My Book Café (From Flower Blog Two: Stories From Down Under)

I think, perhaps, I know why I’m in Melbourne. It has nothing to do with finding myself, love, or any other great cosmic purpose; oh no, it’s about the coffee. This city is renowned for producing a good cup of joe and she hasn’t disappointed me. Every latte I’ve had has been blissful; each one made with espresso that has been roasted, ground, and prepared with care and accuracy and milk that has been frothed to perfection. The best of the best, I’m told, can be found at Seven Seeds and while the coffee I had there was quite possibly one of the best I’ve ever had, it’s a different café I’ve decided to frequent for the duration of my stay.

Books? Good. Coffee? Good. I think I'm in love.

I walked past it the first day I was here and I immediately knew it was something special. It’s on Swan Street, just a short walk from my house, and called Book Talk Café. The storefront windows are filled with examples of the “new and pre-loved books” advertised on the sign and the BLT sandwich and two lattes I enjoyed at the café inside didn’t disappoint. Plus coming from a world where most local bookstores have been replaced with big shiny chain stores and the local Starbucks is usually a safer bet for a good latte than the independent place on the corner, it’s just so darn cool (yup there’s that word again) to find a place like this.

The inside of the shop is cozy and welcoming. Tables and shelves of books occupy the front of the store, with a café table or two in between. A sign explains how the store works; i.e. you can buy books, trade books, or sell books. The books are organized by section and, while the space isn’t large enough to house a selection equivalent to that of Barnes and Noble, there seems to be a little of everything. There’s even a good selection of coffee table and other good gift-giving books as well as a new release section. I’m so impressed and excited to find a real live bookstore in my neighborhood, in fact, that I’ve decided to swear off Amazon (do they even have Amazon in Australia?) for the duration of my stay and only shop for books at my little book café.

The café area is in the back half of the store and has a decent amount of seating. There’s even a cozy little area in the very back with a couch, armchairs, and a coffee table. The latte I had there the other day was so delicious I had to have two and, with a café menu that includes both hot and cold options for breakfast or lunch, I can’t think of a reason to go anywhere else. I feel comfortable in that store, I feel at home there drinking lattes among all those books, all those thoughts and words and stories. So even if the coffee was crap (which is most certainly isn’t), I’d return because after a week that felt like a month, in a city where I feel awkward and not at all like myself, a city that is so very far away from home, it’s nice to have a place to go to that feels so comfortable.

Why Melbourne? Why Now? (From Flower Blog Two: Stories From Down Under)

Total time it took to get from South Haven, Michigan to Melbourne, Australia (including time spent in airports): approximately 33 hours.

Total extra money spent to get me and my very heavy bags from South Haven, Michigan to Melbourne, Australia (including fees for changing my original flight, booking a flight from Sydney to Melbourne, and excess baggage fees): approximately 600 dollars. (Apparently you can bring your baggage with you to Australia but it will cost you).

Seeing the Sydney Opera House and Harbor Bridge at dawn from the plane: well, not quite priceless, given the hours, dollars, and heartache it took to get me here, but pretty spectacular nonetheless.

Sydney Opera House and Harbor Bridge

It was that moment, in fact, when it first hit me where I was and what I was doing. It was that moment, when the plane turned a little to the left and I strained to see the view out of the tiny airplane window, that this adventure I’m living became real and was no longer just a foggy dream. It was after hours and hours of sitting on a plane in the very back row; after hours of fitful sleep spent still wrestling with the decision I’d made to come to Australia despite my change in plans, I realized I had arrived and, even if it was a decision I was still unsure about, I had no choice but to go through with it. As I followed the masses through customs and the baggage claim, though, the only thought my sleep-deprived brain could manage was, what the hell am I doing here?

I have been here a little over three days now. I’m settled into a cute townhouse in a really cool neighborhood called Richmond. And, yes, I realize describing it as “really cool” sounds a little lame but when I was walking around the other day trying to get a feel for the place, all I could think is how cool it is. There are shops and trains and cafes all within a short walking distance from my house, and for a gal who grew up in a small resort town, went to college in a corn field, and then moved to another small resort town, this kind of neighborhood is, well, just plain cool. I’m excited to be here, I’m excited to be somewhere so new, so cool. Still, though, that thought keeps surfacing, keeps plaguing me; what the hell am I doing here?

I can never decide if I believe in the concepts of fate or destiny. Sometimes I think they’re just ideas dreamed up by the romantics out there and they’re happy little thoughts but not totally realistic. But there are some times, like right now, when I find myself clinging to the hope that they must exist. I still feel like my life isn’t my own at the moment, like the real me is floating over this strange life and the only place I can find footing is in the idea that there must be some reason why I have found myself in this place at this time.

So I’m wondering what do you, my lovely readers, think about the concepts of fate or destiny? Do things really happen for a reason? When your life is turned upside down and sideways and spits you out in a direction you had no intention of going in, is there a reason for it? Or is that just something we tell ourselves to cope with change?

When Plans Change (From Flower Blog Two: Stories From Down Under)

I’m a planner. I’m obsessive about organization and insist on writing everything down. I panic a little when I don’t have a plan. One of the hardest things about being this way is realizing, over and over again, that sometimes the powers that be have no regard for my plans. Really lousy things can happen; you lose your job, someone close to you dies, you love someone and he confesses he no longer loves you. It’s life and it’s not fair and there’s really no way to plan for these things. To do so would be very strange.

My Australia plans have changed before the trip even began. I was supposed to be in Sydney right now, I was supposed to leave early this week and I didn’t. I’m now leaving early next week for Melbourne. If you’re close to me or know someone close to me you know how and why this change happened. Perhaps I’ll share the very personal details of this moment with a wider audience one day. If I did that now the result would be a ranting hurtful tell-all of the very painful events that led me to this point and I don’t want to do that. So if you’re not someone close to me or someone close to someone close to me then, at the moment, these events are none of your business. I will, however, share with you the thoughts I’ve been left with in the wake of everything.

There are certain truths we accept as fact in our lives. Things we plan, things that just are. Then seemingly overnight, sometimes in an instant, they’re gone. We wake up one morning and find the truths we accepted yesterday have vanished and have been replaced with a whole new set. Suddenly life feels strange, not like your own and you don’t really know how to handle it.

I think that’s one of the most difficult aspects of grief. Of course the loss itself hurts. The spot in you that was filled by someone or something is now empty and that is a hollow aching feeling. And even if you find things to temporarily fill that hole, even if you find little ways to cope with that pain through the day, the fact remains that your life is now changed and will never be the same as it was before. Realizing this feels like the wind being knocked out of you and it makes you feel dizzy and wonder if you will ever recognize this strange new life as your own.

I don’t know yet if or when this life I’m suddenly living will feel like my own. All that is pushing me forward at the moment, all that I know to be true about my life right now is that I am, in fact, still alive. I have no choice but to keep moving forward so I don’t miss out on a single moment of this precious, often fleeting, life. I know I must wake up every morning and continue to invest myself into getting to know these new truths so I can eventually make my peace with them.


NOTE: For more of my thoughts on dealing with heartache, read One Sunset at a Time.

Home is Where the Moon Sets (From Flower Blog Two: Stories From Down Under)

Had someone told me five years ago that after living in Vail for awhile I would think the best way to celebrate the end of a winter season is to spend a few days camping and playing in Moab, Utah, I would have been skeptical. When I moved to Vail sleeping in a tent and not showering for a few days did not excite me (click here to read about my first camping trip in Colorado on Flower Blog). Five years later and I found myself squeezing in a 4-day trip to Moab between finishing work, packing my life into a very small storage unit, and tying knots in all the ends that needed to be tied before I leave Vail for Australia. And it was worth it.

The view from my tent in Moab, Utah

There’s something exhilarating and cleansing about that annual pilgrimage of Vail residents to the high desert. It’s the moment when everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief that the chaos of winter has ended. People let their hair down. They whoop and laugh loudly on the river and continue to eat, drink, and be merry into the night while gathered around big campfires. It’s a big familial celebration and always a good time.

I was sitting around the campfire on the last night of the trip this year watching my friends, many of whom have become family to me over the years, laugh and talk and I realized that I was home. Not home in Moab but home with these people and home in moments like that. This epiphany shocked me at first. I’ve called Vail home over the years but I’ve also called Michigan home, although somewhere during the past year or so I believe I stopped calling Michigan home. I never expected Vail to become home, never knew when I moved there that it would become home. But that’s what it is, and not just because all of my stuff’s there or because I have a 970 area code or a Colorado driver’s license; because those aren’t really the things that make a place home. It’s the people you love and the experiences you share with them that make a place home, that shape who you are and tie your heart to a place.

Vail has a very transient population and I realized early in my time there that as long as I live there I would always be saying good-bye to people. I hate that. Good-byes are exhausting. I learned quickly that these farewells had to be quick and, sometimes, even a little impersonal. A hug and a “see you later” and that’s all that’s needed, especially because I’ve also realized that many of the people who leave come back. Vail has that kind of pull on folks.

With the end of this year’s Moab trip came my turn to say good-bye. This time I was on the opposite end of quick hugs and “see you laters.” It was harder for me than I thought it would be to be the one leaving and I almost wanted everyone to be sadder to see me go.

The morning I left Vail was cold and clear. It was 4:30 in the morning and I went outside to take the trash out before my 5:00 am airport shuttle arrived. It was still dark, right before the first hints of daylight arrive, and the moon was incredible. It was setting in the west over the mountains and it was glowing and huge. It felt like a little “see you later” from Vail. And it struck me that there was no need for myself or anyone else to be sadder to see me go because the best thing about knowing where home is, is that you can and will always find yourself there again. And, if home really is with the people you love, and the people you love are scattered around the globe, then you’re really never that far away from home.