Coming Home...

Yes, it’s true. I’ll be arriving back in Australia on November 6 for the first time in 17 months.

As I write this, I am listening to my favourite track by my band du jour, All These Things That I’ve Done by The Killers. It reminds me of the moment in movies when the protagonist realises exactly what they have to do (they call it Plot Point 2 in the screenwriting biz.). And so your hero(ine) is off running for the plane, making some declaration of love, or the ultimate sacrifice, getting it exactly right...after being an annoying clutz or an evil Svengali for most of the film.

Finally, after months of indecision, everything has crystallised. Typically, it’s because of good career news (more later, folks, I promise) and now I’m sure of what I want to do and how to do it. Instead of procrastination, I’m pitching articles and firing off my resume around the globe, applying for really interesting jobs, confident that, on paper at least, I’m pretty damn spunky.

And then there are all the things I have done since I left home. I have amazed myself: seen the worst and the best of what I can be...not that I’m telling ;-)

Dammit, I’m genuinely bilingual now. A couple days ago, I had my first bureaucratic argument in German on the phone...something that’s difficult (or at least stressful) in my native language. Imagine, those evil overlords were going to put me on a 36-hour flight without giving me anything to eat. Gluten-free food is not difficult to prepare, and I think the poor stewards and stewardesses would have seen a very unpleasant side of my personality had I not been successful in getting my point across.

OK, so I’m not actually staying in Australia that long. It’s looking likely that I’ll be back in Berlin or Bonn in January, freezing, freezing January. But I haven’t figured out everything in Germany, and then there’s Europe. I’ve got my eye on that too. I’m in the process of analysing pretty much everything here...pulling a people apart through examining what they eat, how they talk, how they treat the disenfranchised, employer-employee relations and more. In the meantime, I’ve gotta see you guys. In particular my Swiss-Italian housemate, Elia, who’s can’t stop talking of the ten months he recently spent there, has been reminding me of how truly awesome my home country is.

And what loyal friends I have. I’ve been gone a long time, and you’re staying in touch, there for me. I’ve known some of you for 16 years, and it’s still kicking, thanks to Skype, Yahoo Messenger and email. And there’s my family. Even though my poor mother has cancer, she’s still willing for me to read my articles out to her over the phone and give me feedback before I send them to my editor. As for JC, maybe you understand me better than anyone...sometimes, at least.

So I invite everyone to one of the first things I’ll do when I get off the plane (after a helluva lot of sleep, naturally). Come with me to Balas in St Kilda. Get take-away from the bain marie, because it’s the only place I’ve ever been to where the bain marie food is better. Ah, the mystery of Balas. I’ll be getting the Red Pumpkin Curry, of course, but knock yourself out...pick whatever you like. It’s cheap, because I’ve been going there since I was a student. And first we’ll walk down Acland Street, past the traditional Jewish bakeries, the Hungarian eatery, the Italian diner where the mafia do business (my friend told me, and she used to waitress there...so it MUST be true!), indie and emerging designer clothing stores, the felafel shop where they give out free samples...yum!, and where the beautiful and interesting mix with prostitutes and druggies in jaywalking languidly across the road. Man, that is one of the most annoying streets to drive down in Melbourne! If it aint the tram, then you have some space cadet transvestite wearing a mixture of Prada and vintage over moonboots standing in the middle of the road while you toot your horn eyeing you, “What? You wanna drive down MY street!”

So after we’ve squizzed at Luna Park and the most famous image of Melbourne, and reflected on the irony of juxtaposing it with the MacDonalds across the road, we get back to our takeaway, and head on to the beach, a two-minute walk away.

And then, sit, watch the joggers and the bladers going along the path, the sea, the beach, and eat our dinner as the sun sets. It is truly one of the most beautiful things to do in Melbourne, and very simple. And Bourke Street, is it still that mixture of ugliness and centrality and comfort that I remember? I once spent hours having a discussion about prom dresses and John Hughes outside Mariana Hardwick (the dress shop that every teenage girl dreams of patronising) with my friend Hell. As for Brunswick Street, I have watched her grow, probably spending half my life there, after I gave my allegiance to Fitzroy, the suburb that is just that little more me than anywhere in Melbourne.

But really, Fitzroy is the home of the bourgeousie now, and so maybe I’ll head one suburb north to Northcote, the Melbourne equivalent of Kreuzberg, where I’m now staying in Berlin.

To finish, I’ll attempt to compare Melbourne to Berlin. For starters, if you’re from inner-city Melbourne and dress that way, people will think you’re a Berliner. The gig might be up once you start talking, though, so why not pretend to be mute? People keep on asking me for directions here, and half the time I’m lost anyway, so it’s kind of embarrassing.

Here’s my thoughts on the correlations between districts in Berlin and Melbourne (feel free to dispute this, it’s in development):

Hackesche Markt : St. Kilda, Prahran
Mitte : Carlton, South Yarra
Prenzlauer Berg : Fitzroy
Kreuzberg : Northcote
Potsdam : Belgrave (more in the figurative than the literal sense)
Spandau : Doncaster.

OK, so I don’t miss Doncaster. Not one bit.

See you soon! CC