“Greetings!” says the voice, with that distinct clipped accent I know so well. “Tiz Alex here.”
Of course I already know this, what with caller ID and all, but still I’m excited.
“Holy shit! Alex, how the fuck are you!?” I’ve been drinking White Russians with the crew and I’m warm with the effects of the alcohol, but my excitement is genuine. I haven’t heard this voice in ages. I haven’t seen its source in years. It’s Alex, calling from the land down under.
And just like that, it all comes swarming back. All those memories. All those adventures. All those good times.
Just like that I’m back. I’m there. I’m in Australia once again.
I’m kayaking the Swan, a pod of dolphins jostling playfully nearby. I’m out on an early morning paddle with Zoe and ML, leaning back in my kayak to watch the sun rise over the water as I slowly drift down the river. I’m paddling frantically, jostling for the ball in a wet and wild game of kayak polo. And I’m tipping, I’m under, I’m wet and cold and blind, banging the side of my boat and reaching up to use Simon’s boat as leverage to Assisted-Eskimo-Roll my way back to an upright position. I’m having a go at kayak surfing the pristine Perth beaches and running small rapids at Dwellingup. I’m walking barefoot in a Rashie and Bordies, a neoprene skirt hanging from my waist, hauling a kayak up the beach and across the street and back to the UWA campus.
I’m walking through downtown Perth with Fi, harness slung over my shoulder, climbing shoes clipped to my belt. I’m laughing in a warehouse hidden down a dark alley on the edge of town, lounging on a worn orange couch as chalk rains down upon me from above. I’m heel hooking my way up a climb at the Rockface, Paul cheering me on from his belay position below. I’m shouting beta to Frank as he powers up an overhang, German-accented curses thrown down to me good-naturedly. I’m fist-jamming my way up a crack climb over the crashing sea, as Alex hangs beside me snapping photos. I’m sore and scratched and bruised, feet cramped and stinky, hands dry and cracked from all the chalk. I have white handprints all over my clothes.
I’m dancing with Paul, swinging and jiving around the dance floor, only half knowing what I’m doing. I’m dancing in a group under the stars in a wet footy field, lit by the headlights of Simon’s car, wearing PJs and kayak helmets, following Aaron and Nari’s lead. I’m dancing in a pub with Pete and Claire, Paul and Alex, crashing into people as we try to swing dance in the tight throng of drunken Aussies. I’m wearing a rainbow thermal top and a pleated black skirt over thermal leggings, dancing in the flickering lights of a campfire at the ODC Thermal Ball. I’m line dancing with near-strangers at a cattle ranch in the middle of the outback.
I’m trying it all. I’m attempting pathetically to windsurf at Pelican Point with Simon’s instruction. I’m working up a sweat running back and forth across the Squash court with Paul and Dani. I’m holding a sea-cucumber in the waters of the Great Coral Reef, listening to Parrot Fish crunch away at the coral. I’m blowing into a Didgeridoo, slinging spit and producing no more that the most appalling sounds. I’m scrambling barefoot with Zoe through the slippery channels of the Miracle Mile in the amazing gorges of Karijini National Park. I’m having a blast.
I’m leaving them behind. I’m leaving Alex, leaving Pete, leaving Simon and Paul and Zoe and Marie Louise. I’m leaving Fi and Andrew and Erin and Aaron and Nari, leaving Pepper and Sprite. I’m leaving the Swan, leaving Rockface, leaving the kookaburras and the willy wagtails and the galahs and the darters. I’m leaving Perth. I’m walking down the streets of Byron Bay, half a continent away from them all, and I’m missing them already. I’m going on a whim into a hair salon I happen to see, and I’m chopping off my hair, because I’ve left Perth, I’m leaving Australia, and soon I’ll be back home. Back in California. I’m chopping off my hair because the year in Australia changed me, and I’m afraid when I return home no one will know that change except for me. I’m chopping off my hair because I need a physical change to represent this other one, this more important one. I’m leaving my hair in Australia.
One day, I know I must return. One day, I’ll head back to the land down under. It’s good to know I’ll sill have a place to visit, people to see. It’s nice to know I’m not forgotten. After all, Alex is still there. And so is my hair. 
