The Four H's

Before coming here, I had to attend a lecture wherein I was told that I would go through the four stages of exchangeitude, called the four H's, these were:

• Honeymoon period- where everything is great, all the songs on the radio are about you and you're getting near constant lovin' (mom, dad please stop reading)
• Homesickness- you start to miss your friends, family, more reasonable prices, less noisy birds, more comprehensible accents, shorter games of cards, properly labelled Rice Krispies...
• Hostility- this university is silly, why can't they do more like Edinburgh does? I mean, that's the better system, clearly, so just stop being so contrary, Australia and just do what we tell you!
• Happiness- ok, it has its flaws, but at least there are no squirrels to worry about. I'm content.

I don't know which H I'm in- obviously, I'd like to say happiness, but I don't remember going through hostility ('cepting X-bar, but that's hardly Melbourne-specific), and I'm definitely not homesick (see below), meaning I must be in the Honeymoon period. This is worrying because it means all that other stuff's still to come. I can't imagine what I'll get homesick over (the last time was my bathtub), because I've pretty much replaced all my friends- I just need a Rik and a proper Daniel (Darryl has an accent, but that's pretty much where the similarities end). And hostility seems outlandish- I love it here! The lectures are more engaging (yet again, barring syntax), the campus eateries are more varied...writing this out has made me realise I am definitely in the honeymoon period. Well, damn. However, this does have an upside- I should have a bit of honeymoon left when the Pliant one begins his, meaning I won't feel miserable by comparison. Huzzah.

Quick side note: I skyped the 'rents yesterday, and it was exactly the same conversation we have when I talk to them back home: my mom worries I'm not getting out enough, my dad worries I'm spending too much and they both agree I don't contact them enough. If I'd recorded the conversation and bleeped out proper nouns (oh god, I'm flashing back to X-bar) it would have been indistinguishable from the dozens of other times I've skyped them. But, more to the point, we hadn't spoken for 34 days, and the conversation lasted 47 minutes. My mother said she felt it lasted long, but that it was only because we hadn't spoken for so long. By this mathematics, my mom wants us to talk for 98 seconds every day. Half that, and you've got yourself a deal, mother.
Of course, I shouldn't be so harsh, they are, after all, paying for me to be here (mum's defense, not mine). This, however, will not stop me being so harsh. Huzzah.

Solitario Ror-hey!

So, today my parents left for Spain (it's alright for some- I'm just slumming it in Australia!), and will not be contactable by email during this time. Father instructed me to phone should the need for assistance arise, but alack, my mobile doesn't seem to work in the land of Oz.
I am on my own.
Granted, it's only for two weeks, which is not a lot of time; I've been out of contact with my parents for longer, certainly. But this time I am on the other side of the world, in a country where I am still very new; where I can't just make a transfer from my savings account if I mismanage my funds, because it takes a long time to transfer; where I can't contact Orla or Moira if something comes up.
I am on my own.
I understand I'm being melodramatic and that, most likely, this fortnight will pass without incident (I am trying to kick my habit of knocking on wood- right now is an ordeal, to say the least. It's just the knowledge that, should some thing go awry (this word should not rhyme with my name, Esmond), I will have to brave the storm without parental guidance. I could fall so much further than I ever have before, but I could also soar to new heights.
I am on my own.
Time to kick ass.

I wish we didn't need wishes

I'm pretty sure one of the Goosebumps books extolled 'be careful what you wish for'- evidently I Did Not Learn. After posting yesterday's gushing swansong, I learnt that I would not in fact leave the Burgh that day- the heavens had conspired, decided that hiding the modern gospel in children's horror books was evidently not working and then opened, flooding Newcastle and showering Lancaster in mud and generally cutting off Scotland from the outside world (read: England.) So, I guess I was not the only one who needed to be taught not to make wishes; all those who have been calling for Scotland to indeed fly the nest have seen just what such a separation will do to their nation's train stations. They're just lucky they weren't on the train I finally managed to catch- I wouldn't wish that on anyone.

Yet, not for me the furrowed brow, as it means I got some extra time to fritter away with the good lady Freya, who was positively incandescent with mystery and wit. And I still managed to make it home in time to catch my sister and use up a year's worth of conversation in five hours, forty minutes, so we shan't feel cheated when I depart. So, heavens, I applaud you- I've been taught not to make idle wishes yet not suffered any real consequences for my actions- and isn't that the best and most reliable way to learn? You may have to try harder with the SNP, though.

How I'll meet your father

My parents met in South America. Both were university graduates, working in completely different fields, who just happened to be in Arrequipa simultaneously. My dad wasn’t even meant to stay for all that long- he was meant to fix a problem then leave; six weeks, no more.

It was two years when he finally returned.

I have no idea after what amount of time he met my mother, it may well have been within those first six weeks, but in my mind it was at least half a year in to his seemingly unending sojourn. I love the arbitrarity of it- how easily they could not have met, how close I came to never existing.

This is partly why I want to meet someone in Australia- I want a great story, like my parents. And, let’s be honest, even if I meet him at a bus spotting convention held in a public library, it’ll be a great story simply because it was filmed on location on the other side of the world to where all my previous anecdotes had transpired.         

And I REALLY want to meet someone. All my female friends are sure I will; the phrase ‘aussie hunk’ has been bandied around, no doubt fuelled by Neighbors and its endless parade of speedo clad beefcake. I won’t pretend I’d say ‘ no’ if I were offered. Let’s be honest, I’d gorge myself on that beefcake.

The problem is, I think I’m expecting to meet someone, as though it were a god-given right. Sadly, I felt the same coming to uni in Edinburgh, and look how that turned out. It’s not good because it means my year will probably be a disappointment in at least one aspect, because unless I literally meet the love of my life down there, it won’t match up to the portent I’ve granted it. And the whole thing of my story beginning in the Amazon (well, technically in Peru, but can’t I have a little dramatization?) because, now, in my head, that’s what my family does. We find love in the exotic locales of the world. Nevermind that my sister met her current squeeze in Nottingham, nor that my maternal grandparents found each other in the village where Balley Kiss Angel was set.

Alack.

Of course, another reason I’d love to meet someone in Australia is that it would blow my sister’s story out of the water and automatically make me the most interesting person in my family. And it would be so romantic because I’d have a lover on the other side of the world and we’d skype all the time in fourth year and it’d be a relief from all the studying and I’d get to say my antipodean paramour because I’m pretentious like that and then I’d move back to Oz once I’d graduated and we’d live together and have so many wild adventures and then we’d get adopt a baby which I’m not sure is legal over there and then we’d get married which I’m certain is not. But we wouldn’t just stay in Australia, oh no, we’d live all over the world and I’d visit Arrequipa and find that it wasn’t quite as romantic as the public library of Wangabanga and then when I died everyone would reflect on my life and be all ‘goddamn but that man was interesting’.

Is that so much to ask?