A while back, I decided I wanted to go to Australia. It was shortly after I left London after studying there for almost four months, and I couldn’t wait to keep exploring the world. Hell, I couldn’t wait to explore the whole of East London. Alas, I had to finish school, I didn’t have any money and according to my parents (and everyone else) I needed to go do that whole ‘get a job, make a living, start a career thing.’ Right.
Well, done and done. And done. A few years passed, five to be precise, but I hadn’t forgotten about Australia. In fact, my time back home only led me back there, to a continent so distant I could barely point out its major cities on a map. At this point, it was more a matter of curiosity. If I can cut it here, can I cut it there? Can I cut it anywhere? (Note: When I say “cut it” I do not mean “cut it” in the sense of a lot of other ambitious NYC young professionals out there. I mean I can pay my rent, buy toothpaste and enjoy a few $2 PBRs every now and then. Really, does one need more?)
Couple that with the fact that I was 25, single and at a job I’d grown out of, the choice seemed clear. So, on a cold, February afternoon, I took the leap. I gave the nice man my credit card, told him to book me a round-trip flight with as much time abroad as possible (he told me 5 months) and signed my name. Then I drank a very, very large margarita.
Since that day, I’ve purchased myself a 6 month visa, paid off my flight and quit my full-time job to go freelance. And so, the countdown begins.
September 10, 2007.
(Oh yeah, that’s probably when this blog will get a bit more interesting.)