The sidewalk was sprinkled with blossoms and the air redolent with frangipani. I was still shaking off the fog of jet lag, and absorbing the novelty of this new environment: exotic birds and flowers, new (and often incomprehensible) accents, streets filled with cafes and the delicious aroma of espresso, and the ubiquitous Vegemite, sausages, and beetroot.
As I walk along the city sidewalk, I look down and again see the frangipani blossoms. A year has passed. A year since we left everything and everyone behind to come to this strange land, to explore the world outside of what we knew.
It has been a year filled with highs and lows. Good things have happened, mostly in the form of wonderful new friendships. I’ve made good progress, both in forging a freelance career, and in immersing myself in the characters and events of the novel I’m writing. As 2015 came to a close, I finally saw my first kangaroo, and got to venture out away from Sydney somewhat, to see a little more of this country.
There were low points as well. I struggled to understand how systems work here, pulled out my hair at the lack of customer service, especially the terrors of renting. I’ve struggled with home sickness, watching from afar as my grown children faced struggles of their own, and me feeling so distant and useless to help them through. Depression, fueled by feelings of isolation, crept up on me and hit hard in October. With the support of my husband, I pulled through, counting each day I was still alive as a major success.
As summer unfurled, with explorations into this land and an influx of nature energy, along with the building of new friendships, at last I started to feel like this was a home. Over the past year, I’ve felt very transient, a feeling that began with four months of living in a practically empty house while waiting for our household goods shipment to arrive.
Our rental had many problems, from moldy ceilings and walls, to a shower that delivered a nasty shock, and property management that completely disregarded our concerns. We didn’t know if we wanted to renew the lease on this place when the time came, or look for another.
While during most hours of the day I enjoy living in Australia, and have no burning desire to live in the U.S. again, especially under the current conditions, I do know now that I have to be nearer my family. I want my grandchildren, present and future, to be able to pop over when they want to. I need my children to come over for Sunday dinner.
Knowing we’d just be packing up again, I wasn’t invested in nesting and making the space between these walls into an actual home. I wasn’t motivated to decorate anything beyond the living room, and I didn’t want to purchase anything – like an expensive stand mixer or those beautiful celadon porcelain cups at the market – that would have to be left behind or stood the possibility of breaking on an ocean voyage.
We had come to the conclusion, from talking to other renters, that moving house would likely just trade one set of problems for another. The shower shock had resolved itself at the same time that a light in the bathroom burned out. I had gotten a handle on the mold, and armed with a dehumidifier, thought I’d be able to battle the wet, cold season to come.
Having finally come to the place of accepting this as home, even if only for a couple years more, I decided I was ready to nest. So we went to IKEA and bought bookshelves. I built one, put it in the kitchen, unpacked my cookbooks and styled the shelves. I was just choosing the perfect wall spot for a photographic calendar of Scotland sent across the pond from our new friends, when we got word that our lease would not be renewed. The owner requires the unit, probably to fix all the repairs we requested and then rent it for more. We are sorely tempted to replace that light bulb.
So now we’re out looking again. So much of what is on offer in the way of rentals is hideous, with dirty worn carpets that the agencies list as “as new”, to toilets in one room and the shower in another way down the hall.
Living without a car impacts our choice of area. Completely aside from the issue of public transport, we have set up our lives here in this suburb. It’s close to our friends, Craig’s work, our doctor, the pharmacist who compounds my thyroid medicine, our favorite farmers market, and the little family owned corner market and its proprietor, Joe.
I briefly entertained the idea of moving closer to the eastern beaches, but when I thought what that meant in terms of starting over from scratch, and how far it would be from my social network and support system, I couldn’t face it, ocean or no ocean.
We are waiting now, to hear if we’ve been approved for a lovely townhouse in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood, close to public transport. We should have heard by now and my mind is tempted to fill with negative thoughts. I’m trying to visualize us in that house, with the gleaming wooden floors and the (almost) normal size oven, and most of all, that little room upstairs with a window looking out on the leafy street, where I can sit and write. I’m ready to get started on our second year in this still strange land that I grow to love more and more every day.