As a sophomore in high school, my mom made a deal with me.
I wanted to be an exchange student.
If I could pay $1000; she would pay the rest.
It was 1988.
And I wanted to get the heck out of Dodge.
Hundreds and hundreds of babysitting hours later, I applied.
I left for Australia three weeks before my sixteenth birthday.
The next six months were... words fail me.
My time in Tasmania was simply the best part of my high school years.
For the first time in my schooling, I felt at home, challenged, and invigorated.
I loved my time there. Loved it.
Loved it more than anything until my girls were born, I think.
And then it was time to come home.
Oh, I cried.
Upon returning, a family friend sent me flowers
with a condolence card.
It read, "The vacation had to end sometime."
I discovered physics, clay, art, farmer's markets, sushi, and rain in Tassie.
(Oh, I also found boys, but that's a totally different story.)
The smell of wood smoke and rain still gives me a thrill.
It makes me think of walking to school in a Tasmanian winter.
I applied to the University of Oregon because it was the closest environment
(both in weather and temperament) I could find to Tassie.
It has been twenty years.
How does that happen?
(The
Australian Red Cross has been having some trouble keeping their site up with the increased traffic. If you would like to donate to the Bush Fire fund, please be patient!)