In just under two weeks, we’re getting on a plane. We’re saying goodbye and jetting off to Thailand for a bit and then on home (via long layovers in Tokyo and Los Angeles). I’ve gone through this all before. The goodbyes, the silent desperation to cling to anything that truly means “home”, the hastily planned lunches and dinners, the heaviness of last looks. But I hadn’t expected to have to endure it all again. Sure, I knew I would eventually return home for a bit, but I thought that I’d get out relatively unscathed. And I knew that Dale would accompany me on my next departing flight from Australia. But I was blindsided by the sadness of leaving again.

I didn’t exactly feel like I soared in my last nine months here since leaving the nest. That in itself was a wake up call for me. But just as I was standing back up, dusting myself off, and getting ready to walk out the door, I was invited further in. Acquaintances and sort-of friends suddenly became staples in my weekly routine. Girl time over healthy lunches (usually involving avocado in some form) happened. Conversations of shared hopes and dreams took place. Drinks were had and inside jokes were shared. I got close and now it hurts.

Above all else, my time in Australia has taught me the importance of community. Of not being alone. Of having that support system in place. One of my favorite movies, About a Boy, uses that exact premise. The main character, Will, was just floating along in life until it’s shaken up by a boy, Marcus, who needs him. Will’s life is never the same and he is the better for it. I always took my support system back home for granted. But now I don’t. I now have two communities. Two homes in two hemispheres. My life will never be fully, 100% in one place again. And I am the better for it, no matter how much it hurts.

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Dale’s expression was a mixture of excitement and disbelief. We were standing outside State of Grace on the west end of Collins Street in the center of Melbourne. “But first,” I added, “We have to find the bookcase. I have no idea where it’s supposed to be.”

And so we stepped through the wrought iron-adorned doorway into State of Grace. The bar was to our right with a couple of staff serving customers who were in for afternoon drinks. Other patrons were eating early dinners of steak and other scrumptious-looking fare.

Velvet lounge chairs, gilded framed-pictures, candles on tabletops, and an imposing taxidermied giraffe head filled the room to our left. Still no sign of the bookcase, however.

Dale waited next to the door while I went in search of the bathroom to wash my hands. I pushed aside a door that I thought would lead me to the bathroom but instead lead me to a smaller room with another door in front of me and – lo and behold – a bookcase to my right. After I hurriedly washed my hands I all but bounced back to Dale.

“I found it!” I squealed, excitedly. The bookcase was already open, with a sign that said “Out of Order”. It was disappointing that we didn’t get to experiment with pulling out the books but we crossed the threshold all the same and descended the stairs into a dark cellar bar named Fall from Grace.

The excitement of finding our first hidden bar only added to the first impression Fall from Grace had on us. The chamber was full of candles, some with pools of melted wax, that illuminated nooks and crannies. Velvet-backed chairs liked the ones we had seen on our search above were tucked away in near darkness. Papers with interesting text plastered the pillars in the middle of the room and several oversize mirrors lined the wall. Near the ceiling  behind the bar were racks storing hundreds of dusty wine bottles. Taxidermied deer heads decorated the bar back and two very large crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling as if they were the sparkly icing on a very ornate cake.

We took a seat in a corner away from the bar and ordered drinks. As we were there for the experience more than anything, we kept our libations on the cheaper side of things. Though their extensive cocktail and wine list would not disappoint, should one want to splurge.

Dale and I sank deeper into the couch we shared as we sipped our drinks and took in the atmosphere of it all. My guess is that he was still reeling from the concept of a hidden bar and I was just as in awe of it. Our conversation turned back and forth from silly things to deeper things as we contemplated the deliciously unsettling experience of finding hidden bars.

What: Fall from Grace
Where: 477 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria, 3000
How: Find the bookcase hidden in State of Grace. Select the right book and the bookcase will slide open to reveal Fall from Grace. Descend to the adventure below.

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No, Shea, you’re just doing the dishes. Calm down.

I love just looking at it and moving my finger ever so slightly to see the sparkles gleaning from diamonds. I now absentmindedly spin it around with my thumb. It makes me smile to know that I get to wear it for the rest of my life. It’s my ring.

But it’s what the ring symbolizes that brings the most comfort to me. It means that I get to marry my very best friend. My closest companion. My adventure buddy. The man I’ve been in love with for longer than I can recall at this point. The one who, for whatever reason, told me years ago that he thought we were soul mates even though we were just friends on the opposite sides of the earth who had never met in real life.

I get to choose to marry him every day. I get to have a sleepover every night with my bestie. We get to find new ways to make each other laugh. We get to struggle through life in situations we’ve never been in before. We get to grow and dream and plan. We get to figure it out together.

I’d never been one to plan my dream wedding as a little girl. To my recollection, I’d never even daydreamed about it. No visions of the perfect wedding dress, venue, flowers, or cake ever crossed my mind. Wait, I take that back. When I was about 14 years old I saw a beautiful white cake on the cover of a magazine and I kept it in my memory. So yeah… I planned the food part of my wedding. Figures.

It wasn’t until I went through a wedding (through the motions, I should say) that I discovered what my dream wedding would be. It would not be a stiff, painfully impersonal traditional wedding with a guest list so long that I would question whether or not they were related or wedding crashers. And there wouldn’t be balloons that my mom sneakily ordered for a little more decoration. No endless combination of family portraits and smiling so much my cheeks are too tired to talk. And, most importantly, there would be so much food that I would get to eat, damnit.

Which brings me to this wedding. The one that will take place the second week of August in the end of this Australian winter. The small one being held in our living room that will probably be decked out in fairy lights and candles. The guests will be close family and friends and some of them will watch via Skype from thousands of miles away in the middle of the night. We are foregoing a wedding cake in favor of our favorite donuts. I’m making the food. There will be lots of it. Ample amounts so that even I can eat this time around.

But most importantly, there will be a man waiting for me as I walk down the aisle. There will be vows from our hearts and two rings. A man that I will live the rest of my life with. My whole world will be right there in that moment. And I cannot wait.

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We were so grateful they were open. The Tropicana Juice Bar’s bright orange décor is hard to miss amid an otherwise neutral setting. We squeezed our way into the narrow seating area and took a seat on the bar stools to gaze at the extensive menu of juices and smoothies. Several tropical ones caught my eye, but I knew that Dale’s first choice was never going to be coconut or mango anything. Luckily the menu really is quite large so we settled on a berry smoothie.

But then we noticed a large amount of sign real estate dedicated to the “South American Delight – The Best Juice on Earth, Money Back Guarantee – Top Secret”. With such a claim, we were intrigued. We opted for the $7 large smoothie version and took a seat outside to enjoy the best smoothie on earth.

The pink-colored smoothie was served in an unassuming white paper cup. The texture was creamy; not icy and it tasted sweet, but not overly sweet. It had a hint of banana and berry, possibly strawberry, with a touch of lemon among other fruity flavors. The large size was perfect for the two of us to share. Although there is a promise of a money-back guarantee should the “best smoothie on earth” fail to meet your expectations, it was far from necessary. I am at a loss to think of a time when a better smoothie touched my lips.

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We turned around and Malthouse Lane’s street sign was perched on the off-set side of a building, almost as if peering around the corner to see if we would come back. As we rounded the corner into the deserted laneway, it became apparent that this was the perfect setting for a speakeasy. The sloped concrete alley was mostly devoid of the street art and graffiti that is ubiquitous in Melbourne and only housed one restaurant, the French Brasserie; the rest looked like it was simply the driveway for the Adina hotel’s deliveries. Knowing that Eau de Vie’s address is 1 Malthouse Lane, it was encouraging to see that the French Brasserie was no. 2. As we reached the end of the laneway, however, there appeared to be nothing more there except for a single lantern hanging from a wall and a smooth, grey door that, had it not been for its brass handle, could have been mistaken for more wall.

“I think this is it… I’m going to try it”, I said to Dale as I meekly stepped toward the grey door. “Um… ok…” I heard him say as he stepped closer. I pulled the creaky door open to be faced with a makeshift wall, some sort of equipment covered in a black blanket, and the sound of people talking. I nearly shut the door, thinking we had accidentally stumbled upon a storehouse, but as my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, the shape of a host’s stand appeared next to the wall and a few flickering candles illuminated the interior of a bar. We had found Eau de Vie.

We were greeted almost immediately by an employee who looked like he would have been at home in the 1920s, with his khaki suit vest and neatly coiffed hair. We opted to sit at the bar to “watch the action” as the employee suggested, and were led further inside to a large room occupied by only two other people and the bartender. The dark wood interior was filled with brown leather chairs and low sofas and the walls were adorned with antique glass memorabilia, spotted with dozens of candles. The bar was lit by illuminated glass decanters, which were probably brand new during the era they were now meant to replicate.

Jeffrey, the General Manager with an impressive black beard and handlebar mustache, eagerly shook our hands when we said we’d never been there before. Initially, our time was spent letting our eyes fully adjust to the low light; browsing the menus, one of which was their 17-page whiskey menu; and gawking at the shelves that were filled with all the hundreds of whiskey bottles that a 17-page menu yields. Eventually we struck up a conversation with Jeffrey, who was busying himself with restocking in preparation for the night ahead of him.

“What’s your opinion of Japanese whisky?” I asked Jeffrey, having never considered before that Japan would have a whisky scene. Not missing a beat, Jeffrey offered a brief history lesson on the subject of Asian whiskys and how they were beginning to hold their own in a world traditionally dominated by Ireland, Scotland, and America. He explained how they are apt to vary due to less stringent laws regarding the aging barrels. We went with one of his recommendations, the warm, floral scented 12 year-old Hibiki which was beautifully smooth with a creamy vanilla aftertaste that made you unable to do much more than mutter, “wow”.

Sultry jazz lent itself to the ambiance as we sat there, letting the notion of delicious Japanese whisky filter through our imaginations. We finished the whisky and snacked on a plate of hearty bread, soft curd cheese, and garlic-brined olives. Jeffrey moved on to developing new cocktail recipes for the new opening of a second Eau de Vie in Melbourne. More people filtered in as the time passed, some looked as if they were unsure of what to expect like us, while others confidently strolled in with an air of privilege. Either way, we had all arrived and were now all equals in that dimly lit speakeasy – all in the know that fortune favors the bold behind the plain grey door.

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Our train stopped at Melbourne Central and we set down La Trobe street once we left the station. The map indicated we needed to turn south on Sutherland but what we beheld seemed like it was little more than an alleyway where the backs of corporate buildings and parking garages met. Nevertheless, we obliged and were met by a navy blue sign with a white “S” and dot. Shortstop donuts. We had arrived.

Patrons were sitting outside on the wooden bench seats in front of the roof-high windows. Their chatter grew louder and louder as we approached but the scent of espresso was the first to say hello. Inside, we found a clean, white-tiled interior, ambient music intermingled with laughter, and a man seated at the bar with his laptop open. Had it not been for the gleaming, fresh donuts sitting in the glass display case, the room would have been typical of any cafe in Melbourne.

Like bees to a flower, we were immediately drawn to the bright colors and fun shapes of the donuts that, until that moment, had only existed on my Instagram feed and in my dreams. “There’s the Matcha one, and the Australian Honey and sea salt cruller!” I pointed out to Dale, as if they were old friends I hadn’t seen in a while. An employee explained that they had a display case next to the register showcasing their current selection but we had already eyed what we had come for – the Boston Cream donut, made with a Heilala vanilla creme patisserie filling and 80% dark Callebaut chocolate ganache topping. The stuff of Instagram legend.

There was a certain giddiness in my voice as I said “I’ll have a Boston Cream, please” to the cashier. As our order was being processed we salivated over the other varieties on offer that day – lemon sugar and blueberry, peanut butter and jam, iced coffee… We took a newly vacated seat next to the window in the corner and waited with anticipation. Our giddiness was similar to that of being six years-old on Christmas morning. Not five minutes later, we had two Boston Creams and a cappuccino sitting on our small round table.

The day I found out about Shortstop’s Boston Cream donuts, months prior, was to be the last day they were going to serve them, as it was a Hanukkah special. The vision of the vanilla bean creme patisserie and gobs of dark chocolate perfection would not leave my imagination until I finally accepted that this variation on the Boston Cream – my favorite type of donut in all donutdom – was the one that got away. Fortunately, they brought them back by popular demand and now the Boston Cream was in my hand, heavy from the creamy vanilla filling. The sheen of fresh ganache reflected the light from the window behind me. The first bite into the fried doughy, chocolatey, vanilla goodness was ecstasy. The kind of bite where everything else in the world stops for just a moment and you could cry happy tears that you’re alive. It was the rare moment where black and white, good and evil, chocolate and vanilla, exist in perfect harmony.

The world began moving again. Ganache, before it has cooled and set, often has a mind of its own and soon the thick chocolate topping was all over my face and fingers, as if I had been a two year-old trying to finger paint. One look at Dale and it was obvious he was no better off. There was a basket of napkins across the room and as I got up to get some I was awkwardly licking my fingers and attempting to cover my face where I was sure the chocolate made me look like I had a beard.

The next ten minutes were spent finishing our Boston Creams, obsessively wiping our faces, and sipping the wonderfully bitter cappuccino. The complimentary sparkling water was a refreshing contrast from the cream-laden fried ball of goodness we had just consumed. Shortstop’s elusive Boston Cream was no longer a slightly unhealthy obsession. It was a new love affair. The box was ticked. As we left Shortstop in favor of more adventures that day, I began to wonder if we would ever bother to try breakfast at Cumulus, Inc. next time we were in the city.

How to Experience this Yourself

What: Shortstop Donuts
Where: 12 Sutherland Street, Melbourne, Victoria, 3000

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That morning I had called on a job opening I heard about. I wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of working there for various reasons, the biggest one being that it was such a chaotic, high energy place on weekend nights that the thought of fighting to walk through the crowd that occasionally gathered around the bar and yelling over the loud music just to take an order exhausted me. But it was the best chance at a job I’d had since moving to Australia so I gave it a go. Mark explained to me over the phone that unless I had worked for their company before, they didn’t hire people with my visa because of the lengthy training period. I couldn’t stand to face another solid day of job searching and rejections so in a last-ditch attempt at gaining an interview short of begging for it, I did make the promise that he would like me in person. At 4 pm that afternoon I was ushered in to the strangest and longest restaurant interview of my life.

I first met with Collette, the self-proclaimed filter for potential new hirees. Her young, lightly worn face and genuine expressions were a stark contrast to the array of silver achievement badges pinned to her collar, which were not unlike the “pieces of flare” Jennifer Aniston despised wearing in the movie “Office Space”. Our conversation on job-related subjects and interview questions designed to indicate if the interviewee has more self-awareness than sloths who accidentally fall from trees by mistaking their own limbs for branches, was interjected with her side comments that made me believe not every corporate employee was a zombie. I jumped at the chance to explain that Laura Marling was my all-time favorite singer, providing Mumford and Sons as a mainstream example of “folk” music. When Collette replied that she’d heard of Mumford and Sons it was as if reality had grabbed me out of my fantasy world that valued emotional depth and slammed me back into that red vinyl chair with marketing and branding being shoved in my face faster than food was. Let the corporate conditioning begin, I thought.

I began to have some serious doubts about my motivation for being there when Collette left to get Mark. I focused on my breathing as a test-group-approved song wove its way through the dining room, around the wooden beams and bouncing off the walls plastered with the newest trend in graphic design, meant to appeal to the masses. I recalled the pep talk I gave myself on the walk to the bus stop that afternoon. It will be good to make friends, I thought. You need to make some money so you can afford to move, or at the very least go home. It wont be as bad as you think. This is a long walk, maybe if you get this job you can afford to get a car. I looked up in time to see Mark walking to my table. We shook hands and somehow landed on his life story. I had a minor existential crisis as he told me about studying photography in Manchester, working for Condé Nast in the 90s before the digital revolution, and opening a bar in Spain by the sea because it was a childhood dream. I was hearing wisps of my dream life from a man with salt and pepper hair and an air of resiliency, who had burned out his dreams long ago, as we sat there in that corporate red vinyl booth, thousands of miles from either of our homes.

The talk of travel and photography led me to my usual vivid day dreams but soon dissolved into my time to shine. I had been through interviews for worse jobs, all of which I was less desperate for, and I fought my heart out for them. But I suspected I promised too much on this one. It was soon apparent that he was less than impressed with me, and I was feeling the same way. I stumbled over my words, resisting my temptation to tell him I didn’t want charity and thank him for his time and leave. But my ego wasn’t about to give up. There was no way I had sat there for an hour just to have a man, who gave up on dreams I have yet to realize, decide that I was not good enough for this glossed-over, corporate-fed, inoffensively trendy place. In some sort of wild resurgence I ran my finger down the list of my work history that was sitting in front of him, nearly screaming “Look what I’ve done! Look at how many different jobs I’ve had. I used to work road construction! And I’ve got serving experience. I can bullshit with anybody!”

Yes, I used the word “bullshit” in an interview.

This final attempt at making myself seem like more than just a girl, desperate enough for a job to say anything, sufficed for a few moments. But he still wasn’t convinced and after realizing that he was speaking my mind when he voiced his concerns about my bubbliness or lack thereof, I didn’t have any more drive to fight for a job that I wasn’t sure I’d even wanted in the first place; hour and a half and a $2 bus fare be damned. But instead of making his decision just then, he had me join a group of waitresses who were on their break to see what they thought. All seriousness turned into giggles within a few minutes and when Mark had me return to my original table so he could talk to the girls, I could overhear words like “American” and “accent” dotted between more generic crowd-pleasing music that seemed to be louder now that dinner was approaching.

When he came back to talk, he was still apprehensive and unbeknownst to him, so was I. He didn’t speak immediately and my feet were turned towards the door. It was like a really absurd game of chicken. He was risking wasting time and money on my training and I was risking my dignity. Following one last plead about his need for me to be bubbly, he said, “I can’t go against my team…” and with a pause, he held out his hand and said, “Welcome to the team.” I thanked him as I shook his hand, a partially feigned smile on my face, and walked out the door still wondering to myself, What the hell just happened?

Author’s note: Names have been changed to protect identity.

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I boxed up nearly all of my possessions, donated a large portion of my clothes and stored the rest for winter and my eventual return home, took two weeks to say goodbye to everyone I know, and got on the plane.

Putting it that way makes it seem like it was easy. To be honest, I’m not sure if it was easy and I knew what I was doing or if I put my mind and emotions on autopilot to make room for the unknown. October may have been the most emotionally trying month of my life. I had to say goodbye to a very special woman in my life who left us quite suddenly. The weeks I spent between her passing and me leaving were filled with putting as much effort as possible into savoring the life I live and the people in it. I interviewed each one of my mom’s siblings individually as part of a personal video project I’ll be working on for the next year or so. I stuffed myself on so many goodbye lunches, dinners, and drinks that I almost hoped they didn’t have any food in Australia. I took Lacey, the pug I love quite unconditionally, for many walks and we explored parts of my parents’ property that we had never seen before. I watched the World Series with my dad and started to like baseball for the first time ever. I bundled up against the cold to help my mom feed her horses at night. I spent time hanging out with my 16 year-old brother, watching the new Walking Dead episodes every week, screaming and squirming right beside him.

I lived life harder.

I burst into tears as I said goodbye to Lacey the morning I left. And again when my mom and her friends walked me to the security line in Boise. It was like ripping off a bandaid. I had made my decision and I had to go for it. I couldn’t not do it.

I got on the plane.

A high school friend picked me up in Los Angeles for dinner during my layover. We went to a restaurant in Manhattan Beach and I met his girlfriend for the first time. After dinner we walked to the pier and it was incredibly surreal to remember the last time I had seen the Pacific ocean months ago I and how I felt I was going home to the wrong side of it and had actually burst into tears mid-flight. And that night I was flying back to the correct side to be next to the person I belonged with.

After a one-hour delay in our departure from LAX due to having to switch to a smaller plane last minute, and a semi-torturous 15 hour flight that I mostly slept through, I arrived in Melbourne on a breezy, cool sunny spring morning. I couldn’t turn around and run back home. Partly because I sure as hell didn’t want to endure another 24 hours of travel but mostly because I was at peace with where I was. I had flown the nest in a very big way and landed exactly where I was supposed to be.

In the ten or so years we’ve known each other, Dale and I had never done particularly well in life if we had fallen out of touch. I can’t help but wonder if October might have been better if he had been around but the moment I saw him at the arrivals gate made everything worth it. All of the goodbyes and the tears. The fears vanished. I was back in Australia but more importantly finally back with him and ready to start our new adventures together.

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I have heard repeatedly that I need to keep in touch via Facebook when I’m gone. But why? I never posted anything on there anyway, and had long since stopped posting new photos thanks to Facebook’s questionable copyright and user policies. In some instances, the people who have suggested I keep in touch have failed to notice my absence thus, which I find highly amusing in and of itself.

I have in fact spent the past couple of hours on Facebook and I started with the intention of deleting my old photos before I requested to permanently delete my account. I was immediately sucked into reading my news feed and after about 20-30 minutes of scrolling, I gained only four bits of information that could realistically be used to start a conversation in real life. The birth of two babies, a friend who has an in-law moving in with them, and another family is moving.

Out of hundreds of posts and memes and photos of children who will never know a life without social media, two babies were born and two people are moving.

When I read that the one family was moving, I was hit with that familiar punch in the gut. Ever since I graduated high school I have only ever experienced dear loved ones leaving. To school, for a job, on church missions, dying. I have never been on the leaving side until now. To feel both positions starkly contrasted side by side was a little unnerving. Since my decision to move, I hadn’t been able to recall that feeling of being left. That emptiness that only shows its head when the familiar changes and that loss makes itself known. Until this evening when I felt it again. But ultimately, I know this move to Australia is the right thing for me and that deep, resounding knowledge is what has kept me moving forward this whole time.

My next stop was to delete every post and photograph from my photography business account. As I was eliminating old posts, it brought back some heavy feelings of defeat that I had experienced while trying so hard to engage an audience that I doubt even existed. I was reminded of that struggle all over again as the numbers stared me in the face. It was a crushing time for me, and I believe that it stifled my creativity by being more concerned with what would get more “likes” instead of focusing inward and deciding if I even liked my work. It’s truly overwhelming to try gaining acceptance and encouragement from low, impersonal numbers. Square peg, round hole.

It has been empowering, and incredibly appropriate in my opinion, to sift through my old photos and posts and recall the life I had, some of the people who were in it that do not have a place anymore, and to hit the delete button. To shed off these layers of the person I was once but no longer am. A metaphor for starting fresh. I would much rather build my relationships and any business I may have some day the old-fashioned way with face to face contact, sincere letters and emails, and very occasional photos of life’s happenings… probably printed on real paper so that they make us take a moment and pause and the wonder of once again holding something tangible and precious.

The following video was one that I had completely forgotten about until I was deleting the very first posts from my photography business site. It was posted, appropriately, with much passion and optimism. I want to get back to that person.

Days until I leave: 12

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As you might imagine, being a girl means that I have a lot of clothes. But really, if you knew me, you wouldn’t think that makes sense. I’ve always been more tomboy than not and I couldn’t dress a mannequin in a store even if you handed me the clothes. I’m girl dumb.

But no, I do have a lot of clothes. I mean, a lot. At least a couple hundred pieces. Not everything fits me, some I keep for sentimental value, and some I just plain never wear at all. I have dresses I’ve worn only once, if at all. Pants that only get worn when I work. Clothes that have been given to me that I would’ve never in a million years picked for myself. Obviously, a two bag limit restricts me from packing up my entire wardrobe and taking it with me. Which is a good thing. The very first thing I did in preparation for moving was to sort through all my clothes. Despite it taking two and a half days and having to persevere through a terrible cold…

It was liberating.

Considering what I started with, my “keep” pile is really quite admirable. It also helped that many of the heavy winter clothes that I need to survive a bitter Idaho winter will never be remotely needed in sub-tropical Australia. Cleaning out my closet and losing a bit of the old me is not only a very appropriate metaphor, but it just feels good to have less clutter. I want, nay, crave a simple life with very little material possessions.

In fact, many of my things are in storage from the last two times I moved. I realized a long time ago that, aside from some very specific books, I couldn’t tell you half of what is in the boxes. And what’s more, I obviously don’t need or miss any of those things until I see them again and I think my only real attachment to them is the sentimental value. Many of the things in my room are just knick knacks and space-consumers. I really look forward to continuing the declutteration of my life as I move forward. Because really, I can’t take it with me when I go.

Days until I leave: 20.

Only about two thirds of the way through.

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