I moved from Wellington to Sydney in July last year. Like any other twenty-something with an internet presence to maintain, I took a photo of my passport and my plane ticket, filtered it, and then whacked it on Instagram. It was an early morning flight and I had an aisle seat, so I didn’t take a photo out the window, but if I could have, I would have. It felt like a momentous occasion, moving countries. I wanted as much photographic evidence as possible.
I lived in New Zealand until I was 24, and by the time I left I found that embarrassing. How stupid is that? I feel foolish thinking about it now – it’s so completely illogical, but at the time I really, genuinely thought I was past my use-by date. My friends were leaving, my enemies had left and even my Facebook acquaintances were posting photos from Korea.
Ally's bon voyage-gram Photo: Unknown
When I lived in Wellington, I came up with a hare-brained scheme every couple of months for where I was going next. For a while, I was going to move to Toronto and work at a sex shop and eat a lot of poutine. Then I was going to move to Brighton, purely because someone at a party told it was the gayest place in England. “Right,” I thought, sipping my Country Red with a new-found purpose, “That’s the next five years sorted then.”
Some time after that I found a listing on WWOOF, a website searching for Willing Workers On Organic Farms, for a nunnery in Greece looking for young women to help them make cheese. I had a vision of myself sweating on a rocky outcrop, my hair hanging down my back in a long braid while I crafted halloumi with my nun friends. I would have a new humble disposition, and I would be far, far away from New Zealand and the rows of Edam cheese in the supermarket.
What I dreamed about even more than the nuns was New York. New York. Where I would feel brand new and the lights would inspire me and if I could make it there, I’d make it anywhere. I’d ironically drink cosmopolitans and learn to ride a bike so I could ride it through Bushwick. I’d befriend my favourite bloggers and work a character-building job while I slowly and steadily made a name for myself. I thought so much about New York that I went as far as putting in an application for a year long make-up artistry course at polytech, just so I could eventually apply for the graduating student’s visa. I was in love with the myth of New York and with the myth that living there would make me a better, more interesting person. And who doesn’t want to be a better, more interesting person?
I had a head full of plans but I wasn’t putting them into action. I was telling people that I was saving money but in reality I was maybe putting away thirty dollars on a good week. I didn’t book a plane ticket, I didn’t email the nuns and I never went through with that make-up artistry course. I was stuck in a horrible cycle of feeling my life would be better and more worthwhile if I lived it in another country and I couldn’t get around to the part where I actually moved to that country. By the time I moved I felt as if I had been ‘leaving Wellington’ for years.
When I did eventually leave, it was due to an unexpected change in my work circumstances, rather than an unexpected burst of follow-through. It felt like a massive relief. All of those cliches about moving to a new place were true: the joy of being anonymous, the joy of discovering a cafe and making it your own, the joy of potential.
At the same time, though, nothing really changed. I was still the same anxious, neurotic person and moving across the Tasman didn’t magic potion away any of my personality flaws. Yeah, there are lots of things I love about living in Australia. There is the most vibrant queer community here in Sydney, I can go swimming outside in July without losing my nipples to hypothermia, and they serve these massive chicken schnitzels in the pubs.
Honestly though, some things about moving suck. When I first arrived nobody could understand my accent and everybody still thinks my name is Ellie Girrut. Making friends is hard, not knowing where to find a good brunch is hard, and listening to Australians try to pronounce Tauranga, Taranaki or Ruapehu is really hard. It’s incredibly humbling to leave a country because you find mainstream culture there incredibly alienating and then find that everyone you meet asks you about the All Blacks.
I like to think that if I moved back to New Zealand now I would appreciate it a lot more. I’d appreciate the sense of belonging that comes from having lived somewhere for two decades. It would be so comforting to know where everything is and where to go – knowing the best florist and the best dentist and the best hairdresser. I’d make the most of the connections and relationships that I had, instead of wishing so desperately to fritter them away. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and reflection can make the brain less of a jerk.
Now it seems so stupid that I wanted to leave so badly. My feelings were such a tangle of class and entitlement and cultural cringe. My friends and I were all buying into a culture that valued international success above all else, and we all thought that you haven’t really lived until you’ve taught English in Paris. I don’t know what’s more of a New Zealand institution, the OE or the brain drain. We value travel and moving overseas because it’s something that people with money can do. We fly in jumbo jets to other countries and expect the people living there to enrich us, especially if they’re brown and wise. We go overseas to teach English in robust displays of imperialism. As well as class, my ugly little ego was roaring at me. I thought I was better than the average New Zealander, and that I therefore deserved to be living overseas. I didn’t need to stay in New Zealand to care for dependents, or desperately work to keep a roof over my family’s head. Instead, I had the luxury of being in my twenties and drowning in self-dug pool of choice and expectation. How obnoxious, an entitled young white girl thinking she can solve all her problems by moving from stolen land to stolen land. A jerk in New Zealand will probably be a jerk in Canada, no matter how much poutine you’re eating.
If you want to move overseas, you should. It can be fun. It’s character building setting up your whole life again. But do you know what else is character building? Living your life. You’re not missing out on anything if you live in the same house for 50 years. Any problems you have are probably going to follow you, wherever you go. If you don’t want to leave, don’t. If you’re not sure what you want, just pick something. I think the nuns are still looking for helpers, the sex stores still need staff, New York will forever need another makeup artist. Don’t spend four years wishing you were somewhere else. If your personal circumstances mean you’re staying put, that’s OK. You’re OK. New Zealand is OK.