Sven's life in Oz

On the whole, since moving to Australia, I’ve found it fairly easy to adapt to my new life. It’s really not that different to the northern hemisphere, except the water goes down the drain the wrong way and the closest pole is the South. But one thing I have found a real challenge is the upside-down seasonal backwardness that comes with living here. At present we are enduring a particularly biting Australian winter, with frost on the ground and a wind that makes even my European bones shiver. Despite all that, I am still the envy of my peers thanks to a fabulous tan, gained after ten days in the summery sunshine of the New York.

I’ve been to New York before and this time, since I was visiting a friend, it was nice not to have to rush around and do the touristy things again. Nick’s family live a little out of Manhattan in a beautiful country town where we could sit on the dock of the lake at night, drink wine, get bitten by mosquitoes and try to attract the resident bear with imitation mating calls. When we weren’t pestering the local wildlife, we got some target practice with the family guns, of which there were more than enough to fuck you up should you come looking for trouble. Turns out I’m a natural with a firearm; I’m considering jacking in the writing lark and becoming a marksman. I’m sure I could make a mint in downtown Sydney with my wicked skills.

Of course, I didn’t go all that way just to sit out in the countryside getting a tan and beating people at Scrabble and Rummikub; those were just additional benefits. I went to the Met to see a couple of exhibits (including one on Aboriginal art – how’s that for poetic?), caught a Broadway show (Phantom of the Opera – excellent), and spent a day at Six Flags. I also shopped my ass off. I left Australia with one suitcase and came back with two. That’s some serious retail. The total inventory looks something like this:

• 2 x sunglasses
• 2 x jumpers
• 6 x polo shirts
• 2 x formal shirts
• 3 x jeans
• 3 x shoes/trainers
• 2 x bedsheet sets
• 1 x writing set
• assorted gifts/cards etc

Considering I have done virtually no shopping in the past six months, I think I was actually very reserved. I didn’t spend all my holiday cash on clothes, however: I also ate like a king and drank like a fish. You haven’t lived till you’re drunk on champagne in Central Park at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon, thinking that margaritas and mexican food is a good idea. (It isn’t, as your colon will remind you the following morning.) So, while I didn’t see the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building this time, I did see the inside of Vlada and Therapy, which was probably more fun. After all, when was the last time you got home-distilled vodka on the Staten Island ferry?

Photos of my trip (including me looking fierce with firearms) are in the usual place.

In my never-ending quest for random crazy shit to fill my time before I die, I have accrued a highly skilled team of like-minded weirdos who are always up for the same kind of antics as me. (By ‘random crazy shit’, I mean legal random crazy shit, of course: the kind where people say “how did you find out about that?” with mouths agog, as opposed to “what the fuck where you thinking?” with eyes rolling.) One of these side-kicks of fun is my good friend and colleague, Sarah, who seems eerily on my level when it comes to almost anything, including my theories on humans as giant walking tubes, cheap gin, and why lesbians hate everyone. Picture my face when she strolled into my office and told me that she had bumped into two guys who had convinced her that roller derby was the greatest show on Earth and she should book tickets now or just kill herself.

I have known that roller derby is the hottest shit around since I saw Whip It one Saturday night when I was sofa-bound with a hangover. I immediately googled my local roller derby league and liked them on Facebook, followed them on Twitter and subscribed to their RSS feed. I was actively searching for people who would come with me to the first interstate roller derby showdown right here in Sydney not two weeks later. You’re excited now and you’re just reading it: imagine how I felt! We were agreed: it was on.

Enter the third member of the cast of madness: my partner in dog bites and pyjama-clad dining, Nicholas. Back from Atlanta for a limited time only, he was excited long-distance at the prospect of watching teams of butch women race around a track in roller skates and try to beat each other up. Who wouldn’t be? Sarah roped in a couple of her friends, Adrian and Ivana, and the five of us rocked up last Saturday to watch Brisbane eat Sydney’s wheels.

The derby was like an awesome instruction manual in what-the-fuck: no one under 18 could sit trackside in case a skater broke loose and charged into the crowd, I read the programme and the rules were still a complete mystery, and the fans came from every walk and stage of life imaginable. To my left a bunch of skinny emo girls sat patiently watching the action; to my right a group of middle-aged housewife-types were out of their seats and screaming like banshees. There was a Mexican band playing on stage. The half-time entertainment was a pole-dancer. Adrian had been drinking since lunch, Ivana and Nick were conversing in Serbian (what are the chances?) and Sarah and I were getting slowly addled on Bundaberg rum-and-coke out of a can. It was trippy.

After the match (Sydney 106: Brisbane 86. Sucks to be you, Queensland!) we all bundled into cabs and made for the nearest (only?) Baltic restaurant in town. Nick and Ivana could barely contain themselves as they explained to us just how much meat we would be eating. They failed to fully explain the amount of onion that we would be eating with the meat: enough to give you breath that could give a man a stroke from twenty paces. Nonetheless, the prospect of working our way through the equivalent of an abattoir’s daily output was too good to refuse; and, I might add, utterly delicious.

As we sped our way towards our impending meat feast, Sarah suggested that we do something completely out of character every month. I’m buggered if I can think what could possibly beat this, but if I find out, I’ll let you know.

On Friday night, Genevieve and I took part in a brand new night out in Sydney: a mystery dining experience called Secret Foodies. Apparently it’s based on a similar idea in New York, where groups of strangers all meet up at a mystery location and have dinner together under the guise of reviewing the food. Really it’s more of an excuse to go out and meet people, and who can complain about that?

We got our first text notification at around 6pm, telling us which suburb of Sydney to get to, so Gen and I met in the pub beforehand to get a few drinks in before meeting a load of strangers. I find it helps to be half-cut when making new friends. At 7:30 we got the address of the restaurant and jumped in a cab. The taxi took us on a magical mystery tour of the back streets of East Sydney before depositing us outside our venue: Café Pacifico.

The restaurant is crazy: Gen and I were straight on the tequila shots with Bloody Mary chasers while she explained to me (having eaten there before) that dancing on the tables and bar was actively promoted later on in the evening. We took our seats, introduced ourselves to our neighbours and got stuck in. This being an online, multimedia kind of experience we intended to tweet about the food as a kind of live review, but after the first course the drinks kicked in and we couldn’t really be bothered with that any more.

The food was good, although having such a large group it was a bit of a fight to get everything out at once and keep it warm; I had a couple of cold tacos towards the end because (a) it had been sitting around for a while and (b) there was so much food I felt guilty if I didn’t try to finish it off. I hate seeing food go to waste. We did get the chance to make our own margaritas under the instruction of a very well-informed cocktail waiter. (Is there a title there I should be using? It sounds like the kind of job that would have a great name, like ‘mixologist’ or something.) Mine was a triumph, and I enjoyed every drop of it. Naturally after four tequilas, a margarita and a number of beers, it was only a matter of time before I was dancing on the bar with a French girl, a bandit mask and a maraca held together with masking tape. That’s just par for the course.

The night itself was a success. The other diners were generally quite lovely and everyone seemed friendly and chatty. I did my best to pimp Gen out to some guys at the bar and then discreetly leave while she got chatting. The girl needs no help from me, but it’s always nice to feel like you’ve played a part. I flounced about, chatted to some people and drank more as the night went on. Once you’ve danced on the bar you’ve always got something to talk about, no matter who you’re speaking to.

At the end of the night we tripped off to the Green Park Hotel for a drink with Nathan, before sensibly calling it a night at about 1am. A different dining experience, a catch up with friends and an early night? I call that a great Friday.

Things don’t stop happening to me simply because I’m old enough to know better. I may be 30 years old, but I still know how to have a good time. Crazy shit just seems to hunt me down. If all this happened to you in one weekend, you’d be unhinged like me too.

Bitten by a dog

My friend Nick came to stay over ANZAC weekend and I took him to a housewarming party on Sunday afternoon. The original plan was to arrive around 2pm, stay for a few hours and then leave and do some traditional ANZAC stuff like stand in a pub betting on coin-tossing with strangers until closing time. What actually happened was thirteen solid hours of drinking ending on the stage at Stonewall. Somewhere in there photos were taken of me holding a mannequin’s decapitated head, Nathan and I had a glitter fight with a pair of sparkly bowler hats, and in all the excitement the poor dog didn’t know what to do with himself and nipped me quite fiercely on the back of the leg. I still have the scabs to prove it. I’m not sure why people keep asking me if my tetanus is up to date – unless things have switched and you now catch rabies from a rusty nail – but I’m not foaming at the mouth or dead yet, so I think I’m in the clear.

Throwing up in the gutter

In my defence, I had barely had anything to drink on the public holiday Monday, so I don’t believe I deserved this, but having started drinking my own body weight in alcohol the Friday prior, I probably had it coming. Monday evening Nick and I decided that a quiet night was in order, and headed to Blockbuster for a DVD and some crisps. Nick got himself a Thai on the way; I couldn’t face a thing after going to lunch earlier in the day and forcing down some of the richest cuisine in Sydney, despite looking and feeling like a diarrhoetic turd.

The funny thing about being sick is that you know you are going to do it well in advance. There’s obviously some signal that tells your brain things are about to kick off, even though you can’t really feel it in your stomach just yet. I decided to turn around once I got that sign, but as we were at a crossing I had to wait for the traffic to stop before I could run home to vomit. An icy feeling set in as the blood drained out of my face, while hot shivers started across the rest of my body. I made it halfway home before I ran out of time and projectiles of half-digested barramundi, beef souffle, capsicum and courgette flowers came screaming out of my mouth and down the window of Lonsdale. If you work in the Crown Street store, I’m sorry. Poor Nick, on his birthday no less, had to leap three feet backwards to keep his flip-flops clear of the mess, and it was all in vain. What a champion friend I am: come to stay with me for your birthday and I’ll throw up all over your feet. Classy.

Getting locked out

This final treat wasn’t even my fault, though I had been expecting it for some time. Only having one set of door keys is just asking for trouble. My flat is tiny and there was no way anyone could stay here without catching whatever cold I had at the time. Nick, covered in my stomach juices, stood less chance than most. Tuesday I went off to work and he occupied himself with whatever he did that day, culminating in a flu-busting sleep all afternoon. When I got home I rang the bell and waited to be buzzed in. Nothing happened, and I was about to ring again when he appeared at the gate.
“This would have gone really well…if I had both keys.” he said.
It doesn’t take a maths whizz to work out that two locks + only one key = you’re fucked. The real estate agent had closed five minutes earlier so all we could do was call a locksmith and wait. What do Sydneysiders do at 6pm on a weeknight with an hour to kill? They drink, or they eat. Drinking was still off the cards after my ride on the chunderbus, so dinner it was. And that is how I ended up in a Vietnamese restaurant on a Tuesday night with a man in his pyjamas. Now, I don’t know about you, but if being a thirtysomething means more tales like this, then I’m looking forward to the next decade.

Let’s go have fun.

Just when you think you have settled into life in a city and it’s not that different to the last place you lived, you see that the weather tomorrow is predicted to be thirty-nine degrees and you remember that you live in a country where having a camp fire in the summer can land you in jail for fourteen years.  This time last year I set off from Blighty with nary a thought about where I would be one year hence, and here I am, mistakenly feeling as though I have been living here forever.

What a year! Who would have thought this is where I would be? Living alone on the wrong side of the planet nursing my sunburn on a balmy evening before a heatwave kicks in? Well, the sunburn might have been predictable – I am a Brit, after all – but who could have foreseen the rest? I will confess that for the past week or so I have been feeling a little homesick. Well, perhaps homesick isn’t the right word. Lately I have wondered: “what about my life here is so amazing that it wouldn’t be better with the friends I had all the time in England?”. I’m living the same life, working, playing, washing my clothes; I’m just doing it with fewer life-long friends around the corner. Why on Earth did  I bother? It’s easy to get into a funk when your Saturday night involves staying in to do your laundry.

Over the past year I have had some amazing times.  I drove the Manly ferry. I paraded in the Mardi Gras. I drove from Sydney to Melbourne down the Prince’s Highway. The other day I had lunch in Parliament House. I couldn’t have done any of these things in the UK. Very few Australians do any of these things and they have lived here all their lives.  But I still wonder sometimes why I am here and whether I wouldn’t be just as happy back in the UK with my old friends, family close by and a cold Christmas.

To celebrate my one year in Australia I went out onto Oxford Street. James had a prior engagement so I didn’t see him all day, and in the evening I arranged a tweet-up with Jason and Adam. If the hangover is anything to go by, it’s fair to say that a great time was had by all. (Adam doesn’t drink, so perhaps we shall have to find some other way to judge for him.) I spent my 366th day in Australia struggling between my bed and the kitchen as the Book of Revelations held a dress rehearsal in my skull. My vague recollections of the night before involve me dancing like a hooker on a stage, and a range of drinks, the majority of which I am quite certain I did not buy myself. I had a great time with a bunch of people I didn’t know this time last year.

When I finally recovered on Sunday, James and I hit the beach before having some afternoon drinks at a friend’s new place. While we were lying in the sunshine I told him all about the doubts I had been having about living here. He sympathised. Sometimes it can feel as though you are doing it for all the wrong reasons, but he will stick it out till he is eligible for his Australian passport and so will I. It’s nice to have options, and dual nationality is a pretty big opportunity. This past year has gone so quickly that the next three will be gone before you know it and we’ll be pledging our allegiance to the Queen before you know it. We just need to hang in there.

But while I was lying on the sand with the sun beating on my skin, I remembered why we had moved here. I was sitting in the sunshine with my best friend talking about nothing at all. Neither of us had a care in the world. We just had friends leave and we have more coming to stay. Having a job and rent and bills to pay doesn’t mean that the past year has been any less amazing. Having a Christmas on the beach doesn’t mean I don’t miss Christmas in the winter, and having new friends doesn’t mean I don’t miss my old ones. Life is change. Life is knowing that some things are just going to be hard, and getting on with your day anyway. Sometimes I just forget that I’m having the time of my life when I’m standing in the line at the supermarket, as though even the mundane should be filled with fun.

But then I lie on the beach in the middle of November and the rest of the world is quite literally miles away, and I remember that I am actually having the most brilliant time of my fucking life. And it’s pretty freakin’ awesome. And I wish you were all here, but you aren’t, and yes, it sucks, but I’m just loving it. Just…loving it.

Life is short. Here’s to the next year; it’s gone before you know it.