Thwarted

My new direction contains a few more bumps in the road than I expected. I was certain that once I expanded my options I’d have a job within a week. A week has passed. I don’t have a job. I’m feeling thwarted. Very little seems to be turning out properly at the moment. Some days it’s comical. Some days it’s downright depressing. I was revelling in the former yesterday and am tending towards the latter today.

The most recent example is my attempt to keep pursuing front-of-house theatre work by sitting for the Responsible Service of Alcohol certificate. I was determined to take the course as soon as my money completed its electronic journey from the US to Australia. My frighteningly diminishing funds cleared on Thursday, and I promptly registered online for the course being taught on Saturday.

My name wasn’t on the list when I arrived.
“Oh, I don’t see myself on the list,” I said, pleadingly seeking assistance from the woman manning the sign-in table. After a thorough verbal investigation of how I’d registered, she perkily told me that the course was full but I’d be allowed to take it if someone else didn’t turn up.
“But I paid online already,” I protested, very reluctant to have arisen early on a Saturday and made the 20 minute trip into the city centre for no reason.
“Did you get a confirmation?”
“They sent me a text.” Drat. I’d thought that was a bit suspicious at the time. Apparently my suspicion was correct.
“Well, we won’t be able to give you your certificate until we’ve verified that you paid for the course,” she said. “What we can do is have you sit the course today and call on Monday to make sure your payment’s gone through. Then you can come pick it up once we have all the details.”
So instead of walking out with confirmation of having passed the RSA like everyone else in the class, I have to spend Monday tracking it down.

That incident, had it been isolated, would not have ruffled me much. But it’s another addition to a host of small problems (many involving the Internet and payment for it) that, taken together, are making me increasingly frustrated and decreasingly confident. Or maybe, that incident, had I a job, would not have ruffled me much. I’m fairly certain the responses I’ve been receiving from my efforts are the main thing that’s irking me.
“Someone will call you back.” (I have yet to receive a call back when told I would).
“If they were going to call you they would have already.”
“We’ll contact you in another 10 business days to let you know if you’ve been shortlisted."
“Your application was unsuccessful.”
Or no response at all, which is most common.

Given all the piddly frustrations and the sheer stasis of the job search so far, I expect that something has to look up soon. While it didn’t include a concrete offer of employment, last week wasn’t a complete wash. I received a call from a temp agency (the only one of the seven to which I’ve applied and follow-up-called to contact me) and went in for an interview with them on Thursday. It was a surprisingly enjoyable experience, since I’m still going through that initial infatuation with Australian phrases. “Hi, how you going?” the receptionist chirped cheerily as I walked in. This set the tone for my jovial interview a few minutes later. The interviewer frequently interjected, “Oh, good-O!” if I said something that pleased her. This infatuation also factored into the RSA course. Hearing “GOATee” instead of “goaTEE,” “trollied” instead of drunk and other random words made the class far more entertaining than it probably should have been.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of a new week. My fourth in Sydney. I haven’t given up yet. And some good things have been happening as well. But it’ll be easier to focus on those when I’m running on more than four hours of sleep.

Hitting the Streets

It seemed strangely fortuitous that I woke up to clouds and sprinkles today. Perhaps just because it was different from the long string of warm and absolutely clear days Sydney has had lately. Perhaps because it reminded me of London. I was planning to start the new branch of my job search today, and I found the weather strangely motivating. I discovered a library and its printing services yesterday, so went there straight away this morning to print out a stack of resumes for different purposes—theatre jobs and café jobs. I decided yesterday that working in a theatre would be fun, so I decided to pursue that in addition to café work.

I walked out to find the bus to Circular Quay waiting at the stop right across the street. I trotted across the intersection and boarded, intending to visit the four theatres clustered together in the Rocks area near the Opera House. The bus driver was cranky and the jerking motion of stopping and starting made me quite carsick. But that failed to make me feel downtrodden. It was lunchtime when I alighted in the Rocks. I figured that anyone who managed front-of-house staff would be eating, so I decided to do the same.

I wandered until I noticed a kebab stand. The food was a decent price and the structure itself didn’t look nearly as dodgy as most kebab shops do. I think grime is actually a hallmark of a respectable kebab place, but it’s still something I can do without. I ordered a falafel with tabouli and hummus sauce and enjoyed it quite immensely. The packaging was very innovative. It’s usually impossible to eat a kebab without half of its contents spilling out. But this kebab was wrapped in paper and slipped into a foil-lined sleeve. You simply pull out part of the kebab, roll up the resulting slack at the bottom of the foil sleeve and tear off the paper to eat it. Genius!

I crossed under the Harbour Bridge after lunch, and the rain began to fall quite a bit harder. Rivulets of cold water dripped off my umbrella and down the back of my shirt as I approached the theatre area. I was happy at the prospect of taking shelter. But my time outside didn’t end simply because I’d found the building. It looked nothing like I’d expected. It was a low, grey, wooden structure that occupied the entire length of a pier built out into the harbour. I slogged to the end of the pier through the gathering puddles, looking for the Bangarra Dance Company. I saw numerous fire doors, but no appropriately marked entrance.

I turned round and headed for the more visible entrance to the Sydney Dance Company section of the building. The space I entered looked like a cursorily renovated warehouse. The floors were constructed of well-trod diagonal wooden planks. Rows of windows were located near the ceiling and the floor, admitting a grey, hazy light that added to the careworn atmosphere. Thick, square, diagonally slanted slabs of wood obscured the top row of panes. A hip, bustling café counter was located near the door, and ambient house music throbbed through some suspended speakers. I loved it.

After wandering the interior for a bit, I saw a sign stating that the Administrative Offices were upstairs. I climbed the open, winding steps to find an empty reception desk just inside a glass-walled office. I timidly stepped inside, and a confused-looking man sitting just beyond the desk stood up to attend to me.
“I was wondering if you happen to be hiring,” I said.
“Wot, are you a teacher?” he inquired.
“No…I was wondering if you had any sort of front-of-house roles.”
His expression changed from quizzical to amused and slightly disdainful as he said no.

I was a bit put off, but not deterred. I went next door to the Sydney Theatre Company and dropped my CV off with their much friendlier receptionist. When I left I happened upon a map that showed me where the Bangarra administrative offices were located. I traced my steps back to the end of the pier, again without finding an appropriate door. I turned back once more and entered the only door I could open without setting off an alarm. Once inside, a piece of paper taped to a heavy beige door informed me that the Bangarra Administrative Offices lay just beyond. I’m not sure all the effort was well spent. The receptionist gave me the company’s card, saying that I should email my resume because all the entire production staff was on tour until the second week of November.

Shortly after leaving the pier, I happened upon the Sydney Theatre and decided to try my luck there. My shoes squeaked obnoxiously as I crossed the floor to the box office. The sole worker there said that they were always on the lookout for front-of-house staff.
“Do you have an RSA?” she asked. Huh? A what? I grudgingly had to display my ignorance.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a Responsible Serving of Alcohol certificate.”
“No, I don’t,” I answered. I assume she’d already gathered that, since I didn’t even know what one was. She said that since front-of-house staff man the bar sometimes, she thought they were required to have an RSA. But she took my resume anyway and assured me she’d pass it on.

I attempted to find my way back to George Street, where I would find the two additional theatres I was planning to visit that day. I soon had no idea where I was. It was thrilling. I had my map in my messenger bag, so I could easily have figured out my coordinates. But I resisted looking at it. I had a good sense of which way I needed to go in order to reach George Street, and my roundabout route took me down a few new streets. When I emerged onto George Street, I saw a sign for Martin Place right over the road. Perfect! That was just where I needed to go!

I wound my way around a corner to the City Recital Hall and queried the box office attendant as to whether they were hiring.
“I’m not sure, but I can take your CV and pass it on,” he said. I was in the process of extracting it from its folder when he added, “You need an RSA to work in a front-of-house role.”
“I don’t have that,” I said disappointedly, thankful I now knew what it was.
“Everyone who works in a job where they serve alcohol needs to have one,” he stated matter-of-factly. I put my folder back in my bag.
“Do you know how I go about getting one? Is it a course?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s a one or two day course. A lot of places do them. Just Google RSA. It usually costs about $80.”

Right. I decided to skip going to the last theatre until I had obtained said RSA. On the way home, I did made one last stop at the Fair Trade Coffee Company. I’d gone in the day before to inquire about whether they were hiring.
“We’re having a few people on and just seeing how they go,” the woman replied. “Do you have your CV?”
I didn’t at the time, but said I’d bring it by. I dipped in today to drop it off. It’s a relaxed, comfortable, slightly hippie café. Having a nose ring seems to be a prerequisite for working there, so I think I’d fit right in.

I didn’t get hired quite as fast as I thought I might today. But the process of searching was surprisingly fun. Despite the rain, going about and talking to people is much more enjoyable than sitting at home and typing a string of inquiry emails. I’m still inspired. Once my money finishes its electronic journey from the US to Australia, I’ll probably book myself into one of the RSA courses. Unless the café calls back first. I still don’t know what’s going to happen from here. But I’m getting used to liking that again.

A New Direction

I have days here that are better and worse, easier and harder. Yesterday was worse and harder. I was missing Andy particularly badly and feeling stressed about still not having found a job. Plus, I was already bored and faced a day frighteningly devoid of responsibilities or ideas on how to enjoy my leisure. The prospect of an entirely empty day spent by myself can make me anxious and uneasy for some reason. This was yet another in a long string of such days.

I eventually tried to kill some time by walking to Circular Quay, where the Opera House is located. My wanders there were plagued by discomfort and a frustratingly implacable discontent. It was the same unsettled feeling that has pervaded most of my days lately. Since I’ve already been to Circular Quay three or four times in the past two weeks, going there again didn’t help to change my dismal attitude. What did was reading my friend Erinn’s blog when I got home.

Erinn is a fellow expat. She relocated to Canada about a month before I left for Australia. She has also been facing a job search, displacement, and an unprecedented amount of free time. What she does with that free time is what particularly encouraged me. She writes, reads voraciously, ponders what she’s read, wanders, people-watches and makes plans for the future. A lot of that is what I have been doing in Sydney or used to do in London and Dublin.

Reading about her activities, and what interesting things have come out of them, made me realise that I’ve been looking at my Australian experience the wrong way. Having excessive free time isn’t bad. I just have to use it more constructively. I spoke with my parents yesterday, and my mom mused that if nothing else, this would be a good time for soul-searching. She’s right.

I have some soul-searching to catch up on. I’d postponed a lot of it while I was home, since I was wrapped up in my developing relationship with Andy and making logistical plans for Australia. I was disinclined to do a thorough examination of certain parts of my life that I was frustrated with—namely my job. I’m at a stage where I’m not really sure what I want to do for a career. I thought that would sort itself out once I arrived here. I had been looking at my time in Australia as an opportunity to find a job I loved and wanted to work in no matter where I lived.

But having clearance to work for one company for only six months is not conducive to being hired for a career-advancing job. The lack of responses I’ve received from the multitude of places I’ve applied is simply depressing. Even the temp agencies won’t contact me, and I get maddeningly fobbed off when I try to call and follow up. So my new plan is to take a more casual sort of job. It may not be the job of my dreams, but using my time here to figure out what the job of my dreams is would still be a worthwhile endeavour.

Andy encouraged this bud of an idea wholeheartedly. When I confessed my frequent thought of the day—that I almost hoped I wouldn’t find a job and would have to go home early—he was adamant that I shouldn’t give up. He said he could sense that I wasn’t fully engaged with my Sydney experience and suggested I do something immediately to make myself enjoy it more. Volunteering was one option he mentioned. I hadn’t thought about that before, but it’s a prospect I’ve become excited about. I could, for example, work at a café and use whatever day I have off to volunteer at an art museum.

After receiving so much indirect and direct encouragement, I have renewed energy for my job search. I also have a new attitude about being here. I’m on walkabout. I might as well follow the Australian example and enjoy it.

People and Place

I have frequently been at a loss lately. I really don’t know what I’m doing here. At first the whole point was to be anywhere but the US. Now I’m rethinking that, and reflecting on my previous abroad experiences. During my initial study abroad experience in London, I had unforgettable moments and developed an exhilarating independence. I also found closer friends than I’d ever had before. It wasn’t quite the same when I went back. I still loved the city, but I remember being lonely a lot.

I was desperately lonely in Dublin for a while as well. And though I never developed a particular affection for the place, I eventually solidified friendships that made my experience there a lot better. I was also still enchanted with the expat lifestyle. I was having incredible adventures, growing out of my shyness and developing my writing. I absolutely dreaded going home. So much so that I made a plan before I left Ireland to travel to Sydney in less than a year.

But I was taken by surprise. My life went in an unforseen new direction when I fell in love with Andy. And I realised that contentment has a lot less to do with where you live than I’d originally imagined. It’s all about connection. Having people that you care for in a place can change it entirely. That has a great deal to do with why I fell so hard for London initially. That eventually made the difference in Dublin. That completely upended my experience at home. That is what I’m lacking in Sydney.

As a result of my originally discovering it with flatmates I cared about, I have a tremendous affinity for London as a place. I’d often use that as a substitute for connection with people when I was lonely. I can do that a little bit with Sydney. It’s a cool city. But I’m lacking the absolute need to be here that I felt in London.

At first I thought that was just down to Andy not being here. A lot of it is. I miss him terribly, and our separation is, unfortunately, as difficult as I feared it would be. But it doesn’t have everything to do with Andy. A lot of it is just not having formed connections here yet. That will come.

For now I’m homesick. Wherever home may be. Part of it’s in England. Part of it’s in Ireland. Part of it’s in the US. And part of it’s in France. Because this has nothing to do with place. It’s the people that make it home.

Gastric Lament

I have been eating on a budget in Sydney. And I have been eating some pretty bad food. Not intentionally. I harbour a great hatred of spending money on a bad meal. It’s so unsatisfying and disappointing. But food prices here seem ridiculously high, the facilities in my hostel discourage me from cooking anything more complicated than pasta, and I’m not making any money. So I’ve been opting for cheap. I thought I was doing a good job of being discriminating, but not so.

The most recent run-in with bad cuisine occurred today at a take-away salad shop in the mall near Bondi Beach. The salad part of the salad was fine. It was the chicken in this dish that was particularly offensive. The first piece I ate was normal. The second was un-chewable. I had to pull the mass of what was decidedly not consumable chicken out of my mouth. The third had a disconcerting fishy taste.

After this, I examined the poultry more carefully. It was unbelievably thin, and most of the pieces I looked at were veined with gristle. I pushed the remaining slices to one corner of the take-away box and concentrated on isolating the greens. Unfortunately the disgusting meat had contaminated either the salad or my tastebuds and left me craving anything that would banish the foul flavour from my mouth. A Cadbury Time Out bar served that purpose quite nicely.

I’ve had particularly bad luck with Indian fare. A lamb vindaloo I ordered has the distinction not only of being the worst curry I’ve ever had, but probably the worst food. I enjoy Indian dishes because they’re hot. A good curry makes me sweat and makes my nose run. I want a vindaloo that leaves me gulping down every liquid within arm’s length, desperate to salve the third-degree burns in my mouth. This vindaloo had no spice. Actually, it had no flavour aside from that of the lamb. And that was bordering on rancid. I ate as much of it as I could tolerate and then closed the container, gagging a little.

After this experience, I don’t know why I risked buying bottled madras sauce from the grocery store a few days later. I certainly regretted it. My faith rested on a bottled green curry sauce I’d bought in Ireland that was quite good. This is not Ireland. It turned into yet another meal that I had to choke down, wincing at the odd tang of the spices.

But I am not yet despairing of ever finding tasty cuisine in Sydney. There have been a few bright spots. I stopped at an unassuming chippie near the beach tonight for dinner and ate the best plate of fish and chips I’ve ever tasted. I don’t know what kind of fish it was, but it was hot and light and flaky. The tang of the lemon and vinegar offset the buttery batter flavour perfectly.

Then when I got home I had a few of the TimTam biscuits I bought yesterday. They’re chocolate wafers with chocolate filling covered with dark chocolate. They’re crispy and creamy and…chocolaty. I can already see myself coming home with a stockpile of them. And I think they’ll be my exclusive meal option from now on.

Slightly Down Down Under

I love being an expat. I think. I’m not so sure at this point of my antipodean adventure. I forgot all the hard work and stress involved in establishing myself in a different country. I forgot how much of a confidence-shaker having no job and no home really is. I forgot the boredom and the loneliness.

This initial shock reminds me of my first few weeks in London. How I’m feeling now mirrors that experience nearly exactly. It involved frantically searching for jobs and flats and panicking at the prospect of not finding one or the other soon enough. That was combined with the boredom of not having a job to go to and not wanting to spend money I’m not earning on going out. That gave me a lot of time to dwell on missing people back home.

My experience in Sydney so far is pretty much the same. Except this time there are additional factors thrown in. I knew London. I had connections there. I had a friend there who met me at the airport and let me stay with her for two weeks. The same was true in Dublin. Here, I know no one and I’ve never even visited Australia before. And now I have a boyfriend on the other side of the world.

The last bit has proven more difficult than I anticipated. My communications with Andy have been uncertain. We are both having Internet troubles. The free wireless my hostel promised has only worked one day out of the seven I’ve been there. Andy has found Skype and gchat blocked in most places where he can access the Internet. But we’ve both bought our own wireless services now and should be able to talk more easily. And when we can talk, Andy has been a great source of encouragement.

This is, I hope, the worst stretch. Though it seems slow, I have made progress. I found a flat this week and will move in on 9 October. This is the first time that my flat search has gone so smoothly. It’s never been particularly hard; I’ve never had to look at more than three places before finding something suitable. But this time I loved the very first place I saw. The room I will have is huge and extends to my own private deck.

And, Sydney is awesome. Once I become fully settled I think I will absolutely love it here. On my first day I went to the Opera House. That was not the earth-moving experience I thought it would be, but the neighbouring Royal Botanic Gardens were. All the plants and wildlife are so new and interesting to me. I’ve yet to see any kangaroos, koalas, wallabies or platypi, but the cockatoos, small parrots and gigantic fruit bats flying around are amazing to see.

If I forgot how difficult it was to start over in a new country, I also forgot the full extent of the thrill I get from doing just that. I forgot the excitement of seeing a place that is entirely new. I forgot the sense of possibility that comes from getting lost. I forgot how fulfilling it is to meet new people and new friends. These are the things that will make this uncomfortable time worthwhile. They will also make me sure: I love being an expat.

Already Jet Lagged

The most dreaded part is over. I dropped Andy off at the airport on Tuesday morning. I was not as inconsolable as I was hoping I wouldn’t be. But it was ridiculously difficult to break the hug and walk away. I couldn’t look back, fearing that if I did I would break down beyond the tears I’d already shed. I was able to make it to the bathroom and lock myself away in a stall before doing that. I stayed in the confined space long enough to pull myself together and walk back to where Andy was just about to go through security. I drew as near as I dared to a TSA official, who looked up warily when I called Andy’s name from his side. All I could do under such an ominous gaze was wave, but it helped a great deal.

Despite all of the preparations I needed to undertake for my own departure, I’ve felt empty this week. Empty and a little lonely. Luckily, my friends have helped to alleviate, or at least suspend, my longing for Andy. Phone calls and face-to-face chats over pints and coffee have kept me in fairly high spirits. So have a few strangers in the medical profession, who gave me reduced-price dental exams and free contact solution when they learnt of my upcoming travel. It makes the transition a lot easier knowing that I have so much support from…well, everyone.

What did NOT make leaving easier was my mom’s decision to buy a new puppy two days before I left. I needed to go to a particular mall in order to visit an eyewear store that could complete a new pair of glasses on time. Mom decided to come along and suggested we go to the pet store after I’d finished picking out my new frames. We always go to the pet store, but we usually don’t come home with a dog. The fact that we did this time was due to a combination of circumstances. He’s a Shih-Tzu, the same breed as the two dogs we already have. He has the colouring my mom likes. He was half-price. And, probably most importantly, Noelle moved to Dinkytown and I’m moving to Australia. The dog is our replacement. And he’s a pretty cute replacement.

I haven’t had time to form a strong attachment to Yet-to-be-Named, so his presence did not outweigh my excitement to get out of here. Andy’s been doing quite well in France, and I can’t wait to go and begin my own adventures. They’ll made being away from him easier, and, of course, they’ll be incredible in their own right. They’d better be, as I’m writing this in the San Francisco airport. I left Minneapolis at 2.55pm, landed in Chicago at 4 something, left from there at 6.45 and arrived at San Francisco at 11pm Central/9pm Pacific. I’m sick of airports. I’m exhausted. And I still have a 13-hour flight ahead of me. For all this, Sydney better be pretty bloody amazing.