The plan was simple:

  • 2 years abroad. 
  • Get a job. 
  • Dander through Europe. 
  • Pop back. 
  • Crack on. 

 

Nice and simple: no worries, no stress. Not only would this allow me to afford an extended OE, but it was the perfect excuse to avoid throwing myself into a panic masters, or worse, still be a Nexus Editor… Now I’m three-years-deep with a blinding Irish glow, an offer for a Masters applied for during a purposeless daze, along with a series of recurring border closure themed night terrors. However, when you’re a month into a new city and a global pandy forces you to switch your very temporary plan into ‘home for the foreseeable’ – chances are you’ll very quickly seek comfort in the bingey “ah yeah might go back to uni aye” culture you adored in Hamilton East. 

 

While this may just be my post St Paddy’s scaries, it’s clear that I’ve missed out on a good portion of my 20’s completely isolated from my best mates, and despite constantly reminding myself that they’ll still be there when I eventually return, there will forever be this haunting chunk where we grew apart because the thought of going home felt like failure. Maybe I’ll constantly go through waves of regretting the decision to stay, or maybe I’m just romanticising this idea of the home that never existed. Regardless, there’s something worthwhile in taking the risk to restart and make somewhere temporary a little more permanent; however, if I had the chance to impart some sage wisdom to a clammy mouth breather clutching a ticket to Dublin on the 4th of March 2019, I would. 

 

  • If the plan is to travel, fuck off and travel. By setting a time limit on being intrepid, you’ll forever have an idealistic ‘home’ that you’ll never shake. I’m sure it’s different when you set out to settle down, but it was a rookie mistake to plan on being a backpacker with a constant eye on LinkedIn Jobs. All this achieved was an unshakable guilt upon realising I was 2 years deep, with minimal travel, and a career away from home. Don’t just sack it because you’re broke. 
  • Embrace Australia. Although we’re the rightful centre of our own universe, the geographically challenged northern hemisphere dwellers find us forgettable. Now the idea of enlightening the masses to the existence of our glorious homeland sounds great in theory, but there’s only so many times you can rattle through the ABs, Ardern, LOTR, Korg, etc before it’s easier to pretend you’re from Sydney, and that you definitely recognise the name of the Subway guy’s sisters best friend who lived there for 6 months. 
  • The shit tier impressions never end. There’s a special twinkle in someone’s eyes right before they crack out the most passionately dog shit “Giday meit! Chack a shimp on tha bahbee!!” I understand this is far from ground breaking, but that twinkle still causes my spinal cord to violently detach.

 

Some inherent fear of settling led me to abandon any sense of ‘home’ in favour of some vaguely seminal hunt for ‘more,’ and while it’s clear I haven’t always had the luck of these pasty locals, I’m still stoked to not be in the gutters of Greensboro. Hindsight’s dandy though – that clueless cunt with a one way ticket never would’ve listened, instead I’m almost certain if they’d be writing the same introspective shit aimed at enlightening the trainwreck of their first year self. Alas, would you expect anything less from a former editor who clearly peaked in 2017? 

 

I still need to wander through Europe, but if there’s never any clarity on ‘home’, maybe it’s time to pop back. 

 

Crack on.