Over two years ago I swapped the beautiful beaches of Sydney for ranches and rodeos, and my beloved tim-tams for tacos and Tex-Mex. I traded in my green and gold, for the red, white, and blue of my new home. I brushed the sand off my feet and washed the salt off my skin, said a tearful goodbye to my dog, who didn’t quite understand the gravity of my departure and headed for the Lone Star State.
I expected a city filled with spurred cowboys and boot-clad Republicans waving around their guns and banging on about their right to bear arms — I wasn’t completely mistaken. My understanding of Texas had almost exclusively come from film and television, which is why I had genuinely felt the need to ask my soon-to-be college roommate what the chances of meeting a cowboy were (the answer is little to none). If she thought I was batshit crazy, she was at least too polite to acknowledge it — “There aren’t too many cowboys in the city, Julie!”
I was beyond excited to start my new life, but I was also as nervous as I was on my first day of high school. New country, new city, new room, new friends, new team — no big deal, right? But for the first time in my life, I felt like a foreigner. No one understood what I meant by “thongs,” “trackie dacks,” and “jumpers,” and more often than not, my questions were answered with a blank stare and a dull "What?" I didn’t know how to explain what a Tim-Tam was (it's so much more than just a chocolate cookie), or why I would ever put vegemite in my mouth without a gun to my head. My accent was strong and I spoke too fast. Just like a fish out of water, I had no idea what I was doing. I had come from an industrialized western country, yet everything was slightly different. I asked stupid questions (so many questions), made stupid comments, and diligently answered stupid queries about my remote and exotic homeland (“Yes, Christmas is during summer. Yes, seasons are a thing”). And I tried my best to fit in without losing the most important part of my identity.
Though old habits die hard (what the hell is an ounce?) and nothing will ever replace a true-blue Aussie meat pie, I can safely say that I no longer feel like a foreigner. Want to know the best places to eat in town? I’ve got you. Want to brush up on your Texas history, or hear me rattle off the amendments? I’m your girl. Want to find the best margarita in Austin or the swankiest bar? Ask me, I’ve only been seven or eight times. Or maybe you need someone to explain the intricacies of football — then probably don’t ask me, I have a five-year-old’s understanding of the game, but hey, it’s a start!
I swore I would never listen to country music, yet here I am listening to Blake and Luke and buying tickets to country concerts, drooling over that deep southern drawl. I just bought my first pair of Kendra Scott earrings and my first cowboy boots, and wore them both to the football home opener. I say words differently now, I overuse phrases like “low-key" and "high-key,” and I can't seem to go 20 minutes without referring to the people around me as "y'all." I’ve even considered getting a little tattoo of the state of Texas (sorry, Mum and Dad!).
Of course, I still call Australia home, but much like a wild, handsome cowboy, Texas has a certain raw and rugged allure that I have fallen in love with. You never know what you will find here — deep-fried cookie dough-covered Oreos on a stick or the most beautiful university in the world. Whatever happens here, I know I could not have found a better city to call home.
