Awestrayleah

I don’t know if it’s the inherent seasonality of winter in my genetic make up that continues to make this time of year so enchanting, so suprising, so satisfying... my bones and genomes and chromosomes still attuned to expect grey cold misery but filled with long sunny days and nourishing warmth, triggering a slightly smug smile every day I drive alongside the white gums of Captain Cook Crescent. It’s the time of year when Australia seems to be the only place you would ever want to be, which is a bit tricksy of it my precious. It’s only tempered slightly by wondering each day if this is the summer ‘peak’, leaving us in a virtual hangover from too much tennis, BBQing, sandy toes and iced coffee. That’s a bit how I have felt this weekend, at a bit of a loss, disappointed at inefficient cycle mechanisms, annoyed at kitchen mess, unexcited by bushland spots, bored with facebook but not bored enough to play fishzoofarmland or whatever. There are still shots of tennis and BBQ smells to keep me from that. Plus mood swings in one paragraph.

One wonders if the peak is in fact Australia Day, the time when all this good Australia has gathered and snowballed and hits you in the face with its beauty rich and rare. A time when some 200 odd years ago some some bumbling Brits landed next to where Gelatissimo now stands down at Circular Quay, poked a flag in the ground and proclaimed this place for King and Country. Now that was lucky, as it means some 200 years later we all get a day off and do our best to be whatever it means to be Australian or, at least, honourary Australian.

For many it is of course obligatory to be beside the water, getting dumped by sparkling surf, casting a line, taking the dog for a walk, getting greasy hands from fish n chips. For me, it was a pleasure to head down to the coast over the weekend to do some, if not all of the above, and to be able to share it with, if not my own family, someone elses. Because the Australia Day weekend – like any day really – is a chance for families to come together, to share the good times, to play snooker in the garage and have the odd robust discussion after a few glasses of wine. It’s just doing what families do and thank you to that family in question who extended their warmth and endless food upon me and gave me something extra than just another trip to the beautiful South Coast. (Note: real family: it could be you! Airline ticket and time off required, good times guaranteed!)





And so like strawberries are with cream, steak is with salad, and hunger is with mention of nice food, the other Australia, the other jewel in which people gather beyond the crystal seas is the obiquitous bush. The bush is a giant green shrub situated in the heart of Australia that people worship, a concept popularised in 3D by James Cameron. In fact, that’s not far off the truth, though it is billions of trees instead, and miles of sunburnt country, with sweeping plains, some ragged mountain ranges, all subject to droughts and occasional flooding rains. The Bush is as Australian as Shane Warne dressed in a white singlet holding a lamington in one hand and a XXXX in the other while whistling the tune to Neighbours as he rides a kangaroo to the dunny. The Bush even has its own capital, known at Canberra, which is a roundabout way of bringing this post back from some wild tangents to where I was on Australia Day.

Canberra seems to come to life a little on Australia Day, which I guess should be expected given it’s the capital of Australia. Suddenly people are everywhere, things are going down, Canberra is on the news. My part in all this was mostly on the periphery, watching afar as 35,000 people picnic down on the lawns of parliament house for an Australia Day Eve concert featuring mostly Grade B Australian star turns. Watching instead the things that are here everyday, but just as worthy of cheering about.





January 26th itself, and possibly the peak of this summer, brings with it a sense of ceremony and celebration. In Canberra the Prime Minister and Governor General undertake their usual polite attendance of military parades, give us a speech on why it is so darn good to be Australian, and then, like everyone else, head off for a few gross processed cartiliage snags and listen to unpatriotic and underwhelming winning songs of Triple J’s Hot 100. For me, it was a bush walk, a fish platter and an afternoon watching sport. A good attempt at being Australian I think.





It is of course, totally self indulgent but then why not? Coming from a country where it is a national sport to grumble about everything, it’s refreshing to have some communal back patting and celebrate what you have got. The academics of course debate what it means to be Australian and have all sorts of serious ruminations and grievances but thankfully the rest of the country just indulge in one big “F**k it, let’s get out in the sun, eat some grub, have a few beers with some mates and listen to some tunes.” The culmination of “F**k it Day” is, you guessed it, fireworks, up and down the land. The best fireworks were happening on Rod Laver Arena, where some freckly Scottish youth was making a Spanish chap with a continuous wedgie run around and hurt his knee chasing tennis balls.

And as the fireworks fade, the end of a chapter of the year seems to abruptly come upon the nation. People go back to work. Talk of interest rates and environmental schemes resurface. Crap TV programs return for another series. Suits and ties and shirts emerge back in the cafes. It’s all a bit more serious and suddnely important. But it’s only the end of a chapter of what is a rather large and seemingly endless book. A good book. The peak may have been, but it’s no Mount Fuji, instead more like the alpine ranges of this great southern land, gently rounded and undulating, with plenty more high points on the horizon.