not in our stars, but in ourselves
Four years ago today, I landed in Australia. I was there for just over two years.
It would be disingenuous to say that all my time there was good, or that I was happy the entire time, but I did love it there. For a long time after I left, I wanted nothing more than to go back – and since Boston has been eaten alive by winter, it’s been an even more tempting prospect – but always with a sense of wanting to regain the past, wanting things to remain as they’d been, wanting to ignore all the bad and live in a dream that wasn’t even true at the time. You know what “nostalgia” means, in its Greek roots: the pain of homecoming. Something like that.
Anyway, I don’t feel that way anymore. I would certainly love to go back to Australia. If things really go to hell here in America (and that doesn’t seem terribly unlikely), I’d even try to move my family and friends back to Oz with me; in the meantime, I’d settle for a long vacation. It’s a great country, and I was lucky to be there, and I think of it (and most of its people) very fondly.