Foreigner in a Foreign Land (Adelaide, Australia)

The last time I had seen Joe was in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia nearly three years ago. She was a writer for the Strait Times. We had many a conversation about how the New Strait Times was censoring the stories she was writing. She was becoming incredibly frustrated.

Next to Angie Wong from Time Out Magazine, Joe was my second favorite writer. And I told her that. And she would laugh and poke me in the ribs, “Fuck Angie. I will have a write off with her any day.”

“Bring it,” I added – momentarily pretending I was Angie’s agent.

She had left Kuala Lumpur for a specialized Master’s Program at a university in Adelaide, Australia. For two years we had kept up with each other’s ups and downs, breakups, reunions, and sexual escapades.

But Joe refused to read my blogs. She knew that I fictionalized the facts to protect the innocent. And always said, "if I want to know what happens to you in real life, I will just ask you. Not read about it."

So this trip was to catch up.

I stepped off the Virgin Blue flight giddy. I got an SMS from her. “Where are you? I am so excited!”

I hurried to the taxi stand and the guy in the yellow vest steered me to parking bay 5. Parked there was one of the most beat up taxis I had ever seen. But the driver was very young and smiled sheepishly. He was standing outside his cab smoking. When he saw me approach – he leaned in and released the boot so I could put in my luggage.

When comfortable in the backseat, he turned and asked with his Indian accent, “Where to?”

“The Richmond Hotel. It’s 128 Rundle Street.”

He looked at me for a second as if it didn’t register what I had said. But then he turned back around and put the car in drive.

And thirty minutes later when we were at the end of Rundle Street, he sadly turned to me. “I am sorry. Where did you say Richmond Hotel was?”

I shrugged. “Uh. 128 Rundle Street.”

He paused before he answered. “But we are on Rundle Street now. Sir, I don’t see it.”

“Well, its near the Uni. That’s all I know.”

“You don’t know where it is?”

I got a little aggravated. “Uh, no man. I have never been here before. You live here. I don’t.”

He was apologetic. “Yes sir.”

I pulled out my Blackberry and rung Joe. No answer.

“Can you call the hotel or a friend and see if you can get directions?” the taxi driver asked looking me in the eyes through the rear view mirror.

“I am.” And I dialed Joe again. No answer. Which is weird because she had just SMS’d me.

“You don’t know where it is?” the taxi driver asked.

“Hey man, I have never been here in my life.” That’s when my Blackberry vibrated.

“Where are you?” Joe’s voice asked.

“My taxi driver doesn’t know where it is. Can you give him directions?” I asked. And before she answered I had already handed the phone to him.

“Yes?” the taxi driver said juggling my phone and keeping his hands on the steering wheel.

Rundle Street was bustling and crazy. College students were everywhere – drinking, talking, yelling, running and walking in every direction. The “bars and pokies” were teeming with life. The pubs and bars were filled to capacity spilling out into the street.

The taxi drove past the Hungry Jack’s (the Australian equivalent to Burger King) and made a left and stopped by the curb. The driver put the car in park and turned back around and handed me my Blackberry. “Your friend said she would meet you here.”

“Okay,” and as I pushed into my wallet to pull out the AUD30 to pay him. I looked up and saw Joe in the window. She stood there looking sophisticated. Her Master’s Program had done her well. She waved. I paid quickly and reminded the driver my bags were in the back.

I came out, “Whatup girl!” And I kissed both her cheeks and hugged her tight.

“God, you are so European.” She said. And I could tell her accent had changed again – with an Australian twist.

I extracted my bags and I followed her rolling my luggage. “So where is this place? I thought you said this hotel was very popular.”

“Well, if that dimwit immigrant actually got to know the city he migrated to maybe he would know where it was.”

“Whoa,” I answered. “This coming from the fellow immigrant?”

“Well people don’t know that. No one knows – they can’t place me.”

And I heard her accent. “God your accent has become a swirl. British, American, Indian, and now Australian.” I let out a breath. “Shit, no wonder no one knows what you are.”

“You think?’

“Yes, you are perfect product of your environment.” I told her.

“Well, you and me are the same. Our home is where we are. We neither belong there or here. We belong where we belong.”

“Preach on sister.” I stopped and hugged her again. She giggled and pushed me off. “Its great to see you, sister. Its so hard to meet someone who can understand us.”

“Yes because we are always a foreigner in a foreign land. Even when we are in our country of birth.”

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