#tomtilley

I have moved home to Brisbane. Temporarily. There are some things in life I’m not sure about: heels or flats, Bordeaux or Côtes du Rhône, Tom Tilley or Michael Fassbender… But the choice between Paris and Brisbane was never one to begin with. It was something known. Something sure. Brisbane has my family, my loved ones. Paris has my heart.

We had two fish here in Brisbane. They were huge and lived on my balcony in a small garden pot that my dad had transformed and renovated into some type of luxurious pond-oasis surrounded by luscious trees and water lilies that gives ideal, dappled light for swimming. In the afternoon, when the sun is going down, I like to sit out there and have a drink. It’s a relaxing little nook as there is a small fountain that doubles as a filter for the fish and the sound of the trickling water as I watch the pink skies over beautiful Brisbane is just delightful.

However, just two weeks ago, I found the gold goldfish belly up and the pipe to the fountain disconnected, while the white goldfish hid in the dark corners, behind their log, now his log. It was upsetting; they made such a good team and their colours complimented each other perfectly.

This got me to thinking of life here in Brisbane. Life here is good. And I mean really good. You should see the size of our steaks. I have a friend who is a sales assistant in a shop; she just bought a Kenzo sweater! Our beers are cold and our seasons are warm. Life truly is great. But not only is it great, it is easy. High minimum wages and low rent, and all of it surrounded by golden beaches.

However there is something lacking. Underneath our blazing sun and through our café-ed streets, we lack something. And it’s not the fact that bars close too early or that a concert will set you back $100. No. After returning to the sunshine state after six years away, I can finally see what it is: Heart. Passion. Fearless, heartfelt passion for life. Whether it’s due to the heat or the relaxed attitude of the locals, Brisbane seems to shy away from anything even remotely emotional, except maybe cricket. Instead, we are boisterous and aggressive. Sadness or fear is given a few pats on the back and a “you’ll be right”. People seeking help are made to jump hurdles or are turned away. We pack our things in the middle of the night and run from the issues, from the connection. And anything remotely endearing or romantic is better to float away from, undiscussed and monotonously forgotten. But the strong, fun loving façade will remain, despite the lack of heart.

Sure we get excited from time-to-time. We eat out. We go out. We party. And we do it hard. Then we stop. We go home. We regret. We re-think. Until it’s the weekend and we get excited again.

Sometimes we chase the action, the attention. We’re snapped at every bar we go to, tagged and commented on. We tinder. We hashtag. We swipe left. We swipe right. But Monday comes, the action cools, the buzz wears off and we only have our comfortable jobs to go back to, our baths to take, our pools to swim in, our exuberant salaries to enjoy. How comfortably dull. How directionless.

It is my theory that the white goldfish disconnected the filter himself: he was bored with his life and wanted to shake things up a little. Being the stronger of the two, he knew he’d survive and he would be the big fish in his small, beautiful oasis. Perhaps I spend too much time out there watching the sunset. Perhaps I over analyse the psyche of a goldfish but now, after two weeks, he does look unhappy. He floats alone, in his beautiful, adequate pond. Friendless. Aimless. A lone fish on a balcony in Brisbane.

Today, a favourite Australian radio presenter of mine decided it was time to pack up his reporters bag, leave the presenter’s chair and depart from my favourite 30 minute Current Affairs radio program for the wonderful world that is television. The news shocked me. Really hit a chord somewhere deep inside. I even felt a little weakening in that beating thing inside my chest. Something, some have told me, was next to impossible. Tom Tilley has, all the way from Australia and through a radio program, accompanied me on my walk from the 15th arrondissement on the left bank of Paris, past the Eiffel Tower, over the Pont de Bir-Hakeim, past the haute couture and boulangeries of Passy and finally to the 16th on the right bank every weekday morning for the last year.

  This was all made possible by a simple, free little streaming application, which, when explained, makes you think "I could have come up with that!" and only ascertained through a certain, fruit bearing smart phone and constant 3G and/or wifi connection. Under normal circumstances I would have had to wait until I got back to my apartment, downloaded the Podcast and listened while I sat around instead of being out. Out! Walking from left bank to right. Right to left. Up ancient stairs and down hidden allies. Into various boutiques and out of boulangeries, pain au raisin in hand. And isn't this the spice of life? The spice of life with the added bonus of one of my favourite parts of Australia pulsing through me?

  But what about the other parts; the things that we expats leave behind? Have these little flat 115.2 x 58.6mm pieces of technology brought us closer together; closer to the things we miss so dearly? Or are they simply mediums that keep us occupied with frivolities that will only rot our minds and our souls?

  My Grandmother would disagree. Granny, with our weekly skype conversation, is one step away from a Facebook account and over 300 friends in her first day. While I can't be there for the family dinners or birthdays or Christmases, I'm there, we are there, once a week, catching up on what Mr So-And-So did to his garden and how Mrs Yada-Yada had everyone over for tea and how lovely it was to see old friends.

  Dad would also contest. Our daily conversations and exchanges of fitness programs, running tracks (distances and times included, emailed back and forth with corresponding and relevant comments and recommendations) and holiday planning have all been made possible with this little baby. Only added to by Mum's pleasant and sometimes snide remarks in the background of  "tell her to come home!" and "we have macarons in Australia too, you know!"

  And it’s for these reasons that this little piece of technology is priceless. At any time, anywhere I am in this wonderful country, I’m whipped back into that wonderful, chaotic mess that is home.

  Nevertheless, what about the other times? The times when I've been so wrapped up in the cyber world in the palm of my hand, writing emails, playing sudoku, reading celebrity gossip pages or, even worse, refreshing my FB News Feed that I've forgotten my admiration for my city? Or as I have on more than one occasion, missed the caca de chien in front of me that has sent me skidding to the ground? Is it worth it then? Has this golden ticket lured me away from the present and plonked me like a cold, used teabag into the world of Status Updates, Emoticons, txting lingo and Twits... I mean, Tweets?

  At the moment, I couldn't care less. I'm on a filthy metro that smells not unlike creamed corn and urinals and the woman across from me has dandruff the size of 10 euro cent pieces and they’re blowing in my direction. But alas my stop has arrived.  However I don't think Monsieur Running-For-The-Metro much appreciates that Mademoiselle Stuck-To-Her-iPhone-And-Walking is blocking his path to his train (despite the fact that these trains come every two minutes). In which case, not only is my addiction inconveniencing and disturbing my own life, but now the lives of those around me.

  Yet to be honest, I take the best with the worst of it; like with a human being – no relationship is perfect. This phone contract is my rope; the phone, my carabiner; Paris, my cliff face; and Australia; my special spotter down below.  All necessary for a good climb.  And it’s thanks to one very special spotter radio presenter who made my morning climb just that bit more informative.  A spotter I can now only see on T.V.