No Regrets

I had a few interesting encounters yesterday evening. After being confined to the house all day by my unwillingness to brave the wind, rain and cold, I was glad to empty the last few drops of milk from the carton. That gave me an excuse to go out, if only for a bit. It was as blustery and unpleasant outside as it had appeared from inside. I decided that the inclement weather warranted a mocha whilst I was out.

I went to a café that I’ve been frequenting lately called Fair Trade Coffee. The woman who took my order there was the same person with whom I’d placed my order for molten apple cinnamon toast the day before. She’s Irish, and I’ve been tempted to ask her what part of the country she’s from. I’m hesitant to start a conversation in this way sometimes because I remember how weary I became with answering that question for everyone who heard me speak in Ireland.

Yesterday it took her a while to make my drink after I’d ordered. Another employee was in visiting, and they were talking for a bit before she started steaming the milk. Her speech was peppered with “fecker,” “fouk,” several other swear words and multiple dropped h’s. The strong lilt to her accent made me guess she was from Cork, and I decided just to ask her when she came over with my drink.

“Are you from around Cork?” I asked as she gently balanced the drink on the arm of the green leather chair I occupied.
“No, I’m from the other side—Kilkenny?” she corrected, her answer ending in a question as to whether I was familiar with the town name. I explained that I’d lived in Ireland last year and had a friend from Cork who I thought sounded like her. We started talking about how long I’d been in Ireland, why and where I’d worked. She perched on the arm of the chair next to me and asked, “Where’d you live?”
“A little south of Dublin in Rathmines,” I said.
“Ah, I was just about to ask if you’d lived in Rat’mines!” she exclaimed. We then commiserated about the difficulty of finding work and she went back to it.

When I left, I wound up tailing three guys walking three wide on the sidewalk. One was commenting on how he doesn’t say it’s spitting anymore when it’s raining because he’d once said that to a girl and she looked around to see who was literally spitting. The way he pronounced the word reminded me of my flatmate in London, Peter, and I guessed they were Kiwi. I was proud to have determined this before the other guy indicated the construction on Glebe Point Road and said, “When I go home to New Zealand and come back in five years, this’ll still be here.”

Eventually I heard the shorter guy walking in the middle say something in French. A couple of tall New Zealanders and a smaller French guy. It reminded me so much of my flatmates in London. I was probably following close enough for them to think I was creepy. But I wanted so badly to hear them conversing about how the Frenchman was a taxee drivair and how he used to “learn” ten-nees when he was in France (he meant teach). I also wanted to join in on their chat, but decided that listening to it was good enough.

The conversations I both had and eavesdropped on made me feel quite content. I wasn’t sure why I’d been so eager to have one and listen to the other. Then I realised that they triggered memories of my experiences abroad. Good memories. And I knew that my time in Sydney would be worthwhile. Despite the thoughts I’ve been having to the contrary lately, I will never regret coming here. In fact, no regrets I may have in life will be the result of travelling.

I know that because had a hard time in Ireland. I never came to like Dublin as a place. But hearing the brogue tonight reminded me of Ireland. Thinking about Ireland made me happy. There are certain elements of that place that were sneakily endearing to me. Similarly, my relationships with my roommates in London were an aspect of that place that I didn’t value appropriately at the time. But I miss J.P. and Peter. Thinking about them makes me happy, too.

No matter what happens here, I will not regret it. If I never find a job, completely run out of money and have to go home I won’t be sorry. It was worth trying. I haven’t grown wonderfully fond of Sydney yet. But I’m sure there will be something about this city that I’ll miss once I’ve left it. There’s something in every place you live that is or will be meaningful. Sometimes it just takes distance to figure it out.