This is Culture Shock

Originally written: February 26th

I have a tendency to talk to myself.

No, I’m not a schizo and I haven’t overdosed on hallucinogens in my lifetime. I definitely don’t have an imaginary friend.

But I do know I’m one to overreact at random occasions. I break into tears unexpectedly—not at funerals or at the end of heart-wrenching films, but instead when I see animals in cages or when I’m having a hard time doing long division.

I’m serious—in elementary school I started crying because I just couldn’t get long division. My sympathetic teacher, seeing me in an emotional fit, read deeper into my reaction, and suggested to the school nurse that I was a wreck because my parents were getting a divorce.

“Uh-huh,” I agreed with a shiny red face and a runny nose. That makes more sense.

Tears mean raised eyebrows. They mean people get concerned and they ask questions. Talking to myself has become a mechanism I’ve developed since high school to prevent the tears from flowing.

The moment I feel my face getting hot and when I feel my eyes begin to water I tell myself, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” My dialogue is internal, but it is so vivid I consider it talking to myself.

Today I wander around the University of Melbourne campus, a map clenched in my clammy hand and I feel it coming. So I do it. I talk to myself.

“You’re fine,” the voice says. “You jumped out of a plane, you can do this.”

It’s the first day I’ve become completely frustrated in Melbourne. After orientation, which was pretty much like a peaceful vacation on the Sunshine Coast complete with surfing, swimming, plenty of food, and kangaroos hopping on the lawn of our resort, I've been positively serene. I was dropped off at my apartment in the heart of downtown Melbourne a week ago, and have been in love ever since.

The city is better than I thought it would be. Our apartment sits across the street from the beautiful Victoria State Public Library where dozens of people sprawl themselves out onto the lush green lawn to picnic, read, or sunbathe. For blocks and blocks shops, restaurants, and pubs are available in every size and shape. Artists frequently visit and set up their supplies and paint the sides of buildings with neon murals of cartoon-shaped flowers and mountains.

The sidewalks are constantly buzzing. Twenty-somethings sit outside and play their guitars. Skateboarders attempt to grind the avant-guard sculptures. Girls who are so pretty they look famous (not rehab famous, but artsy and fashionable famous) walk by with arms full of shopping bags.

It seems impossible to ever get bored here. Yesterday my new roommate and I went to go return our toaster that was destroyed after a late-night bagel accident. We walked down to the department store on the corner when a large crowd caught our eye.

“What’s going on?” my roommate said. We both climbed on our tiptoes and searched for the source of attraction.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a male voice over said. It sounded like God. “Please welcome, Feist!”

“Feist?” I giddily screamed in excitement. We watched the set feeling overwhelmed. I kept the toaster lodged underneath my arm.

But today I’m so frustrated I can’t think about the warm weather or the amazing architecture surrounding me. I push my sunglasses away from my eyes and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand.

I whisper a curse and look at the map again. I’ve been running around the campus that holds more than 40,000 students with the goal of changing my class schedule. I don’t know where to go, I don’t know who to go to, and I’ve asked for help about ten times, but everyone seems to be directing me to a different building.

Why the hell won't someone just tell me what to do? Why is this so complicated? Knowing it’s stupid, I let the tears well up anyways. I exit the Old Arts building, which I have running up and down the halls for about forty minutes, and sit on a bench outside.

Breathe in, breathe out. You’re nineteen, I think. You’re not a kid anymore. I keep on bitching about wanting help but that’s why I wanted to go abroad… I need to learn to do things for myself.

A professor walks by. At least I hope it's a professor or else the glasses-briefcase-jacket thing is really throwing me off. “Excuse me,” I pop up off the bench and he stops dead in his tracks. “I need to get my timetable changed and I don’t know where to go.”

“Oh yeh,” he says and reaches for my schedule. I give it to him desperately. “You gotta go to the sociology department. It’s in the John Medley Building near Grattan, yeh?”

I finally feel like I’ve asked the right person. I practically skip to the building. A sign in the entrance says the sociology department is on the fourth floor so I hop into the lift and push the button with a smile. “Four!” I say out loud in excitement.

When I get to the fourth floor it’s empty. Hope begins to diminish. My head starts to feel heavy and I’m ready to give up. And like a sign from the heavens, a guy with pink hair passes me and notices the dismay, “O’eryadoin’?” he says.

“I’ve been on this like,” I sigh, “Wild goose chase. And I just need to change my time-”

“Oh, yeh, mate,” he motions for me to give him my schedule. “I can do that for ya.”

I want to hug him but don’t want to come off as an insane blonde-haired American. Instead I take off my shoes (a habit I picked up in New Zealand) and dance around his office while he fixes my schedule. I am what I am.

“Yeh, you’re all good,” he says as he prints my new, perfect schedule out.

“I love you,” I tell him.

“Oh, yeh,” he smiles, and hands me the timetable. “I love you too. Have a good semester at Uni, you’re gonna have a great time.”

I walk back to my apartment and soak in the sun, the people, the art. I celebrate my accomplishment by going to the Late Night Queen Victoria Market. Normally a farmer's market by day, the QV Market transforms into a mini-festival in evenings during the summer. There are tents with food from every country, not to mention a variety of makeshift-bars, and unique shops with handmade clothes and ornaments. The event is jam-packed with thousands of people. Children dance to the African band playing, and there are camels sitting outside the crowd. I buy a hot pink handmade dress, munch on a Greek kebab and a French crepe, and drink wine made in a local vineyard.

And there was no need to talk to myself. Which makes life far less creepy.