This is my last week of work. Sort of sudden, bittersweet.
I looked at my bank account and booked some budget flights East, strictly carry on.
Although another week here would be too easy, I have to consider that I might not get back to Aus that soon. I still haven’t decided what October will bring, I think over the next couple months it will work itself out… and it might surprise even me.
So, Melbs and Tas and The Great Ocean Road called, and I figured: why not? Then I can swing back to get my things in Perth and have a few lingering days in WA with friends. The other truth is that my wanderlust called and if I do end up at home this small stockpile of cash will just be lumped into a practical eventuality like retirement savings or some major purchase. It could, in this moment, be so much more.
This means five days. Five days of goodbyes, packing, getting organized.
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Flu. Cold house. Stack of halfhearted reading material. Aimless internet.
Eat, Pray, Love last night. I didn’t like the book but the movie is pretty travel shots, pretty men, and Julia Roberts being charming. I zoned out at the earnest parts. It made me feel a little excited for Bali in five weeks. It made me think about summer in France and Italian food and finally seeing my Greek ex roommate again, too. A hazy bucket list of things to see and do.
They don’t always go as planned. I thought I loved thai food, and maybe I do, but it did not love me generally. I didn’t expect to go shopping but a heatwave found me in the Bangkok CBD seeking aircon and a genuine love affair with Thai malls began.
At the end of the trip, weary of any more lemongrass on a Sunday, I wandered into the Hard Rock Cafe Bangkok. This is contrary to all pretentious travel rules about authenticity etc. Except there was an awesome Thai band playing and it was packed unlike the rest of the places I checked. It was, dare I say, memorable.
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“Are we still on for spin class?”
“Ahhhh I think we might have to cancel. Was drinking last night and met some strippers, they and the boys might be coming over to our house for a private show.”
“Let me know.”
I live rent free with two guys in a bachelor pad, one is in Europe for two months, the other is leaving in two weeks for a long wander across America and parts of Germany. There is only one key to the house, a fair number of people in town know where it is and come round when they like. Fishermen, artists, surfers, farmers. If I don’t want company I just move the key.
I am one of a stream of foreigners that have occupied the spare beds, rent on a sliding scale of how much you make and how much they like you. I would love to offer the same wherever I end up someday.
There is a hammock on the porch, Fear and Loathing posters on the walls, a wrench to turn on the hot water in the shower. I have the nicest bed I have had for years, double with flannel sheets and an electric blanket.
We live a block from a stunning stretch of ocean.
I have to work at 8 am a lot lately because my surrogate grandfather who does the early mornings is sick. I am a shitshow at 7:45 when I am supposed to get out the door, but on a regular basis I find myself thinking: I am happy. It is before 8 am in the dead of winter and I am so happy.
I try to avoid looking at my bank account when I’m supposed to be saving so I don’t know what can be spent. Today it was time to run numbers.
A lot of casual friends in Africa asked how I was financing this overseas thing for so long. Trust fund? International Crime syndicate? Ah. Nothing so glamorous.
First, luck. Pretty decent luck.
Second, I have secret tightwad habits I can’t shake leftover from undergrad.
Third, lovely friends I should be better to. They have hosted me, fed me, picked my ass up from airports, and have generally been better than I deserve.
I’m running numbers because I have no idea where I will be in a few months and money is part of sussing the options. My bottom lines are: I need to be working in some capacity, and would like to skip the next Northern hemisphere winter. How hard can that be?
Underthecurrent 