I didn’t want to talk about it, but now I have to. I went on vacation. To Australia. I was hoping my mind would do the Hemmingway and Cather thing and think of home while far from it and help me turn out the best Ohio column ever. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. I sit here in my friend’s townhouse in Sydney, where the temperature is 75 Fahrenheit and the humidity forces all bugs to swim through the air. I have no straightening iron, I thought I could somehow copy Nicole Richie’s carefree waves, instead I look a bit like my friend’s Yorkie. By the time you read this I will be freezing with the rest of you, but for now I’m here, so let’s all make the best of it.

If I sound a bit weird it’s because I am. I’m having issues with my vacation at the moment. Actually, it’s not really a vacation, it’s more like a visit, vacations are spent on the beach sipping cocktails and shopping at open air markets. This is a visit, seeing family, seeing friends, wrapping up last stage immigration status, taking care of medical needs, it’s not really a party, parts of it are a plain pain-in-the-ass.

The weather so far today has been crap. Rain, then no rain, then rain some more, then none, then some, I’m working my umbrella like there’s no tomorrow. Tasmania’s weather, during the first half of my trip, was beautiful, sunny everyday and hot, Sydney, which is usually sunny and hot with a refreshing sea breeze, is really leaving much to be desired. It’s strange, I’m usually likening Tasmania to Alaska. Global Warming anyone?

Despite all this complaining (and worrying about the Polar Bears’ swimming skills) I have done some pretty cool things, gone on the Port Arthur Ghost Tour, which is actually really scary, due to it’s sorted past, both recent and long gone, and complete lack of any kind of light bulb, gone camping (which I really love, screw the straightening iron!) at the Bay of Fires, where the beach is white and the ocean is clear to the bottom, found a living starfish and a dried one on said beach, and watched three different kinds of wild parrot fly free above the streets. It’s an awesome place. It’s also an exhausting place.

I knew things weren’t quite right, when, just yesterday, I began to miss my car. Miss. My. Car. Ew, what was wrong with me? I have always been an avid walker and never wanted a car, shunning those who turned their noses up at public transport, strapping on my sandals and hoofing it though the streets with many more Sydney-siders who just needed to get somewhere. But not having a car forces everything to get a whole lot more personal. Couples fight openly and flirt openly, and everything you would do in the comfort of your own car, like adjust a too tight bra, for example, must be done in the open. City walking involves a lot of looking the other way while, at the same time, managing not to head into traffic. I’m not bashing walking, I’m all for walking, but somehow over the last year I had idealized it, it was grand! In reality it is exhausting and the emotional pull back due to all the bizarre people stopping in front of me or running in front of me or fighting or flirting? Well, let’s just say it’s on high.

Monday I was left alone with no phone, no internet, no way of communicating with the outside world. Just as I got home and pulled the iron barred screen door shut, then bolted the lock, a homeless man walked up to it, and began to shake it, and ask me what time it was. I checked the time on the oven. It said nine pm. It was, at the latest, noon. I looked the t.v., it was flashing 12:00, which was closer to the actual time, but still not exactly what I was looking for. I told him I was staying with friends and had no idea what time it was, I told him a few times as he tried to turn the knob. I don’t even want to know what might have happened, had I not locked the door. Couple that with the honest-to-God recent death threat one of my friends received here, and I’m a little on edge.

The one thing I have noticed since I moved to the suburbs of Cleveland? I am a horrible person when I live in the city. In less then a week I have managed become so irritable that at our usual café I demanded my blueberry muffin NOT be heated, and when my iced green tea was weak, whoa, look out! When I came home from dinner one night and was literally greeted at the door by a cockroach the size of a Cadillac with feelers a mile long (they’re common here, it’s the tropical weather), I grabbed the nearest broom and screamed, “Get out damn it! Get the hell out of here, you bastard!” My husband looked at me like I was nuts. Most would just sweep, some would squish. Only the city girl would verbally abuse. Piss-y, Piss-y, Piss-y, why so piss-y?

I have no idea. I really just think I’m not at all a city person. Ok, it might have something to do with the death threat, but horrible things happen in the suburbs too, we just don’t expect them to, so it’s not really a safety thing. When all the glamour of subways and taxis and fabulous sushi wares off, you’re left on the street with blisters and drunk university students, taking wrong turns to your townhouse, wondering if that homeless man really did get in, kill you, and now you’re left in some strange personal Hell where all the side streets look the same and all the 18 year olds are wasted. Yeah, I think I need a vacation.