It’s 3.55AM in the morning.
I flew home to Sydney under the impression that I was somehow immune to jet lag – the first time round via LAX while moving to NY, the jet lag was absent. It was the weirdest thing – I fell asleep at 10PM and woke up at 8AM, and it just kept happening that way. Being a virgin traveler, I thought that it was just another thing to add to the long list of things that people seem to obsess over but suspiciously never happens to me – like hangovers. And now here I am, at 3.55AM, scratching the two perfectly placed mosquito bites on each cheek (I look like a mutated, pimply Pikachu).
No better time to write, right? In the middle of the goddamn night. At least that’s what my boyfriend says. I have a habit of waking up when I’m not supposed to and then raging at the world that I’m awake.
I haven’t updated this blog in months, and that seems to be the general trend over the last few years so there’s no point apologizing for the umpteenth time, if anybody is still reading it. I said it would become more personal, and it has – in that I don’t need to write about the minutiae of everyday life. Inspiration doesn’t strike while learning to perfectly sear a piece of meat, or while sprinting with my foster dog down the street, trying not to trip over his leash or have my hands fall off from the cold.
That’s been this year – being comfortable, growing at work, making new friends, exploring more of New York, being more of my own person and generally being ridiculous amounts of happy and grateful. I guess in it’s own way, that is it’s own kind of inspiration – maybe I just don’t think it’s crazy or interesting enough to share.
In any case, I’m in Sydney now. It’s the first time I’ve been home since I moved away. One and a half years doesn’t sound long when you type it out, and it feels both like a lifetime and a blip in time. If I try to consciously think about what’s changed with myself and what I’ve done while I’ve been away, I can’t even begin to organize my thoughts. But, when I saw my high school friends for the first time, it genuinely felt like we had gone for kebabs the day before and my absence was a moot point.
The effect of the passage of time on your perception of your home is strange – it’s only been a few days but I’ve almost completely fallen back into my old routine, instinctively walking around knowing where I am and feeling completely at ease, while at the same time feeling huge in my childhood home and everything feeling a little weird, like a different shade of sunlight is hitting the city.
I’ll do a separate post on the differences between New York and Sydney, in an attempt to encourage myself to write more, but it feels good to be home. It feels good to not smell garbage, to feel warm in December, to live in an apartment with a pool on the roof, to make stupid noises, eat Asian food and sing along to Justin Bieber with people who have known me for ten years now, who make the distance feel irrelevant.
It feels good to have sidewalk space, to see trees everywhere and to eat my mum’s Vietnamese food. It feels good to be home.