Just for variety’s sake, I post a series of short stories which documents my two-year stay in Australia.
The cacophonic combination of the plane’s hissing air brakes and screeching tires welcomed me to Queensland on February 2004. From the window–a stunning view of Australia’s Moreton Bay… and the suburbs of the city of Brisbane played a more important role in setting the solemn mood.
I flew to Australia with a friend, Yanz, who had gone to the country a semester earlier. Since I was a new student at the university, the admin office arranged a bus for me to the city of Toowoomba, 150 kilometers west of Brisbane. My friend was picked up by a Filipino and his Bruneian partner, the very first people I’ve met since my foremost arrival in the country.
The loneliness and excitement heightened four-fold when I got on that bus, the “Airport Flyer”. For the first time in the next couple of years I was to fend for myself. It was a two-hour ride to the “Garden City” and the view of the vastness of Queensland’s plains at Warrego Highway’s vantage point was splendid. The mountains far on the horizon added to nature’s artistic display. I had become a huge fan of wide, open spaces since then.
Midway to my destination, the rain started to pour…and it fell on to earth up to the night.
“Welcome to Toowoomba, The Garden City” a huge sign embossed on a wall indicated. The city of 110,000 people rests atop the mountain range called the Great Continental Divide, spanning from Northern Queensland down to the state of Victoria. I would learn during my two years of stay in the land down under that Toowoomba was rich in custom and history.
I reached the dorm office 30 minutes after its closure at 4.30pm. I asked the bus driver to bring me to my dorm block instead. The rain was still falling at its hardest when I got off the bus and I ran up to what seems to me a recreation hall. The driver helped me carry my luggage off the bus and inside the building. I walked in and found two billiard tables, a pool table, a sala set complete with couches and sofas and a television (where we would watch The Simpsons every night for the next four months).
On the wall, I saw a telephone. It had no buttons, telling me that it was meant for emergencies…my situation was an emergency. I held the handset on to my ear. The phone automatically dialled.
“Hello,” a thickly Australian accentuated voice answered on the other line.
“Yes, I’m Jay-R Patron and I’m here in this building with pool tables. I just got here and the office had already closed. Can you be of assistance?”
“Sure, I think I know where you are. I’ll be right with you in a bit.”
I sat on my black suitcase marked by dozens of airline stickers. Dripping wet, I started to feel cold. 10 minutes in to my wait, a fairly short Cuacasian man walked in.
“Are you Jay-R?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, welcome to Steele Rudd. I’m ______,” (I forget his name).
I carried my bag as he led me to my room in the adjacent building. Block F, Room 12, my home for the next four months.
The man turned out to be a “senior resident fellow”, a university student staying at the dorm (or what they call college) to serve as guides to other residents.
He gave me my room key. I walked in. I threw my backpack on the bed, placed my suitcase by the wall, stared at the window, and waited for tears to fall down…
…and on my cheeks they fell.
Next Chapter… The Most Colorful are the First 24 Hours
All comments are moderated. Your comments will not appear here unless approved by the blog owner. Thank you.
