I’m dying to go back to Australia. I spent my two week visit in Sydney, never escaping the city. Don’t get me wrong, Sydney is lovely. The green spaces, the water, the Opera House, the flying foxes, the funnel webs that almost killed us — all of it was wonderful. The people were even better than I’d imagined they could be. We spent a night in the Rocks at a little pub, drinking Twohy’s, and singing American pop songs until closing.
But I feel like I should go back. I feel that I could visit Australia every year for the rest of my life and never see the same thing twice. While going to Sydney and saying I’ve been to Australia is technically correct, I don’t feel like it’s true. That’s like saying that you’ve visited New York and have seen America.
One of the things I loved about Australia was how familiar it felt. I was expecting the “foreign country” experience, like when I visited Mexico or Canada. But there was none of that. The accents were a little hard to decipher after a few beers, and they drive on the wrong side of the road, but even the funnel web spiders didn’t feel all that foreign. (I was born and raised in Arizona; everything there wants to kill you too. Shake your shoes out, keep an eye on the ground when hiking, periodically do a web check around the perimeter of your home. Widows, scorpions, Gila monsters, rattlers — dying in the desert isn’t always a hydration issue.)
I’d like to visit Australia this summer, to Melbourne and then to Tasmania. I’ve been doing some research and Tasmania looks amazing. I figure, go big or go home. I’m already home and I’m a little restless. So it’s time to go big.