Winging it around the world

Oh, how life changes. That’s the thought that ran through my mind as I read this blog entry that I wrote nine long months ago, back when I was a brand new Londonite, back when I very bravely and perhaps too hastily took one of the most challenging and stressful jobs of my life. Fast-forward to now, May 2011, and I am still in the same job, but everything else has changed so dramatically. For nostalgia’s sake, I’m going to publish this entry I penned right back in September 2010. Enjoy:

I have only been in London permanently for about three months now and I feel like I have lived three different lives already.

I flew in from Berlin in early August with an unhappy bank account, exhausted body, a backpack of clothes resembling rags, and a bruised heart (aaw). This was my third visit to London, but this time I wasn’t going anywhere. I found myself back at the “Goodge Street Ghetto”, where I quickly slipped into a student life of hedonism, 4am bedtimes and minumum-wage jobs while at the same time keeping some strange characters as friends.

Goodge Street Ghetto is a poky little room I shared with three others (yes, not one, not two, but THREE)  in the bustling heart of Central London, looking over what has probably become one of my favourite streets in this city, a stone’s throw from Soho and the chaos of Oxford Street. For a while I felt like I was trapped in some kind of bad indie movie; I could write a whole script about the going-ons there over my five-or-more-week tenancy. I picked up a £6-an-hour job pulling beers at a bar a few doors down, run by a likeable half Scot/half Aussie named Wayne who pronounced Coke as “cork” and spent more time telling me about his shingles and impending trip to Turkey than he did about the job I was about to walk into during my “interview” (that I turned up two hours late for, another sordid story). I liked working there; I met some cool people (although some of the regulars depressed me – they literally lived at the pub) and having to wear a T-shirt reading ‘Ask me for a date’ (a Christmas booking promotion) led to some interesting dating proposals (mostly from geriatrics). One night when my sister Megan visited me we ended up drinking several ciders shouted to us by a couple of vibrant and lively Nigerians; one of which was dressed like he was starring in The Matrix and knew P-Diddy (he even called him – or so it seemed, his personal assistant – while in our company: “I want to talk to Peee”).

I was living a nocturnal existence, was the most broke I’d ever been, I felt like I had reverted back about 10 years and I was slaving away at a minimum-wage job emptying ashtrays and being propositioned by vile drunk men. I would get madly excited about a £3 tip (that’s half an hour’s work!) and they didn’t come around that often, either (I now tip, without fail, every time I go to a restaurant or bar). It was rather surreal … for a few weeks I felt like Barbara Ehrenreich from Nickel and Dimed (exacerbated by the fact I completely faked my CV to get the job, as I kept getting rejected for being ‘overqualified’). I felt like I was leading this weird, dreamlike existence, trapped in this weird limbo land away from adult responsibilities.

Then things suddenly changed. Out of the blue I got offered a full-time teaching job. Since I had arrived in London, I had had no shortage of calls from teaching agencies offering me the world, but there was only one that I actually had the time to meet and sign up with. Now it just happened that this one agency, a small, newish firm in London that I expected to get little work through, received a last-minute job opening at a London school when one of their teachers pulled the plug on her position a week before classes were due to start. It also just happened that I, who had registered with the agency only days prior, had exactly the same teaching qualifications as her (English and Media Studies). The agency called me and I arranged to go to the interview; not feeling ready for such a role but also feeling the pressure of a dangerously empty bank account.

I found out I got the job two days before classes started. Here I was, someone who had never taught full-time nor taught English or Media before, with no knowledge of the UK school system, with about £20 in my bank account and still living out of a backpack, thrown in like a piece of fresh meat to a pack of lions (or cubs, I suppose). I knew it would be hard, but I don’t think I realized how much I had actually taken on until I actually sat at my desk and realized I had 10 classes to take care of and that I didn’t even know what GCSE stood for. I am teaching every year level but year 9. About half of my classes I teach full-time, the other half I “share” with other teachers. Of course, just to make everything that wee bit more difficult, the Media and English departments are on opposite sides of the school so I spend most of my time running frantically from the east side of the school to the west. At least I’m getting exercise.

I’m the only Aussie teacher at the school so I’m a bit of a novelty. The students ask me about spiders and snakes and why I moved here. Some of them seem to think elephants, giraffes and pandas are native animals in Australia. My year 11s are convinced I am Jennifer Carpenter. My purple Doc Martens seem to be a bigger hit than my lesson plans, though. And of course the thing they deem the most outrageous about my country is the fact that people wear ugg boots as slippers. OMG! 

I could write a whole book about my experiences in the UK school system but I won’t. Mostly because I can’t be bothered and there is simply too much to say. I’ve had no life for weeks; I am constantly tired; and every lesson is another struggle; so on, so forth. I have so many “How did I get here?” moments, similar to what I felt in Goodge Street Ghetto at regular moments, but so different. I wake up at 6.30am (even when I get seven hours sleep I feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck – another side effect of teaching, apparently), catch the tube every morning to Zone 5; I approach the school building, contemplative, filled with both courage and dread; like a soldier going to battle, but I don’t know who I’m actually fighting for.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: teaching really is one of the hardest jobs in the world. Particularly when you’re starting out. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t for a second undervalue the things that surgeons, nurses, politicians, scientists, pilots, soldiers and CEOs do out there, but there is no other middle-earning job in the world that deals with such a constant multitude of challenges, every hour and every day. Challenges that you’re never, ever prepared for as hard as you try, and that you can’t leave at work, as hard as you try. Challenges that push you emotionally, intellectually and psychologically. And at the end of the day you have hundreds of young minds relying on you to guide and nurture them through some of the most important years of their life, and do you ever feel like you’re on top of it? Never.

Having had this experience, I don’t for a second take for granted the perpetual struggle my teachers faced when trying to get themselves, and me through the education system unscathed; and there is rarely a moment that I don’t think about the sheer hell I put some of them through.  In the same way that for the first time I took my place at the other side of the bar, I have seen this industry through a completely different set of eyes, and it’s been a humbling exercise.

Where to go from here? I’m not sure. But right now I’m not feeling like I’m getting much time to smell the roses; though there isn’t anything that rosy about catching a crowded Tube home at 5pm in complete darkness. I think my heart knows where I belong though, and I have  a feeling it’s not in the classroom.

My relationship with London is something else I have to think about too. I feel like it’s verging on love-hate at the moment. I love the endless possibilities it provides. I love its randomness. I love its multiculturism. I love the fact that every person you meet has their own interesting story about how they ended up here. I love that every borough has a distinct personality, each one as different as the next. I love its architecture; a mesmerising mix of the old and the new. I love the way you can get from one end of the tube line to the other in a couple of hours or less. I love its nightlife; every night’s a new adventure. I love its pub culture. I love the Brits’ cheeky rudeness and sarcastic bitterness. I still love catching the tube (when it’s not on strike). I love that you’re never, ever stranded, even at 4am; there’s always a bus or a train to get you home. I even love the chavs. I love the eclectic mix of people I share a house with.

But conversely, I hate its inflated prices. I hate its tube strikes. I hate the bleak feeling I get when I look out the window at 4pm and it’s depressingly dark. I hate the endless grey dampness of winter. I hate the way everyone on public transport and the streets looks like they want to murder someone. I hate the ‘rat race’ mentality. I hate that it costs an arm and a leg to rent a room the size of a cupboard. I hate it how the hot and cold taps are always separate. I hate it how everyone wants something out of you; every man is an island in this city.

Things only really got worse from there. The snowstorms in December weren’t all that fun (it was kind of a novelty at first, but after a few days of trying to balance on slippery ice without falling on your arse on your way to the bus stop every morning, the novelty kinda wears off). I was supposed to spend Christmas with one of my closest friends who at the last minute decided to extend her trip in Africa. As bad as it sounds, I was looking forward to a Christmas abroad, away from the fuss of family obligations, but surprisingly I found myself craving exactly what I had tried to run away from. And then replicating it, but with a UK surrogate family instead of my real one. It’s true, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Talking to my family on Skype on Christmas morning was one of the most amazing parts of my day and lifted my day in a way I never expected.

December was a dark time but after that things improved dramatically. In February I took a ski holiday to the French Alps. It was amazing – three days of superb conditions at Avoriaz and Les Gets. Travelled by bus with a very interesting and diverse group of people and stayed in a charming little chalet in Morzine. It was good times. I will never forget sitting on the lift, on a beautiful clear day, ascending to the very top of the slopes (if you looked hard, you could see Switzerland) as the snowy peaks of the Alps towered imposingly on either side of me, and I knew without a doubt that there wasn’t a single place in the world I’d rather be. In March, the days started getting longer, work was getting easier and I was starting to find my niche in this crazy city. It’s amazing how a few extra hours of daylight can completely change your outlook.

So, to now. A few weeks ago, I spent a week in Spain and a week in the Netherlands. It was probably the best on-a-whim two-week trip I’ve ever taken. I sunned myself in Valencia, I fell in love with Barcelona, I finished Spain on a beautiful high in sleepy Girona, and in the meantime met a cast of amazing people, some of which I hope I will remain friends with for a long time yet. I arrived at Eindhoven airport to beautiful warm, blinding sunlight. I stayed with Jan and Ine and felt right at home. I saw my brother again. I caught up with an old friend Wieger and cycled 50km around the Utrecht area and took a sailboat (for free). I did a random road trip to Belgium with my brother. I experienced a Dutch music festival (Paaspop). I came back to London with a suntan, a smile and a swag of amazing memories. And a beautiful reminder that this is what living abroad is all about.

Since then, it’s been nothing but royal weddings, sunshine, beer, laughs, good friends and good times. I also recently turned 29, and I’m surprisingly cool with that. I’m ready to face the full brunt of my fast-approaching 30s. I feel like I truly love my London life at the moment, and it’s been a long road getting here, but all worth it. And as much as I miss Australia, and as much as I feel at the end of the day it’s my true home, I am completely and utterly addicted to this city. I’m not sure anything has matched that extreme high I get when I’m walking down the street, the sun is shining, life is leaping and flowing and buzzing around me, and I get this amazing, rushing feeling: ‘I’m in London, and I love it.’

In Australia, it’s a more spread out, even happiness, that’s balanced, but rather stagnant, throughout the year. In London, it’s in concentrated spurts. The lows are depressingly low, the highs are dizzyingly high. But I love those extremes, goddammit. They make me feel more alive than ever, and I wouldn’t give them up for the world right now.