The Blog is Bleak - Australia in my heart

I’m going to write in English today. It’s the language that comes to mind when I’m overly emotional (no, not Italian, as believers in clichés too often assume). The bloody medication makes me cry constantly, so English is the language of the moment.  

I realised the blog’s too dark, with death looming on the horizon. It’s unavoidable, I guess, as it’s become my daily grind. But here’s the good thing about truth: once it’s out, you can move on, and enjoy the time left with a sense of humour. And dark humour is still humour – something we’ve all learned from the Brits. My humour has always been rather dark, long before my diagnosis. In German, there’s a word I like: Galgenhumor – gallows humour. Which brings us to the blog’s title.

I’ve made mistakes, too, in my life. Who hasn’t? I’ve been unfair, judgmental, held grudges, been full of envy. Maybe I haven’t shown enough love, enough respect, to my parents or anyone. There’s no manual I’ve come across that tells you how many screw-ups you’re allowed before you hit your limit. You’ve used the word "jerk" 23 times since October. "Prick," 19 times in a single day – that’s thirty-nine days off your life expectancy. But what does that leave any of us with in the end?

I can’t seem to bring myself to think better thoughts. Whenever I feel like this, I need something resembling a "happy place," though I’ve always hated that term. But if there’s a place and time I’ve ever felt something like home, it was Australia. That doesn’t mean it was always easy—don’t get me wrong. I struggled with depression, mostly due to loneliness and the close-mindedness I encountered in Wangaratta, a small town where I worked as a high school teacher from January 2006 to May 2008. But defining my time in Australia by that alone wouldn’t do justice to the country or my memories.

When I think of Australia, I think of Melbourne – the most beautiful city in the world. I think of my friend Damo, who’s been in my heart since the day I met him. He’s a supreme lad who’s never let me down, and Ciro, my Roman partner-in-crime. While I worked in Wangaratta and Ciro in Shepparton, we spent our weekends in Melbourne, escaping the rough weeks in the bush. (Australians call the land between the coasts and the outback "the bush"). We even shared a weekend crash pad in the city, where we left our weekday lives behind. Those weekends were chaos: rock concerts, heavy drinking, and no regrets.

I think of my friends Joseph, Jodie, and Hamish in North Fitzroy, where I moved after my flatmates in East Brunswick had turned into unbearable dickheads. And Heather, my housemate in Wangaratta, a rare human soul on the factory floor.

I also think of Matze, who was in the same teaching program as me in 2005. We worked as teaching assistants in Melbourne’s high schools – the easiest and probably best-paid for the workload. On weekends, we packed our bags and hit the road, exploring Victoria’s highlights and hidden gems: the Great Ocean Road, the Grampians, the Mornington Peninsula, and Philip Island. We hiked through Wilson’s Prom, climbed the Dandenong Ranges, and drove to Sydney along the Hume Highway.

During school holidays, we went on bigger trips:

1. A road trip to Uluru and Kata Tjuta, passing through Adelaide, the Flinders Ranges, the Barossa Valley, and Coober Pedy – the opal mining town.

2. Another time, we drove up the west coast from Perth to Exmouth and back.

3. And of course, the trip I mentioned in „If your time’s up“ – from Darwin to Broome.

Each of them was magical. I’ve shared them with friends countless times over the past twenty years. But you know how it is: What stays with you for nostalgic reasons doesn’t always mean much to others. It’s your own experiences that truly stick in your heart.

This much for my travels down memory lane today.

Love, lust & long-lasting-lungs for everyone,

Voracious-for-life Victor