Return ticket

I’ve made this trip many times before. However, this is my first time leaving London holding a return ticket.

It’s a bizarre feeling. The thought of going home for an overseas holiday is a little hard to compute. It’s home! Australia isn’t overseas!

It’s caught me a bit off guard. Compared with trips in my early 20’s, the anticipation hasn’t been quite as strong. After all, I know what’s coming. There’s no need for guidebooks, I know my way around. And there’s really no need to plan what to pack. I know where to go if I need something.

I know I’m ok in Australia. It’s easy.

That sense of security caught me off guard late last night, when it finally sank in that I was about to take the long haul flight and I wasn’t at all prepared. I was up until the early hours chaotically throwing whatever was on the floor into a suitcase. Normally a meticulous ‘roller’, I could only manage to scrunch clothes into a ball and toss them onto the pile. Before I knew it, I was a few hours away from my flight with no clear strategy on how I’d even get to the airport. Evidently, peak hour plus luggage makes me the most unpopular boy on the Tube.

Now that I’ve had a chance to catch my breath here at the airport, I’m thinking, wow. Wow, I’m going home. But wow, home’s not really home. Wow, it turns out I really don’t know what to expect after all. It’s kind of freaking me out! (The complimentary vodkas may be a contributing factor.)

When I booked my ticket back to Australia all those months ago, I was so excited. London was hard. I was navigating so many things; new job, different culture, no friends, new friends. It was exhausting! And while I was determined to see it through, the idea of a little reprieve was very appealing.

And then London crept up on me. I began to get some rhythm. I learnt how to weave through the hoards during the peak hour crush (I hardly knock anyone over anymore). I taught myself tricks on how to beat the cold (mostly beer and central heating – I still haven’t come to grips with thermals). And I found some great people in this city, with more arriving every day or so it seems.

Now that I’ve found that rhythm, I want to stand still a while and let it flow. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally looking forward to catching up with the people I’ve missed. The sunshine and I have so much catching up to do. And I do love Melbourne. But part of me feels a couple more months in London before returning wouldn’t have gone astray.

I suppose I’m just a touch afraid that I’ll return to London and be offbeat again. That the lure of old friends, warm weather and yes, decent coffee, might mean having to go through the adjusting one more time.

But then I suppose there are worse positions to be in. Woe is me! I have to return to a sun-soaked country for an awesome time before resuming my trip of a lifetime. How terrible!

And I get to go back with a fabulous tan.

Turning Point

When I left Australia I told myself that if I hadn’t made it in London within six months, I’d turn around and come home with my tail between my legs.

Low and behold, I’ve just looked up and realised six months is up. Half a year ago to the day I stepped off the plane and cruised through passport control, ready to own London. I felt confident, excited and secure knowing that London and I were going to get on like a house on fire. It took me 20 minutes to realise I was waiting at the wrong baggage carousel.

Not a great start. Since then I’ve had regular reminders that in order to survive London, or any unfamiliar place I suppose, you have to learn you’re the master of nothing.

Case in point, one of my first job interviews went ridiculously well. We got to chatting, had a few laughs and the whole affair went 20 minutes longer than scheduled - evidence of the great time we were clearly having. I was so happy with how it went that I rang my recruitment agent immediately to let her know what a star candidate she had on her books. A couple of hours later she rang me back to let me know I had failed to make the second round.

So evidently it’s best not to get cocky about anything.

(Although interestingly in the next interview I had, the dragon lady interrogating me had me contemplating tears. Blubbering mess. Yet somehow, the feedback I received there was ‘He’s good. He’d do well here”.)

I’m sure it’s really just a fact of life, something we all need to be in-tune with rather than a location-specific phenomenon. The point is, when you’re out of your comfort zone, you become acutely aware of each misstep and every little thing that doesn’t go quite right. Even inadvertently heading North instead of South when emerging from the Tube has the potential to send you into a round of ‘what am I doing here? I mean really doing here?’

But I suppose it’s made the six months feel more worthwhile in a way. The feelings of uselessness are nothing compared to the sensation of accomplishment when you overcome a new problem. The sense of personal triumph I had when I finally figured out how to top-up my Oyster Card without patrons behind me swearing furiously was one of the best highs I’ve had.

But enough nazel gazing! To commemorate my six months in London, I made a list. Everybody loves a list!

Things I love about London

1. Europe, just over there
2. Public transport (the Tube really is impressive. Even the signage is impressive. I’ve never been so impressed by signage before)
3. Earning Pounds (so much better than not earning pounds)
4. Pints
5. Snow
6. The West End
7. History, everywhere
8. Parties wherever, whenever
9. Christmas lights
10. Coffee houses run by Australians (reluctantly I admit the New Zealanders also make a decent coffee).

And no list of favourite things would be complete without a list of not-so-favourite things:

Things I don’t love so much about London

1. Ryanair (this should really be Number One on my ‘Things I hate about life’ list)
2. Public transport (overcrowding and ludicrously restricted operating hours for a city of many, many millions)
3. Employment (for a smorgasbord of reasons, which I shan’t share due to the fact I’d like to keep earning pounds)
4. Beer belly
5. The weather
6. Crowds
7. Tourists (how quickly I forget)
8. Whole days lost to recovering
9. Darkness
10. London ‘coffee’.

Yes, the two lists are linked. That actually happened by accident (by and large), and it was a nice realisation to see the things that frustrate me often mean good times ahead. Except for London coffee. No good times there.

Anyway, happy anniversary to me. As it turns out I am going home next week. But just for a holiday. And very much with my tail in the air.

By the way, a few people have been asking me what I ended up doing for the New Year’s weekend (you read my blog, YAY!). I won’t bore you with the details, (my Mum reads this after all) but it involves a whole lot of Number 8. From both lists.

50% chance of rain

So, London weather.

It’s an apt topic because right now I’m sitting before quite possibly the largest snowflakes in the history of time. If not, they’re at least the biggest damned snowflakes I’ve ever seen. But more about snow later.

When I made the decision to move to this part of the world, I was generally greeted with one of two reactions: “That is so fantastic, you’re going to have an amazing time”. Or, perhaps more commonly: “You’re insane. You know it’s cold right?” There was also a third reaction: “Are you sure that’s wise? We are in a global financial crisis.” But that one was mostly thrown at me by my mother and grandfather, who both had a vested interest in scaring the hell out of me. (To this day I still receive articles from my mother regarding the derelict state of the UK.)

Honestly, the job stuff didn’t bother me. Too much. The weather? I was having a harder time warming to the notorious weather.

The week I arrived in London was horrible. The skyline was a constant ominous grey. My flimsy Australian jumpers were clearly going to do diddlysquat. And the skies opened regularly, ridiculing me for daring to challenge them without an umbrella.

It was the middle of summer.

The sting of it was made that much sharper due to the fact I had arrived via New York, where, with the exception of a torrential downpour here and there, the air was hot and the sunshine plentiful. If summer had a Facebook page, I’d be its Number One fan (oh look, it does!) and I was relishing the chance to lap it up in shorts during the month of July (until I suffered a vicious attack by what could only have been a large nation of sandflies). However, after two days in London it was clear that I was faced with the daunting prospect that I may never wear shorts again.

But as I became quickly accustomed to my new life, and I stopped looking for reasons why I would fail at it, the weather stopped bothering me as much. London even eventually laid out her finest for me. August was beautiful. It was warm, and the previously drab buildings positively shone. I spent many an unemployed day lazing in parks, sampling crisps and reading the Twilight series. (It still hurts to think I wasted possibly the most free time I’ll ever have in my life with that drivel, but that’s for another entry.)

After I saw what London could be, I figured I could handle its worst. What’s more, the biting cold that people had taken such enjoyment in warning me about didn’t eventuate through September, or October, or November. And then December hit.

Now for the record, the cold and the darkness are, by and large, manageable. There have been a couple of days where I was in serious danger of losing an appendage, but those times simply served as a reminder that layers are a wise investment. And there is snow. SNOW! The first day I saw snow falling from the office windows, I was straight outside in my suit cavorting merrily, stirring my colleagues to dryly remark, “oh that’s right, you’re Australian.”

What does annoy me about the weather, is not really the weather at all. It’s not the snow, nor the rain, nor the cold. It’s London’s inability to cope with any of these factors. London shuts down. Transport stops. People leave work early with fear in their eyes. There are times when I feel I need to give London a good bitchslap and remind her she’s a major international city. She can’t keep hiding under the covers every time she feels a little frostbite coming on.

A quick example from just two weeks ago. The snow which had fallen was now ice, putting an abrupt end to that love affair, and London succumbed to chaos.

It took me over two hours to get home that day – a journey normally taking no more than 45 minutes. Any form of transport that wasn’t a mile underground simply wasn’t operating and hundreds of people were locked out of major train stations and kept at bay by police officers with dogs. Passengers who were lucky enough to catch a passing bus were soon offloaded and told to walk.

I was lucky, I only had to walk some three kilometres through the sludge and ice. My shoes were soon full of water and it was difficult to keep my footing – making it a very slow, arduous journey. Street lights bled through the mist and the ice rendered everything bleak. It was apocalyptic. Hundreds of weary people shuffled through the streets, hunched over and often ending on their backsides. Cars were banked up, incapable of moving except to slide across the ice. It really was easy to imagine that this could be the end of the world. Or at least, a movie about the end of the world.

Ok, so I suppose it was kind of cool. Although my shoes were ruined. That really did annoy me.

Resolve

It’s 11.00am on New Year’s Eve in London, and already I can see from Facebook status updates that celebrations are well and truly underway in my old neck of the woods.

Meanwhile, I still haven’t decided what I’ll be doing tonight. I’ve never been good with the pressure of New Year’s Eve – the expectation to celebrate in some spectacular manner generally results in me holding out too long before committing to a plan (to the universal frustration of my friends who are good enough to still invite me to things).

I also don’t do New Year’s resolutions. Officially, it’s because I think resolutions tend to mask symptoms of a bigger problem. Truthfully, it’s because I have terrible willpower and break resolutions at the first juncture, when I’m supposed to be saying no to that drink. Ironically, the only New Year's resolution I've ever been able to keep is giving up New Year's resolutions.

So instead, I name the year. The idea is that I give the year a theme and all decisions I make ideally should somehow relate to that theme. It’s all about self-betterment (that totally shouldn’t be a word).

I started naming the year after my first trip to Europe actually, back in 2003. That solo trip left me in such awe of a world so different to home that I was inspired to find out more. Much more.

So 2004 became the Year of Learning. I took up Spanish (I didn’t want to touch Italian after the bastardi scammed me dry). I was back at university. I even started learning the Djembe (an African drum, which, upon deeper consideration, I perhaps should have realised would have little practical merit in my day-to-day life. Still, I felt edgy). In short I took as much of the world in as I could from my isolated corner.

It was such a revelation that I continued naming years. 2005 was the Year of Change (in which I changed jobs and living situation…and I gave up the Djembe), followed by the Year of Financial Responsibility – which in truth only lasted as long as my first credit card bill and then became the Year of Spontaneity.

By this time last year, I had worked out I was onto a pretty good thing. So I decided to tempt fate and name 2009 the Year of My Life. I wasn’t disappointed.

I mean, it wasn’t necessarily the best time of my life, but it was certainly a watershed year. I’ve moved hemispheres, survived the global financial crisis, travelled the world participating in best friends’ weddings, learnt hard lessons about the fragility of life, said some tough goodbyes and, importantly, met some amazing people along the way.

Frankly, the Year of My Life was a little exhausting.

But it has set me up for a cracker 2010. I’m totally sold that it will be a great year. I’m in London! I’m earning pounds! I’m turning 30! (I’m totally at peace with it). And as I’ve said earlier, it’s a year of possibilities. Provided I’m open to them.

So I’ve decided to name 2010 the Year of Taking Chances. Basically getting out there and gorging myself on whatever the world dishes up.

In the scariest thing I’ve done since agreeing to sing ‘Dancing in the Streets’ at a college black tie function (I failed miserably), I’ve started this blog (and yes, I know it’s technically still ’09. Stop being astute). My contract is up for renewal in late March – maybe I’ll say 'no thanks' and try my hand at the next thing on offer. Maybe I’ll write something for publication.

I don’t know exactly what I’ll do yet. But I guess that’s the point of taking chances.

And the brilliant thing is, it means I don’t have to give anything up.

So cheers everybody! Here’s to a great New Year.

Where I am

I’m not really one for plans. If you’d asked me a year ago where I’d be today, I’d likely have told you “exactly where I always am”.

I’ve surprised a few people by getting over to London, and staying – not least of all myself. London had always been on my radar, but after years of saying it’s something I have to do, I figured it was destined to become something I wish I had done.

There really was little rational thinking in my decision to finally make the journey. Upon learning that a friend would be late for drinks, I turned to the net to investigate potential frequent flyer flights lest I’d have to face an extra half hour of work. Sure enough, one solitary flight was available (to London via New York, due to a wedding in Mexico). In a rather capricious move, I booked it. And that was that. I was moving to London. No visa. No money. No plan.

I’m still not sure how I pulled it off. I’ve recently learned the concept of synchronicity, which I think is a nice way to explain those three months of adrenalin-charged To Do lists. Basically synchronicity implies that when you choose a course for yourself, the universe will give you a high-five and a packed lunch to keep you going along the way. It sometimes even gives you a piggy-back when things gets tough. I’d like to think that my getting here is proof that the universe really is rooting for me.

I still haven’t figured out why exactly I’m here. It’s a melting pot of reasons I suppose. Of course it’s to see more of Europe (I’m Australian after all). And yes, it’s to get some international experience. I’d also take a bet that it’s a bit of escapism too. But each day I’m tuning into a feeling that perhaps the reason I’m here is to get myself totally and utterly lost.

I’m at that quarter-life crisis age (I’m being a little generous), where I’m not too keen on where I’m heading and I haven’t really loved where I've been. And with the big 3-0 coming up (I’m totally at peace with it) it’s time to do something about it.

So I’m here. To get lost. I know that sounds a few pence short of a pound, but not knowing where to go somehow seems to be a good way of finally getting some clear direction.

I don’t know where I’ll be in six months, let alone another year. Suddenly, 2010 holds a surplus of possibilities, and the only thing I know is that I don't intend to be where I always am.

So I’ll keep you posted on how I’m going. (I’ll also post a few observations on my time in the European Union. They really can be very amusing here). And maybe you can remind me every now and again that I need to keep pushing myself. It's all very well to talk about how wonderful possibilities are from the safety of my laptop, but the truth is, it's also downright scary.

So far I'm doing ok. I’ve booked in some travel. I’m writing a script. I’m finally seriously considering the merits of loving what I do, versus simply being 'well-paid'.

Oh yeah, and I’ve started a blog.