known as this before Melbourne, or if these are traits I’ve formed here. And if it’s how I’ll be known when I return. And I notice that I like myself here, I like what Melbourne makes of me, and I like what I make of Melbourne. I haven’t found myself. What a stupid phrase. We've lost ourselves, if anything. Introspection so far from home is like looking in a new mirror and realising the mirror you had before was distorted, and this one is too, but in a different way, and yet the mirror here and the mirror back home both show you yourself. I don’t want to lose this sense of self-assurance, this city-sense of peace. But something tells me it’ll be okay. I won’t.

11/1/15, 22.41

I’m sitting in the airport and, unlike the past few days, my eyes are dry. Moments stay with me. Friday's rain-dappled nightlit walk down Swanston Street; the Trades Hall disco ball spinning as we danced to The Jam; my laughing friends singing the Proclaimers over and over; their reddened eyes as they hugged me goodbye at the terminal entrance. 

 But I’m in action mode: endure now, think later.

I don’t want to go.

It Doesn't Look A Bit Like Christmas

For the past month I have inhabited the surreal parallel world of Australian advent. The blue sky above Bourke Street is veiled with green and red baubles, the town hall is parcelled up beneath a massive red bow, and Flinders Street Station glows each night like the gaudy house front of your most obnoxious neighbour.

On December 13 I returned to Melbourne from Byron Bay to the dulcet clash of glass bottles against tram tracks, Spring Street having become the venue for a late night street brawl. Running up Bourke Street, I wormed my way between Santas, uncostumed and alone in a thirty degree Where’s Wally world. On Christmas Eve we climbed Hanging Rock and looked down with sunlit faces at the land, Tuscan yellow and far below us. Christmas day was Christmas dinner, hosted by a kindly Old Boy from a friend’s school and his wife. The sun was shining and there was hardly a pine tree in sight.

Christmas in Australia and Christmas in the UK are very different, notably that here it’s just somehow… less. I think a lot of that is down to the weather. Come late December, we Brits are desperately in need of something to lift the spirits. But here, with the sun shining and the days drawn out long, the celebration is just an added bonus.

Ridiculous.

bronte beach was sun on my salt-flecked face as i balanced, whooping for joy, on flash's shoulders, the sea up to my chest, bubbles rising from where he stood, submerged. my eyes wept for the salt, tears mingling with ocean, and i did not worry about the burn scar on my back or the precariousness of bikini tops, normally so infuriating. we floated over the first wave, dove under the second, and paddled furiously until we caught the third.

manly was avocado and soft boiled egg salad and a parking space right next to the sand and the story of how flash and gabi met, told lovingly over a jug of water and a bowl of chips.

new year's eve was dancing and photos with full makeup and kati's dress. it was hearts to hearts, sing-alongs, the sound of music, go-pro close-ups of charlie’s face, ice-cold chilean liquor and linked arms. it was stargazing, head skyward, alone atop the wrought-iron garden gate. it was fireworks over the bridge and a grumbling old man promising us we'd end the night in a paddy-wagon. we woke in the same room, exactly where we fell, having eaten all the chicken sandwiches at 4am.

2015 started with a swim in flash's pool. i anchored my ankles against the edge and starfished on the surface, gazing at the peeling eucalyptus whose leaves flecked the blue sky. cockatoos flirted, frangipanis floated, and sia sang through declan's speakers.

we drove everywhere in flash's car, triple j blasting. louis and i bickered in the back seat and kati cackled constantly while gab danced and flash showed us all his favourite places. we rolled down the windows and sang along and didn’t care.

and when my ferry left mosman i stood at the prow, gazing forward.

The 65-year-old who hosted us for Christmas: “What’s a selfie? Sounds like a type of cheap ice cream.”

“I don’t know what my boyfriend sees in me. Look at me. I’m wearing socks and sandals. What the fuck?”

 “God, Miriam, take some time off from being a feminist. Get out from under the king’s horse.”

Byron and Back Again

The first person I met when I arrived in Australia was more stoned than the regular clientele of Medusa’s favourite Amsterdam coffee shop. We played a game on his phone and he defeated me mercilessly despite my temperance. Then our brief friendship came to an end. “Duuuude,” he drawled. “This was sick, dude, but I’d better go. I need to meet my dealer.” His phone buzzed gently. The lock screen was a leaf of sweet Mary Jane.

I was reminded of this encounter when I arrived in Byron Bay. The stereotypical image, once a mere doodle in my mind, is filled in at the edges and becomes as colourful as a sun-tanned tattoo. I had never seen a dreadlocked mullet before going to Byron, but now I’d hardly give it a second glance. Most people are barefoot, but the hair wraps and tie dye make up for any lack of sole covering. On my final day, the white rastas got out their ukuleles and bongos, dreadlocks enveloped in Santa hats, and performed an acoustic Christmas Carol concert on the grass.

Byron Bay offers more than just people-watching. Surfing, sea-kayaking, diving, and snorkelling are all on the to-do list, though I ticked off only the last. At Julian Rocks I met a sea turtle and watched it dine on jellyfish, but stayed far away from the rays lurking on the seabed. I burnt myself at Belongil Beach, the quieter, nicer beach about a kilometer from the town. A slow, hot walk to the Cape Byron Lighthouse and Australia’s easterly point, passing as many beaches as it does, could fill a day. At the lighthouse I scribbled a windswept postcard to my friends at Yarra, and at the easterly point a school of dolphins frolicked in the glittering waves.

I’ve spoken a lot about the residence I’ve been living at while studying in Australia. It’s been the source of most of the friendships I’ve made while here, and certainly the ones I know I’ll keep when I’m gone. Res life isn’t for everyone, but if you don’t mind a messy kitchen, thrive in a busy, loud environment, and like to be surrounded by people, it’s for you. (Tip: this year, floor 1 was the noisiest, floor 2 was the friendliest, and floor 3 – mine – was the most peaceful.)

Take a look for yourself with our handy resident-made virtual tour.

Yarra House Virtual Tour from LV Media on Vimeo.

"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’ve been through a lot. Even my scars have scars.”

“But the German for Ovulation is Eisprung. That means ‘egg jump’.  So the egg jumps between the fallopian tubes, back and forth, and the sperm shoots it. Like Space Invaders. Right?”

 “Empower: for women. The new fragrance by Chappell.”