All through our last autumn and winter in Blighty we were bombarded with the “So, where the bloody hell are you?” ad by Tourism Australia. It wasn’t a fantastic ad – notable only in its use of the word ‘bloody’, which sent the Broadcasting Advertising Clearance Centre into conniptions. ‘Hell’ didn’t seem to bother them.

I think we had already planned to emigrate to Australia by the time this ad came out and even if we were still on the fence, it wouldn’t have had much of an effect. It was standard tourist office tripe – all primary colors and Great Barrier Reefs and outback bars and overdone accents – but I’ve got to give them credit for the tagline. We were moving to Australia not for Ayers Rock, but for the quality of life on offer.

All of this has absolutely nothing to do with what I want to talk about today. I want to talk about our new house. We’re moved in, in the sense that all of our stuff is there and it is as fantastic as I remember it being when we first visited. The lustre remains intact. It’s big and spacious with lots of wood and glass. It’s an Australian house – designed for outdoor living in a Mediterranean climate. It’s surrounded by greenery (more like brownery after a hot, dry summer) lending the illusion of seclusion despite being moments away from a major university.

And there’s an orange tree.

Now, I grew up in Florida prior to the collapse of the citrus industry there, so I’ve had some oranges in my time. But I’ve never had an orange like the one I pulled off the tree on moving day. It was pulsing with life, sweet as honey and bursting with an intoxicating liquor.

Moving day was one of those predictably beautiful Australian days. Vivid sunshine, 84°F with a light sea breeze fluttering up into the hills. Nothing out of the ordinary. But standing there looking over the Adelaide plains, sticky with orange pulp and slightly tipsy on citric spirit, I wondered to myself just why the bloody hell anyone would live somewhere other than right here.

Australia’s been good to me – financially, socially and personally – my little family is flourishing. The only niggling gripe that I had to chew on was our housing situation. The only thing keeping me from writing a post like this was the crushing feeling on my chest that I got everytime I got off the bus in Happy Valley every evening. Stuck in the faceless, endless southern suburbs I didn’t really see the point of having traveled round the world. In Happy Valley I could have been anywhere in the world, there was nothing except the accents and license plates to differentiate the place from Milton Keynes, Markham, Bangsar or Bellevue.  In fact, I could very easily have been in the suburb in which I grew up. I was stuck with the feeling that, despire appearances to the contrary, I hadn’t gone very far in life.

Now, our new neighborhood is still a bit far from the city center and still doesn’t offer the sense of community that I covet. We’re still renters rather than owners. There’s a long upward trajectory yet to travel. But I can see Gulf Saint Vincent from my living room and hear rosellas and cockatoos in the gum trees. I can pick figs from my veranda and bananas over the fence. I can watch the moon rise over the sea and the lights of the city flicker silently and I feel utterly serene.

And I can pick an orange the like of which I’ve never tasted before on my way out the door in the morning. And right now, that’s about as close to perfect as I can imagine.

So, where the bloody hell are you?

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Bright Eyes’ “Lifted Or The Story Is In The Soil, Keep Your Ear To The Ground” is available from Amazon.

Still no internet at the new dream house, so apologies if I’ve not been over to your corner of the internet. I kind of have to fit things in around work. I’ll catch up soon.

 
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