Zophia University Trilogy (2) : Short novel : Chasing Dreams, Counting on Others

 

“Heyyy, Inaba san! So, like, you’re not going to the University of South Australia or what? "

 

Oh, here we go again.

With just a month to go until the exchange programme interviews, my club junior, Wakana Motegi, has once again cornered me with the question. It’s like clockwork at this point.

Rumour has it she’s keen on going to the same university as me. Honestly, she’s not exactly subtle about it.

“Not there!” I reply breezily. “It’s the University of Sydney.”

But then she tilts her head and says, “O"But, like, the study-abroad office says you’re totally going to the University of South Australia, Inaba-senpai!"

Great. So much for confidentiality. It sounds like my plans have leaked everywhere.

 

It was clear my plans weren’t exactly under wraps anymore.

 

My first encounter with Wakana Motegi had been two years ago, back in 1989, when she was a first-year student. We were both part of the English Conversation Club, though in different subgroups—she was in the English Discussion. As I was in Public speech group, we didn’t have much overlap, to be honest.

 

Wakana was… well, memorable. Her lifeless, fish-like eyes and perpetually blank expression were her signature look. She had this habit of sweet-talking upperclassmen to get what she wanted, which—let’s be real—wasn’t exactly endearing. I didn’t know her particularly well, but the idea of ending up at the same exchange programme destination? Let’s just say I wasn’t thrilled.

 

She fancied herself quite the expert in English. “I’m practically a native,” she’d declare, as though it were some universal truth. To be fair, people who didn’t know her well would say her English was perfectly fine, even impressive.

Wakana had her sights set on studying literature and creative writing at the University of South Australia. Like most exchange students, she’d already planned to max out on credits required for her degree and then coast through the rest of her classes.

 

Meanwhile, my situation was a bit more... precarious. Almost all the modules I needed for my English Studies major in my second and third years had been cancelled, leaving me short—fifteen credits short, to be exact.

 

It was a no-brainer. If I wanted to graduate, studying abroad was the only way to fill the gap. Besides, I’d been craving the chance to immerse myself in my field of study for a full year, rather than plodding along on my own without much direction. That’s how I found myself applying for the exchange programme.

 

The University of South Australia had everything I wanted: a foundation course in sociology, a class on immigration studies, and, best of all, international politics. Not to mention a module on Aboriginal history and colonialism that had me positively tingling with anticipation.

 

Luckily, I passed the exchange programme interview and was thrilled to be offered a one-year spot at the university. Three courses, 12 credits, and a plan to grab the final three credits once I returned to Japan. It was going to be a gruelling year of study—an uphill battle, really—but there was no other way.

 

Having spent my middle and high school years in New Zealand, I’d always dreamed of a career that would connect Japan with the Southern Hemisphere. Naturally, I was drawn to universities that offered robust English studies. But there were so few options in Japan, and I’d only just scraped into Zophia University. It had a course ambitiously titled British and Commonwealth Studies, and I remember passionately selling my interest in it during my entrance interview.

 

Fast forward to the reality check: I was the only one in my entire year who had chosen this specialty. By my second year, the programme’s core classes were being cancelled left and right. By third year, only a single course had survived. I was staring down a glaring gap of 15 credits with no solution in sight.

 

The only lifeline? A handful of cross-disciplinary classes taught by guest lecturers—thankfully, one on EU politics had let me in. As for the regular departmental classes? Professors were territorial, to say the least. Let’s just say being unceremoniously booted out of a lecture hall wasn’t exactly unheard of.

 

I’d actually tried for the exchange programme back in my second year but failed spectacularly—mainly because I didn’t have a clear vision of what I wanted. By third year, though, my goals had crystallised, and I managed to pass the interview on my second attempt.

 

My plan was simple yet ambitious: dive into Australia’s social fabric through studies in international politics, colonial history, social economics social anthropology, with a focus on Aboriginal communities. It wasn’t just about academics; it was about understanding Australia on a deeper level. My ultimate dream? To work for a company that facilitates Japan-Australia business relations, bridging cultural gaps and ensuring smooth communication.

 

I’d seen it happen too often—misunderstandings caused by cultural differences derailing international collaborations. My five years in New Zealand had taught me a lot, but it was limited to my teenage experiences. As for Australia, my visits there during school holidays hadn’t given me much insight into its society either.

 

But the future looked promising. The Asia-Pacific region was becoming increasingly interconnected, with economies merging and people moving more freely. I wanted to be part of that wave, helping others understand Japan and fostering stronger ties. That’s why I chose the University of South Australia—it wasn’t just a university; it was a step toward my dream.

 

From the moment my exchange programme was confirmed in October, I had a laser-sharp focus. I was determined to cram every bit of sociology, history, and anthropology into my brain, right from the basics. With 15 credits to make up, failure simply wasn’t an option. By January, when the new semester started, I’d be ready.

 

For the next two months, I practically lived in the university library. Armed with textbooks in both English and Japanese—Introduction to Sociology, Foundations of Anthropology, you name it—I pored over every page. From morning until night, I was buried in my books, squeezing in as much as I could before my departure in November.

 

Occasionally, my classmates would spot me in my usual corner and stop by with hushed words of encouragement. “Saki, you’re doing amazing,” said Hiroko Tagawa, my best friend, with her usual kind smile. Miho Saiki and Misato Nakanishi would nod enthusiastically, their voices low but warm.

 

The three of them had become my closest friends, even though we hadn’t started out that way. We’d met by chance at the freshman welcome event, but it wasn’t until this year, our third, that we found ourselves in the same specialised classes. Their support meant everything to me, like a soft glow settling in my chest, keeping me going when the days felt endless.

----------------------------------------
 
 
“Miss Wakana Motegi, correct?”
 
“Yes, that’s meee!” I replied with sparkling smile.
 
“So, why have you chosen to apply for the University of South Australia?”
 
“I’d like to major in Creative Writing! They’ve got a course for it there, you know? And, like, I’ve already spent two whole years studying English literature in college, plus I’ve read tons of play scripts. Writing stories in English is, like, totally my thing!”
 
“Creative Writing requires English skills comparable to a native speaker. Do you feel confident you can keep up?”
 
“Oh, absolutely! I’ve been told I’m a native-level English speaker since I was little—my English tutors said so! Even my university professors are always like, ‘Your English is so fluent, it’s hard to believe you learned it in Japan!’ Plus, I’m at the top of my class, and my TOEFL score is, like, so close to 300!”
 
“Are you aware that Australian English has some unique characteristics? Do you think you’ll manage?”
 
“Umm, hello? I’m basically a native speaker! Of course I’ll be fine—there’s no way I wouldn’t understand.”
 
“There are other universities available for exchange students. Why did you choose the University of South Australia specifically?”
 
“Well, someone I know said they’re going there, so, like, that’s part of it. And, come on, isn’t the U.S. or the U.K. just a bit too... basic? If I’m going to study abroad, it’s gotta be somewhere more unique, right? Somewhere people don’t usually go!”
 
 
Ugh, finally! That stupid exchange program interview is over. What a pain. I have to get into the same university as Saki Inaba-senpai. No, scratch that—I’m going no matter what.
 
See, when I first told my parents I wanted to do an exchange program, they slapped me with this ridiculous condition: “You have to pick a university where there’s someone you know from your department or club.” According to them, having someone familiar around “just in case something happens” was non-negotiable.
 
When I said I wanted to go to the University of South Australia, Dad totally flipped out.
 
“The University of South Australia? What the heck is that? Where even is it?!”
 
“Um, I guess, like… in the south of Australia?”
 
“You can’t be serious! Why not aim for a more prestigious school? Harvard! UCLA! Yale! What about one of those?”
 
“But, like, my club senior said she’s going there.”
 
“Hmm… I see. So, there’s someone you know who’ll be there. That’s… acceptable. Is this senior a man or a woman?”
 
“She’s a woman.”
 
“Hmph. That’s a bit concerning. She can’t exactly protect you, can she? Still, why wouldn’t you challenge yourself and go to a top-tier university? Employers pay close attention to that sort of thing, you know.”
 
“Uh-huh…”
 
“Listen, if it has to be Australia, why not the University of Sydney? My company has a branch there. If there’s an issue, I can get the younger staff to help you out.”
 
Ugh, no thanks. Dad’s company guys? That’s a hard pass. He’s always pushing me to “marry one of the young men from the bank.” Is he planning to set me up on some awful blind date or something?
 
Anyway, I’m not worried about anything. Saki Inaba-senpai, my senior from the English club, used to live in New Zealand. That totally means she’s, like, an expert on Australia too, right? New Zealand and Australia wouldn’t be much different, are they? I bet she’ll look after her adorable junior—aka me—and show me all these fabulous places no one else gets to see.
 
Maybe she’ll even invite me to her family’s house in New Zealand! How cool would that be? I could see what a real Kiwi home looks like. Sure, I can’t really tell the difference between New Zealand and Australia, but they’re basically the same thing, right?
 
Oh, and the professor who advises our English club? He’s in charge of selecting exchange students. A lot of people join the club just because they want to go abroad, and they’re always bending over backwards trying to impress him. Well, guess who managed to catch his eye? That’s right—me.
 
 
The interview was finally over, and I had a moment to chat with my club advisor.

 

“You’ll be fine as long as Inaba’s with you,” she said, her tone dripping with reassurance. “Don’t worry about a thing. You’ll pass this interview, no problem. I’ve already decided—you two absolutely need to go to the same university.”

 

“Really?!” I drawled, dragging out the word in exaggerated disbelief. “I want Saki-san to, like, totally take care of me, though.”

 

“She will,” he said firmly. “But listen, you’ve got to know what you want to do while you’re there. Talk with Inaba, work together, plan things out. For example, if you’re going on holiday, make sure to tell her what you want to do. Discuss where to go. You have to work as a team. Got it?”

 

Work together? Discuss plans with Saki? Pfft, as if! That’s so not happening. Like, ever.

 

Saki-san is practically a goddess of surprises. She’ll obviously plan the most amazing things for me—no need for any input from my end. I mean, the only reason I even picked the University of South Australia is because she’s going there. Do I know anything about Australia? Nah. Not really. Okay, maybe just the basics—koalas, kangaroos, and, uh, that’s about it.

 

But who cares? I’ve got Saki-san, my living, breathing encyclopedia. Why bother researching anything when I can just enjoy the delightful surprises she’ll whip up for me once we get there?

 

She’ll sort out our living arrangements, obviously. She’ll handle the shopping, the everyday chores, all that boring stuff. And the sightseeing? Oh, she’ll take care of that too. I mean, hello, I’m her adorable kouhai—it’s practically her duty to spoil me rotten.

 

Writing stories in English? Please, child’s play. All I have to do is order the original English versions of books I’ve read in Japanese, jot down anything interesting, and patch it all together. Voilà—a new story, just like that. Throw in a few dialogues lifted from some plays, and it’s practically a masterpiece.

 

Honestly, I wanted to study English linguistics like Saki-san—she’s in the prestigious English department of Zophia University, after all. But no, my high school refused to recommend me for it. So here I am, stuck in the literature department instead.

 

Not that it’s a big deal or anything. I’ve already read most of Shakespeare and Dickens in Japanese translation—like, almost all their works. So yeah, when it comes to English lit, I’m practically a genius already. Going on an exchange program? Piece of cake.

 

Besides, I’m sure I can buy Japanese books in Australia. I mean, there must be loads of people like me studying English lit abroad, right? A quick visit to a second-hand bookstore, and I might even score some Japanese translations. Maybe the library will have a stash too.

 

And honestly? If there isn’t, well, whatever. I’ll figure it out. I always do.

Guidebooks? Ugh, Who Even Needs One?

 

Like, seriously, who needs a guidebook? Not me. I wouldn’t be caught dead lugging around one of those boring things. I mean, duh, I have Saki-san for that. She’s going to pop by my room every week, fluttering her perfect eyelashes, all like, “Hey Wakana-chan, I’m planning to check out XXX. Do you want to join?” Of course, I’ll say yes—she’ll have everything planned to perfection.

 

Delicious local food? Sorted. Chic outfits? Obviously. Essentials for daily life? Oh, she’s got that too.

 

Picture this: I’m sipping vintage high-end tea and sparkling wine, dining on roast beef and foie gras at some Michelin-starred restaurant. Then, we’re off to an iconic, centuries-old department store to shop for luxurious dresses and designer shoes.

 

And when I get back to Japan? Honey, everyone’s going to die when they see me. I’ll be showing off my year-long Australian life like it’s an Oscar-winning film. My wardrobe will scream sophistication, my hairstyle will be on point, and my entire vibe will be utterly transformed. Naturally, my diet and style will change too—how could they not, with Saki-san guiding me? She’s practically going to turn me into a bona fide Aussie goddess.

 

The study abroad exams? Nailed it, obviously. Now all I have to do is let the international office handle everything else.

 

I mean, do you really think someone as elite as me has time for boring stuff like filling out paperwork? Please. That’s why they invented international offices, right? To handle all that tedious nonsense.

 

Oh, wait! Before I go, I absolutely need to hit the salon. My perm is starting to look, like, way too flat, and my bangs could use a fresh curl—maybe something outward-facing this time, super chic.

 

Makeup? I’ll pack my favourites, obviously. But once I’m in Australia, I have to splurge on their exclusive high-end beauty brands. Like, can you even imagine the treasures I’ll find?

 

----------------------------------------

 

Two months after the exchange exam, on November 22nd, my friend Kyoko—who had impulsively decided to take a summer vacation to Australia—secured us cheap open tickets with Cathay Pacific Airlines. We flew via Hong Kong to Sydney.
 
Being in the Southern Hemisphere, it was summer here, quite the opposite of Japan’s chilly season. We packed away our heavy coats into our bags and stepped out in thin T-shirts as we landed at the airport.
 
After registering our address at the Australian consulate for our stay, we hopped on a domestic flight to Adelaide later that day.

The airport was bustling with colourful, large birds flying about—red, green, blue. Were they some kind of wild parrots? Around us, summer flowers were in full bloom, greeting visitors with vibrant hues of pink, yellow, and purple.
 
Upon arrival, we checked into a youth hostel for two nights. Miraculously, we managed to snag beds for four in a tiny room furnished with two sets of colourful bunk beds. It was just me and Kyoko plus two other Japanese girls, and we quickly hit it off.
 
We lounged in the hostel’s spacious courtyard as the sun dipped, painting the sky a fiery red. Here, we met travellers from various countries, mingling and chatting as evening fell. Later, we all went to a local bar for a drink, savouring local beer.
 
As expected, drinks at the bar were pricier than store-bought alcohol. Dining out was an ordeal in Japan too; it required a certain amount of courage. Even though my parents were footing the bill for my living expenses, I couldn’t afford to waste money frivolously.
 
Kyoko joined me at the Magill Campus of South Australia University, located near Adelaide’s capital. The flat I had pre-selected was close to the campus, and by coincidence, Kyoko ran into an acquaintance there—someone from the same university in Tokyo. Her friends, who were also on self-funded study abroad, warmly welcomed us.
 
That evening, Kyoko’s friends took us to the local supermarket to do some grocery shopping, and we had a delightful dinner in our modest accommodation.
 
On the last night, I gave up my bed to Kyoko, and we made a cozy makeshift bed on the floor with a brown blanket and a navy cushion, staying up all night chatting. Kyoko, who I met on our Hong Kong adventure, was a travel enthusiast. “You don’t get opportunities like this often,” she said as she joined me in Australia.
 
Majoring in Chinese, Kyoko had attended a language school in Hong Kong during summer breaks and was nearly fluent in Cantonese. Being with her, who was skilled in languages other than English, really pushed me out of my comfort zone and made me see things differently.
 
When our stay in Adelaide came to an end, Kyoko set off for other parts of Australia, just as my language training began. As an undergraduate, I found myself inexplicably lumped into a class with postgraduate students who were set to advance to master’s and doctoral programs. We learned basics like presentation skills and essay writing from scratch.
 
The postgrads were heading toward higher degrees, and here I was, a mere undergrad wondering if I even belonged. But the lecturer assured me, “The basics are the same for undergrads and postgrads alike. The only difference is the complexity of what you write about—whether it’s an essay or a research paper. You need to get the basics down pat.”
 
That training period saw Wakana sticking to me like glue. She seemed incapable of making a move without me.
 
South Australia University, as its name suggests, was in Adelaide, but on weekends we took excursions to local tourist spots. Wakana was always right behind me, no matter where I went or what I did. “I just want to go where YOU go!” she insisted.
 
During the Adelaide city tour, Wakana trailed me as I walked around, curious about the local area. Even when I suggested a trip to Kangaroo Island, she’d whine, “"I just wanna go wherever YOU go, you know?”
 
We ended up wandering down paths that led to nowhere particularly interesting, and I was ready to call it a day when Wakana pulled out her camera to snap pictures of yet another empty street. I’m not sure if Wakana enjoyed the stroll; honestly, I couldn’t figure out what she found so entertaining, but later I explored Adelaide city with the other participants.
 
Afterwards, Kyoko’s friends guided me to a local supermarket and drugstore, and we explored Central Market and Woolworths, picking up daily essentials. We ended the day with a leisurely coffee by the beach, watching surfers riding the waves in the summer sun.
 
Even during the free time, Wakana stayed glued to me. Whenever I bought something at the supermarket, she hovered over my cart, scrutinizing my choices. If I picked up a can of baked beans, he’d scoff, “"I wouldn’t buy this stuff.” When I threw some cheese in the basket, she wrinkled her nose and complained, “Who buys this stinky stuff anyway?"”
 
I was starting to wonder what to do with Wakana. She seemed completely unable to entertain herself or make a decision on her own, sticking to me like a shadow and scrutinising and complaining everything I bought.
 
The four-week training flew by in no time. It was a blessing though, as it gave me a chance to brush up on my essay-writing skills, experience discussions and debates that were never possible in my classes at Zophia University in Tokyo, and prepare for the lectures ahead.
 
On the last day of the language course, there was a farewell party with everyone who had been in the training together. It was just in time for Christmas—gathering inside, surrounded by vibrant Christmas ornaments and the scorching summer air with a sky as blue as it gets outside the window.
 
We were joined by graduate students from South Asia, Europe, and South America. I struck up a conversation with the ladies sitting next to me, who I guessed was from South Asia. They told me they were from Indonesia and were university linguistics lecturers in their home country. They were about to start a three-year doctoral program here.
 
The evening started with a summary from the instructor about the past month and a proposal to perform something from each person’s home country. I decided to do a rendition of “Hanagasa Ondo” that I had danced during a local summer festival just before I left Japan, complete with the song and everything. The audience clapped along, and I managed to finish the whole thing.
 
Wakana was quick to chime in with a sullen look, saying, “I wouldn’t do it like that.” I thought she might do her own performance, but in the end, she didn’t do anything, just remained silent throughout.
 
The French guy sang an English version of a chanson, and the person from the German-speaking region probably did a traditional South German song and dance. We all sang “Auld Lang Syne” together in the end. It’s become a tradition at these language courses to sing it as a farewell—perfect for marking the end of this chapter.
 
Leaving behind the classmates who had been so good to me over the past month—those who were moving on to master’s and doctoral programs—was bittersweet.
 
-------------------------------------
 
 
In the days leading up to my departure for Australia, I practically camped by the house phone, waiting for Saki-san to call. Like, any minute now she’d say, “Hey, Wakana-chan, want to fly to Adelaide together? I can book your ticket too!” That’s totally what I imagined happening.

 

But guess what? Crickets. Absolute radio silence. Meanwhile, the clock’s ticking, and if I don’t book my ticket soon, all the good seats are going to be gone.

 

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I dialed Saki-san’s number myself.

 

Her mother picked up.

 

Wait, what? Wasn’t she supposed to be in New Zealand or maybe back in Japan for summer break?

 

“Uh, hi, is Saki-san there by any chance?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

 

“Oh, Saki left for Australia two days ago,” her mother said breezily. “She mentioned something about needing to register her address at the consulate, so she decided to head over early.”

 

What?! She left without telling me?! After I’d been waiting for her call like an idiot? Ugh, so inconsiderate! I mean, seriously—who does that?!

 

Panicking because I’d totally forgotten about this consulate registration thing, I rushed to the nearest travel agency. The staff there convinced me to buy an open ticket for a whole year in Australia. Whatever, fine.

 

Luckily, there was an available seat in Qantas Airlines’ business class, so I snagged it right away. Before I knew it, I was on my way to the airport, with barely enough time to pack my things.

 

Of course, my family—being the kind of people who spend Christmas and New Year’s in Europe every year—are total pros when it comes to airports. Gliding through the terminal like it’s our personal runway? Oh, we’ve mastered that. Even the ground staff seem to recognize me. They totally give me this “Ah, it’s you again” look, like I’m some kind of VIP.

 

Usually, I’d be boarding a flight to Europe, but this time I was heading south. November—it’s probably cold in Australia too, right? No worries. I got my down coat, scarves, gloves, and backups. And if I need anything else, Mama will just send it over by air courier, no big deal.

 

The 13-hour flight? No different from flying to Europe. I ordered champagne as soon as we were in the air, reclined my plush seat just a little, and queued up a movie on my personal screen.

 

It was The Bodyguard. Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner? Ugh, perfection. I couldn’t follow the plot without subtitles, but whatever. I’m, like, totally cultured—I always make sure to check out the latest Hollywood films, okay?

 

 Dinner onboard was... let’s just say, adequate. Truffle-roasted potatoes with Niçoise salad, followed by lobster for the main course. Dessert was a decent enough chocolate cake paired with a little post-meal Drambuie. Not exactly the Ritz, but hey, I’m slumming it as a student now, right? A little discomfort builds character—or so they say.

 

First class this was not. Narrow seats, limited menu options—ugh, the sacrifices I make for “cultural experiences.” Still, it would be a memory, or at least something to complain about later.

 

Before I knew it, I dozed off and woke up as we landed at Sydney Airport. Time for a domestic connection! I began leisurely pulling on my down coat, bracing for what I assumed would be icy winds outside, when a flight attendant leaned in conspiratorially.

 

“Ma’am,” she said, her voice low and sugary, “the weather in Sydney today is lovely—thirty degrees Celsius. You might find the coat a bit warm.”

 

Thirty degrees?! What was she even saying? It’s winter. Winter means cold. Everyone knows that. I gave her a tight smile, ignored her ridiculous comment, grabbed my Louis Vuitton carry-on, and strutted off the plane.

 

The moment I stepped outside, I was hit by a wave of heat that felt like stepping into a sauna.

 

What. Was. Happening?!

 

Was this a cruel joke? Did someone crank up the airport’s heater to “oven” mode? Where was winter? Where was my cool, chic breeze?

 

Panicking, I dashed to the nearest restroom and peeled off my layers, swapping my thick sweater and coat for something thinner. Summer. It was actually summer here. What is wrong with this planet?

 

This called for an emergency shopping spree—an entirely new summer wardrobe. But first, I had to deal with my luggage.

 

Outside the airport, I flagged down a taxi.

 

“Um, South Australia University, please,” I said, trying my best to sound confident.

 

The driver started mumbling in the most incomprehensible English I’d ever heard. Was this even English? After a few baffling exchanges, I handed him the piece of paper with the address written on it. Ugh, why can’t people here just speak properly?

 

The ride was surreal. The dry air reminded me of Europe, but the clear November skies and sun-drenched streets felt like I’d stepped into a fantasy world.

 

After about an hour, the taxi pulled up in front of my flat near the campus. I rang the buzzer as instructed, and out came this towering woman with a mane of curly brown hair.

 

“Hello, I’m Wakana,” I said, flashing my most dazzling smile.

 

The woman responded in rapid-fire English—or something pretending to be English—and all I could do was nod along and say, “Yes, yes,” like some sort of helpless toddler.

 

She handed me a key and led me to my new digs.

 

The moment I stepped inside, my jaw hit the floor.

 

The entire space was maybe ten tatami mats big. A single bed, a desk, a bookshelf, and a sad little kitchenette squished in one corner. The kitchen and bedroom weren’t even separate!

 

To the right was a tiny bathroom where the shower and toilet were crammed together. And the floor—carpeted. Who carpets a bathroom? There wasn’t even a bathtub!

 

Was this a joke? Every European hotel I’d stayed at had tiled bathrooms and luxurious tubs. But this? This was squalor.

 

A whole year in this? No way. This is what happens when you don’t bother with a pre-move inspection. Well, I’m not one for suffering in silence. There’s no way I’m staying here for more than a month. I need at least a two-bedroom flat, minimum, to survive.

 

 

 
The first thing I had to do after unpacking (well, sort of unpacking—more like glancing at my luggage and deciding I couldn’t deal right now) was to stock up on groceries. Obviously, I couldn’t starve before finding a decent restaurant, right?

 

I stepped outside my flat, strutted down the three sad little steps, and spotted what looked like a supermarket right across the street. Perfect! I waited at the crosswalk for the light to turn green, but it just... wouldn’t.

 

As I stood there, fuming, two dads with toddlers in tow walked up, pressed some button on the traffic light pole, and—poof!—the light turned green.

 

Wait. You have to press a button here? What is this, the Stone Age?

 

Before I could process the indignity, the light started blinking, like, immediately. What?! It’s already changing?! I bolted across the crosswalk in my Chanel flats, praying they wouldn’t scuff, and finally made it to the other side.

 

The “supermarket” looked promising from the outside, with its display of vibrant, unfamiliar flowers. They were so bright and wild-looking, I thought, Maybe I should buy some for the flat. It could use a splash of life—anything to make that grim shoebox feel less like a prison.

 

Inside, though? Total disappointment.

 

Instead of proper supermarket shelves, there were these massive clear containers full of coffee beans, dried herbs, and grains that looked like rice but probably weren’t. The smell—oh, the smell! That overpowering, herbal stench clung to everything. Toward the back, I found a small section with milk and orange juice, and a pathetic display of vegetables covered in dirt. No meat. No fish. Just sadness.

 

What even IS this place?

 

Trying to salvage the trip, I grabbed some bread, milk, and orange juice, dumped them into a basket, and headed for the register.

 

The cashier greeted me with a cheerful “G’day!”

 

“Gudai?” I repeated, blinking.

 

“Yes, g’day! How’s it goin’, mate?”

 

Mite?! Was this cashier seriously calling me mite? What was this weird code they were speaking?

 

I paid the bill, trying not to let my jaw drop when the total flashed on the screen—nearly 3,000 yen! For bread, milk, and juice! This was daylight robbery!

 

Muttering under my breath, I stormed out of the so-called supermarket and noticed the shop next door—a convenience store. Oh, thank God. Inside, there were shelves full of newspapers, snacks, instant coffee, and cup noodles. Real food. Well, sort of.

 

I grabbed a small pack of tea, some instant coffee, and what looked like a pack of cup noodles (the packaging was too weird to be sure) and made my way back to the flat, determined to drown my sorrows in a cup of coffee.

 

Once I was back, I boiled water in the electric kettle and brewed my instant coffee, adding the milk I’d bought earlier. It smelled a little... off, but I shrugged and took a sip.

 

Pffftt! I spat it out immediately. The taste was horrendous—like grass mixed with sadness.

 

“What the heck is this?! Is this even milk?!”

 

I grabbed the carton and read the label. “SOY MILK.”

 

Soy milk? Soy milk?! Who even drinks this stuff? I thought it was just a weird brand name! A quick check in my dictionary confirmed my worst fears: it was made from soybeans.

 

Oh. My. God.

 

I tossed the carton into the bin and swore never to set foot in that supermarket again. What kind of grocery store doesn’t sell real milk? Honestly, I deserved better. So much better.

 

 

 

By day two in Adelaide, the so-called “language immersion” program had begun. The campus was a five-minute walk from my flat, but with the heat? Honey, I wasn’t about to sacrifice style for practicality. I slipped on my strappy stiletto sandals and sashayed out the door like a Vogue cover shoot waiting to happen.

 

The campus was lined with trees—like some kind of suburban forest—and tucked inside was the lecture hall I needed to find. Finally, I spotted Inaba-san, my lifeline in this wilderness of mediocrity. But the moment I walked into the room, I was shook.

 

I came to Australia, right? So why was the room full of Asians? A few people looked vaguely Latin, sure, but there were women in saris, and some wore scarves over their heads.

 

Did I accidentally teleport to the United Nations?

 

Then the instructor started speaking English—or at least I think it was English. The accent was so thick, I couldn’t understand a single word.

 

“What even is this?” I muttered under my breath. “If this is supposed to be a language program, shouldn’t they have hired someone who speaks proper English? I’m a native speaker, okay? I need crisp, clean, unaccented English, not...whatever this is!”

 

To make matters worse, the instructor gave us homework—homework I couldn’t even decipher. Inaba-san offered explanations, but not help. What was the point of this? Absolutely no fun at all.

 

Feeling utterly abandoned, I latched onto Inaba-san like a designer handbag. Whether it was sightseeing or shopping, I refused to leave her side. At least she spoke Japanese, and I couldn’t risk venturing out alone into this bizarre, incomprehensible world.

 

But even she had quirks. Like when we went grocery shopping—she tried to buy a can of beans. Beans! After my traumatic experience with soy milk, I couldn’t let that happen.

 

“Absolutely not,” I declared, yanking the can from her hand. “What are you, a peasant? Who eats canned beans?!”

 

And then—brace yourself—she reached for a block of blue cheese. BLUE CHEESE. In this summer heat!

 

“Are you insane?!” I shrieked. “Do you want your room to reek like a dumpster? No way, absolutely no way!”

 

Fast-forward to the final day of the program. We were herded into a big lecture hall with students from other classes. It was the same story—mostly Asians, some scarf-wearing ladies, and older men who looked like retired diplomats. I had no idea what to say to anyone.

 

Inaba-san, of course, started chatting up the scarf-wearing women. I hovered close, eavesdropping on their boring little conversation.

 

“So, what’s your name?” she asked. “Where are you from? “What’s your major?”

 

Really, Inaba-san? I rolled my eyes so hard they practically detached. She was asking such basic questions that there was nothing left for me to say.

 

And then she had the audacity to turn to me. “Motegi-san, why don’t you join in?”

 

Excuse me? Why would I waste my breath repeating the same pointless questions? Ugh, so annoying.

 

Later, the instructor gave a long speech I didn’t bother trying to understand. According to Inaba-san, it was something about congratulating us and asking if anyone wanted to perform something from their culture.

 

Before I could even process what that meant, Inaba-san shot her hand up, marched to the front of the room, and started doing a bon odori—complete with singing.

 

OH. MY. GOD.

 

I wanted to crawl under my chair. A bon odori? Seriously? Could she embarrass Japan any more? If it were me, I would’ve done something sophisticated, like performing “Un bel dì” from Madama Butterfly. Now that is how you represent your country with class.

 

That night, there was a farewell party in the same hall. They cleared out the tables and chairs, leaving everyone to sit on the stairs. Stairs! Can you imagine? I perched on a chair, sipping a cheap cocktail from a plastic cup, glaring at everyone sitting on those grimy steps.

 

How could they? Did they not care about hygiene? And drinking beer straight from the bottle? Ugh, barbaric.

 

Then the lights dimmed, and the instructor turned on some weird music—old-school pop or something even worse. Everyone rushed to the dance floor like maniacs.

 

“What is this? A 70s disco revival?” I sneered, refusing to move. If they wanted to pretend this was a club, they should’ve at least installed proper lighting and a raised stage.

To my horror, Inaba-san joined the madness, dancing awkwardly in the middle of the crowd.

 

The lights dimmed even further, and the instructor—clearly stuck in some tragic time warp—started playing another ancient piece of mood music. I swear, it sounded like something you’d hear in a cheap wedding hall from the 80s.

 

And then, to my absolute horror, the grad students started pairing up for what could only be described as a slow dance. Yes, couples—actual male-female pairs—began swaying awkwardly like it was prom night at a rundown high school gym.

 

Even Saki-san joined in, twirling around with some guy who looked vaguely Latin.

 

I almost gagged. “Ugh, gross… Do people really still do this?”

 

A few men approached me, all hopeful and extending their hands, as if I’d willingly participate in this outdated nightmare.

 

“Yeah, no,” I said, waving them off with a sharp flick of my manicured nails. “Not happening.”

 

What did they think I was, some desperate wallflower? Please. No way was I going to get dragged into a dance that belonged in a Hallmark movie. My entire body froze, every muscle screaming, Nope, not today.

 

And just like that, the month-long language program limped to a pathetic close. Other than Saki-san, I hadn’t spoken to a single person. Not one.

 

“Was there a point to any of this?” I wondered aloud, staring at my reflection in the mirror later that night. My perfect brows furrowed in frustration.

 

But whatever. The hard part was over. Classes were about to start, and honestly? They sounded easy. I had just one lecture and one tutorial each week—barely an effort. The rest of my time? Pure bliss. I was finally going to soak up the Aussie lifestyle, and trust me, I was going to do it in style.

 

---------------------------------
 
 
After the language course ended, I had a week of downtime. I decided to go on an overnight trip to Uluru's Ayers Rock, just on the outskirts. It was a shared tour, so I met all sorts of people and chatted on the plane as we headed to Uluru. From there, we took a bus to get closer to the rock. They say it can look like a rainbow in the early morning light—just magical! I’d always wanted to see this sacred Aboriginal site up close.
 
When I got back, I brought Wakana a souvenir. She was fuming. “"Ugh, why didn’t you bring me too, Saki-san? I was right there in the flat too! I thought you were gonna ask me, that you’d show me around or something.” It turned out she hadn’t bothered to plan anything for the week herself; she just stuck around Adelaide and did a bit of shopping.
 
“Didn’t you bring a travel guide or anything?” I asked.
 
"I wasn’t gonna bring any of that stuff, come on! I just thought you would show me everything! I don’t know anything about Australia, you know.”
 
I was shocked that Wakana hadn’t done even a smidge of research about our study abroad destination. I wasn’t exactly an expert either. During my time living in New Zealand, I’d visited Sydney and the Great Barrier Reef, but I hadn’t ventured into South Australia before.
 
January rolled around, and classes officially started. I decided to throw a little party for the flatmates—mostly students from the University of South Australia, with Aussies, and some international students from Singapore and Malaysia. They were curious about Japanese food, so I thought an okonomiyaki party would be perfect.
 
I invited Wakana, thinking her English fluency would make communication easy with the local residents. But she stayed oddly quiet. She didn’t try to chat with the others in the shared kitchen either.
 
Curious, I pulled Wakana aside and tried to chat with a Singaporean student nearby. I thought maybe she’d open up with a bit of nudging, but no such luck. Wakana just kept her head down and didn’t say a word.
 
Why wasn’t she speaking up? I wondered. After the party, when I was cleaning up the dishes, I asked casually how she found the evening. Her response was a grumble: "Hey, Saki-san, why do I have to talk to someone who speaks English like a Singaporean? You could introduce me to an Australian or something. I’m a native English speaker, and I can’t stand weird foreign accents, you know."
 
Most Singaporeans are bilingual, speaking English and Chinese, but that didn’t make much sense to Wakana. "Ugh, there’s no way someone with that much of an accent can be a native English speaker. A native speaker is someone like me, okay? Don’t get it twisted. I feel like I just wasted my time." And off she went back to her flat.
 
-----------------------------------
 
 The morning after the farewell party, I swung by Inaba-san’s flat a couple of times, expecting her to be around. I mean, hello? It’s not like she had anything better to do than hang out with her adorable junior who, let’s be real, is a total catch.

 

But no—every single time, she wasn’t there.

 

“What’s her deal?!” I huffed, flipping my hair dramatically as I stomped back to my place. Like, seriously? She had a perfectly good holiday to spend with me, and she’s off doing—what, exactly?

 

Eventually, I spotted someone heading into her building and decided to channel my inner investigative reporter. “Hey, you know where Saki’s at?” I asked, flashing my best I’m-too-good-for-this-but-I’ll-ask-anyway smile.

 

“Holidai,” the guy mumbled, barely looking up.

 

“Holi-what now?” I squinted at him.

 

“Holiday,” he repeated, like that cleared anything up.

 

Ugh. “What are you even saying?!” I muttered under my breath, rolling my eyes so hard I might’ve seen my own brain. Seriously, this is why foreigners’ English is just… ugh.

 

By the time Inaba-san finally showed up at my flat the next evening, I was ready to explode. Turns out, she’d been to Ayers Rock. She even had the audacity to bring a guidebook and gush about how it was, like, this iconic Australian landmark or whatever.

 

Iconic? EXCUSE ME. If it’s that famous, why didn’t she think to invite me?!

 

“Unbelievable!” I snapped, my hands flying to my hips. “You went to some big-deal place and just, what, left me here? Alone?!”

 

She gave me this blank look, like I was the one being unreasonable, and asked, “Why didn’t you bring a guidebook if you wanted to go?”

 

Guidebook? GUIDEBOOK?! I nearly choked on my own indignation.

 

“Um, excuse me, isn’t it, like, YOUR JOB to take me to all the cool places?” I fired back.

 

That was it. All the irritation I’d been bottling up since we landed in this Godforsaken sunburnt country came spilling out. I went on a full-blown rant about how I didn’t know the first thing about Australia and had totally counted on her to show me around.

 

Did she apologize? Of course not. She just sat there, looking all calm and unbothered, like she couldn’t care less. Cold. This woman is cold.

 

A few days later, out of the blue, Inaba-san invited me to a house party at her flat.

 

“Well, finally!” I thought, practically giddy with relief. Took her long enough to act like a proper friend.

 

Naturally, I stopped by the fanciest supermarket in town and picked up the most expensive bottle of Burgundy they had. Nothing but the best for a house party, right? Clutching my prize, I hurried over to her place, ready to dazzle.

But oh my God, the house party was such a flop.

 

Like, seriously. The only thing on the menu was this weird Japanese pancake thing Inaba-san claimed she’d made herself. She called it okonomiyaki or whatever, and it had cheese in it. Cheese! On a pancake! The sauce on top was this gross brown stuff that might have been something fancy like Otafuku sauce, but honestly? It just tasted… meh. And let me tell you, it did not pair with the gorgeous bottle of Burgundy I’d brought.

 

I mean, I get that she wanted to show off some Japanese cuisine, but couldn’t she have served something, I don’t know, chic? Like sushi or tempura or literally anything that screamed sophistication? Instead, she gives us this soggy pancake disaster.

 

And the guests? Oh, don’t get me started.

 

It was just the people from her building, and guess what? No Australians. None. Just a bunch of Asians, and not even the cool, glamorous kind like you’d find in Tokyo or Hong Kong. These were folks from Singapore, Malaysia, and Indonesia, all talking in this thickly accented English that made my head spin.

 

Like, what is this?! Where are the Australians? Where are the native English speakers? I’d been looking forward to brushing up on my flawless accent, but instead, I was stuck nodding politely while deciphering sentences that sounded like they’d been run through Google Translate and back.

 

By this point, I was so over it. I mean, what’s the point of even trying? So, I sat there, poking at my cold, rubbery pancake with a chopstick, wondering why I’d bothered showing up at all.

 

Eventually, I made some lame excuse, grabbed my bag, and left early. Back to my flat, back to sanity, and back to wondering how on earth I’d survive the rest of my time here.

 
--------------------------------------
 
The first weekend after classes started, I popped over to Wakana’s flat, just down the road.
 
There she was, in full panic mode over her coursework for her new course. Back in Japan, Wakana was an English major, reading novels and writing reports. Now, at the University of South Australia, she hadn’t even touched the course reading list yet.
 
"You’re fine, though. I mean, you don’t have to read all this crap. I’m stuck here with a million books to get through!"
 
The reading list was on the table — it looked like a high school sophomore’s English lit syllabus: Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Dickens, the Brontë sisters, Conan Doyle. There were so many books!
 
“Didn’t you read these in Japan?”
 
"Why would I read that? I can just skim through in Japanese if I need to. I’ve never read anything in English, like, ever." she replied, stretching her hands in frustration.
 
Apparently, she’d brought nothing but a dictionary from Japan. I suggested Wakana ask her parents to send over a Japanese translation of the reading list, at least to get her started.
 
A few days later, I popped by again, this time to borrow her word processor — which I found in a tiny, minuscule rice cooker perched on the counter.
 
"I mean, I miss rice, you know? The rice here sucks, but I can’t just not eat it, can I? Do you never crave rice, Saki-san?"
 
I couldn’t help but laugh. Buying a rice cooker and pricey Japanese rice was way out of my budget, especially for just a year. I’d come here with the mindset to manage without rice if necessary.
 
For breakfast, I’d stick to toast and baked beans, lunch would be a quick sandwich, and dinner could be boiled potatoes or stir-fried vegetables. Nutritional value aside, at least I wouldn’t be starving.
 
I figured if I had to scrimp on spending, it might as well be on food rather than books. Books in Australia are ridiculously expensive; I even hesitated buying a textbook. But with exams looming and lectures piling up, I couldn’t afford to skimp on that one essential. So I kept my grocery budget as minimal as possible.
 
---------------------------------------------
 
Finally, the lectures began. Finally, the glamorous, carefree Australian life I’d been dreaming of was supposed to start.

 

Or so I thought.

 

Day one, and I was already devastated.

 

I signed up for Creative Writing, right? So, you’d think it’d be all about writing poetry on the beach or journaling with some chic leather-bound notebook. Nope. Instead, I got handed this horrific reading list. And when I say horrific, I mean it’s a monster. Like, everything from Middle English texts to Shakespeare (ugh, snooze), to 17th, 18th, and 19th-century classics, and then—wait for it—European literature!

 

All of it.

 

And they expect me to finish by the end of the semester?! I mean, sure, there’s a giant library on campus, but do you think half these books even exist in Japanese translation? Absolutely not.

 

Over the weekend, Inaba-san, bless her clueless heart, stopped by my flat and suggested, “Why not have someone send you translations from Japan?” Excuse me?! Does she think I’m going to have the entire anthology of English literature shipped over? That’s, like, thirty volumes at least.

 

For the record, we don’t even own those books at home. And even if we did, there’s no way I’m getting through all that in three months. Not happening.

 

I had this delusion—yes, delusion—that I’d find Japanese books in some quaint second-hand bookstore here. But guess what? None. Nada. Zip. Not even the library stocked a single Japanese book.

 

I. Was. Screwed.

 

So, I gave up. Instead, I started buying the books I vaguely recognized and forced myself to read a little each day. Slow torture.

 

But, honey, if you think the reading was bad, let me tell you about my new “independent” lifestyle.

 

For the first time in my life, I had to cook. Me, cook! Back home, Mama prepared every meal for me. Now? My fridge is a sad, desolate wasteland. The only residents? Milk and orange juice.

 

And the chores! Oh my God, the chores. Laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping—I had to do everything myself. And with no car, I had to lug my precious self to the supermarket on foot. Do you know how undignified that is?

 

Cleaning? Don’t even ask. I’ve never touched a vacuum in my life—Mama always took care of that. This flat doesn’t even come with one, so now the carpet is gross, and I have no idea what to do about it.

 

My room’s a disaster zone. The desk is drowning in books and papers I haven’t read, and there’s this growing mountain of laundry on the floor because dragging it to the coin laundromat is too much effort.

 

I swear, it’s a nightmare. An actual nightmare. This is not the life I signed up for!

 

One day, while trudging down the main street—exhausted, annoyed, and wondering why life had to be so hard—I spotted something that stopped me in my tracks.

 

A rice cooker.

 

Yes, a rice cooker.

 

It was small, like super cute, but just the right size for one person. My heart did a little leap. I mean, finally, something that could fix this tragic life I’d been living. So, of course, I bought it immediately. And while I was at it, I grabbed a big ol’ bag of rice from the supermarket.

 

Except, oh my God, can we talk about how heavy a bag of rice is? Like, why does no one warn you about this? By the time I dragged it home, I felt like I’d run a marathon.

 

Anyway, I got to my kitchen, all excited, ready to wash the rice and make my first real meal in forever. I tore open the bag, and—you won’t believe this—out spilled the worst kind of rice. You know, that skinny, gross, Italian stuff. Ugh.

 

I hate that rice. It’s dry, crumbly, impossible to pick up with chopsticks, and eating it feels like chewing on sadness.

 

So, back to the supermarket I went, determined to find something decent. I searched every single shelf until, finally, in this weird little corner between the candy and dairy sections, I found a tiny bag of rice shoved onto the bottom shelf.

 

The bag had this ridiculous illustration of jam and milk on it, like rice was some kind of dessert ingredient. But through the clear plastic, I could see it—real rice. Japanese rice. Plump, shiny, and perfect.

 

I didn’t care why it was next to cookies and cream or what kind of marketing fail put it there. I snatched it up and practically sprinted back to my flat.

 

The moment I opened the bag, I almost cried. It was beautiful—round, glossy grains that screamed, “Cook me, I’m worth it!” I poured them into my brand-new rice cooker, added water, and sat there like a kid waiting for Christmas.

 

Thirty minutes later, the smell of freshly cooked rice filled the air. It was heavenly. I was practically drooling. When I lifted the lid, steam billowed out, carrying that perfect, familiar aroma right to my nose.

 

Finally. Finally, I could eat rice again.

 

That night, I ate two full bowls with just a sprinkle of salt. And, let me tell you, it was everything.

 

I don’t know why, but tears started welling up in my eyes. Something about that simple meal hit me right in the heart.

 

I missed home. I missed Mama’s cooking.

 

So, I did what any self-respecting, spoiled girl would do—I called home. A long-distance, international call to Mama. I sobbed into the phone, telling her everything about my terrible, rice-less life.

 

She didn’t say much, just listened patiently, like she always does. Then, in that calm, reassuring voice of hers, she said, “I’ll send you lots of seaweed and furikake. You hang in there, sweetheart.”

 

And for the first time in weeks, I actually felt like I could.

-----------------------------------------
 
"Once classes started, I was fully immersed in study time. Finally, the moment had come where I could actually read books and write essays. The textbooks for my courses were being reserved in the library by professors and lecturers, so it was a race among students in the same class to make copies of the necessary sections to take home. I considered buying the books, but the prices were outrageous—easily £50 each. The nearest town didn’t even have a second-hand bookshop, and every time I went to a bookstore, I just had to wistfully stare at the books I couldn’t afford.
 
Books like Benedict Anderson’s Imagined Communities, H.K. Bhabha’s Nation and Narration, The Third Space, Paul Gilroy’s The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness, Stuart Hall’s Cultural Identity and Diaspora, and Edward Said’s Orientalism. I was ploughing through short essays and long papers, trying to understand how countries not colonized by Asians, or that had never been a colony in Asia, could settle in Australia and develop their own unique culture.
 
In lectures, recording them on a tape recorder was allowed, so I proudly placed mine on my desk and captured every single lecture. After the lecture came the tutorials—small group discussions about the lecture content. Honestly, I was barely keeping up. I didn’t even have the space to ask questions. I regretted not taking Anthropology, History, and Sociology as a solid foundation from Year Two before coming abroad.
 
But regretting was pointless. By the time I’d transcribed the lecture tapes and read all the set texts, I was cramming Japanese history, sociology, and anthropology, both in English and Japanese. No matter how much I studied, it still wasn’t enough. Not speaking up in tutorials would immediately affect my grades. But without a solid foundation, speaking up was tough, and if I did manage, it was just basic questions in response to the professor’s prompts.
 
Wakana Motegi visited my room three times a week, chatting away. She missed Japan—Japanese language, Japanese food, Japanese everything. She couldn’t make Aussie friends. ‘"Like, why don’t you feel the same way as me, huh? Don’t you wanna speak Japanese too? Don’t you wanna eat Japanese food? Isn’t this countryside so boring? In Tokyo, there’s so much stuff to do, you know?"
 
"In Australia, I don’t even know what’s fancy or cheap. I mean, I only eat fancy stuff, but here, how am I supposed to know what’s considered fancy? In America, it would be like Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, in Britain, it’d be Fortnum & Mason tea, and in France, Moët & Chandon champagne. If I can’t have those every day, it’s gonna be such a bummer, you know?"’"
 
-------------------------------------
Twice a week, I dragged myself to these so-called “lectures,” only to leave each one more confused than the last. Like, seriously, was I even in the right class? Some overachiever with a Walkman was recording the whole thing, so I thought, why not copy that genius idea? Except when I played it back, it was still a total blur. I mean, why is their English so… weird? I swear I studied English back in Japan, so how could it sound this different?

 

And don’t even get me started on homework. Every single assignment felt like a giant slap in the face. I would chase the professor down after every class to double-check the topics, just to make sure I wasn’t messing up. I handed in everything I thought was perfect, yet my grades? Absolutely tragic. And every time, the professor scribbled this same patronizing comment: “Let’s avoid plagiarism.”

 

Excuse me? Plagiarism?

 

All I did was borrow a few ideas from those musty old books he told us to read. How is that even illegal? I mean, that’s what the classics are there for, right? To, like, inspire us?

 

But no, apparently, I was dead wrong. After booking an appointment with the professor—because, hello, I needed answers—he calmly explained that, actually, if you use someone else’s words or ideas, you have to “cite your sources” and label them as “quotations.”

 

Okay, what even is that? Back home, if I used old texts in my essays, my teachers praised me for being “deeply studied in the classics.” Here? It’s like I’m getting punished for being cultured.

 

And the tutorials? Oh, don’t get me started. Sitting in those sessions felt like eavesdropping on aliens. They weren’t just talking about English literature—they were tossing in random foreign books, too. Half the time, I couldn’t even tell what the topic was supposed to be.

 

These people… they’ve been reading and analyzing literature for, like, centuries. And me? I thought I was so smart reading Japanese translations of the classics. Turns out, knowing the plot isn’t enough when you can’t even articulate your own thoughts on it.

 

Every night, I called Mama. She was my only lifeline. I’d whine to her about everything. The indecipherable Australian English. How the lectures made me feel stupid. How I couldn’t make a single Australian friend. How cooking for myself was a nightmare and all I wanted was proper Japanese food. How Adelaide was so dull I felt like I was living in a giant beige waiting room. And, worst of all, how I couldn’t find any of the luxurious food, clothes, or anything remotely fabulous that I was used to back home.

 

“I want to go back to Japan,” I sobbed into the phone, probably for the hundredth time.

 

But Mama? Oh, she’s a saint. She listened patiently to my endless complaints and always knew exactly what to say. “Don’t you worry about a thing,” she cooed. “I’ll send over anything you need—food, drinks, you name it. Oh, I know! There’s a wonderful batch of Kyoto-style narazuke I can ship over by express air tomorrow. And darling, why don’t you spend time with some friends? Surely there are other Japanese students around, aren’t there? A little distraction might do you good.”

 

Mama always had the perfect solution. Even when my life felt like an absolute trainwreck, she made it sound like everything would be okay.

 

 I found myself crashing at Inaba-san’s flat more and more. It was my sanctuary—a place where I could let loose and babble away in Japanese without having to think. Like, seriously, after spending all day surrounded by English, my brain felt like it was melting. I needed this. And honestly? I needed proper Japanese food too. I missed it so bad I could cry.

 

But Inaba-san? Ugh. She was such a disappointment.

 

“Maybe you’re just homesick,” she said one day, giving me one of those pitying smiles that made me want to scream. “It takes time to adjust, you know? I’m still not used to Australia either. Let’s just hang in there together, okay?”

 

Um, excuse me, but no. That is not what I wanted to hear.

 

Like, why wasn’t she craving Japanese food as much as I was? Why wasn’t she desperate to use Japanese instead of struggling through English? Why wasn’t she freaking out about not having any Aussie friends?

 

Why wasn’t she feeling the same things I was?

 

It was infuriating. She might’ve understood my words, but she didn’t get me. Not at all.

 

Talking to Inaba-san wasn’t the escape I thought it would be. If anything, it just made me feel more isolated.

 

With a heavy heart and a head full of self-pity, I trudged back to my flat through the suddenly chilly streets, hugging my jacket tighter around me. The cold was biting, but not nearly as much as the loneliness gnawing at my chest.

 
--------------------------------------
 
March came, and the first semester ended, so I decided to fly to Sydney using a domestic flight. I’d never been to such a big city before, and I was eager to experience it.
 
I bought a cheap ticket and left Adelaide airport. It really hit me how vast this continent was. Once I landed in Sydney, I immediately called a youth hostel to check for availability. They had space, so I quickly booked it and set off towards the hostel. By March, the weather was mild like an autumn day in the northern hemisphere—perfectly comfortable.
 
I secured a bed in a fifteen-bed female dormitory, and it wasn’t long before I started chatting with my roommates. They were all travellers from Singapore, Malaysia, Korea, and Hong Kong. That evening, we grabbed some fish and chips to go and sat on a nearby bench, chatting away for hours.
 
I found out they were all here on exchange or self-funded study programs in Australia, studying a range of subjects from environmental conservation to marketing and management. Meeting such an eclectic group was inspiring, and we hit it off immediately. That bright morning, we went sightseeing—Opera House, the Harbour Bridge, Chinatown. There was so much to see that one day wasn’t enough to take it all in.
 
That night, we hit a bar to celebrate, sharing a memorable drink. The beer prices were a bit steep compared to what I was used to buying at the supermarket, but it was worth it to capture the moment and have someone take a photo for us.
 
As we became closer, we exchanged addresses and I moved out of the youth hostel after two days, heading back to Adelaide. Everyone seemed to be here to grab something from Australia—academic knowledge, a life-changing experience, a new perspective.
 
Back in my flat, I spread out my textbooks, preparing for the coming second semester. When I developed the photos from Sydney, I sent them to friends scattered across Australia.
 
During the break, I focused on studying during the day and spent evenings with flatmates, relaxing with a beer in hand and chatting the night away.
 
At one point, I joined a program that aimed to foster exchanges with Aboriginal communities. There was a support organization running facilities in towns near Ayers Rock to assist economically struggling Aboriginal people. For two weeks, I participated in various programs—helping at training centres for drug addicts, people with no vocational skills, and those making traditional crafts like baskets and textiles.
 
The work was menial, but interacting with people there, I started to think there might be a business opportunity. If given a chance, I could import and sell some of the products they made back in Japan. To make this happen, I considered whether I should join a trading company or start my own business.
 
During the break, Wakana came to visit. I was relieved to hear she’d been to Sydney too. When I asked if she’d been proactive, she nodded, but saying ;
 
"Of course I went because you went! I heard from Yamaguchi san, so I thought, why not, right? If you went, I have to go too, or I’ll look like an idiot when I get back to Japan.
 
But it was so boring. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to be looking at. Brick buildings like that are everywhere in Europe. Saki, what was so interesting about it? You have to tell me, or I’m gonna be embarrassed when I go back to Japan!"
 
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I thought when you went sightseeing, you went to places you actually wanted to see, but Wakana’s criteria were a bit off, it seemed.
 
A student studying Japanese came over from exchange at my university. His name was Matthew. He’d spent a year in Japan on exchange last year.
 
‘Mate, I studied Japanese in Japan, so I speak it fluently. All the Japanese students at South Australia Uni? They’re all mine. I’m only interested in dating Japanese girls, so don’t bother with the other Aussies.’
 
He went around pretty much talking to every Japanese student and wouldn’t let anyone else interact.
 
‘If you’re Japanese, speak with an American accent. Why are you pretending to be an Aussie?’
 
‘I can understand Japanese-accented English, so why don’t you speak that way?’
 
‘Why are you speaking English, you’re Japanese. You’re supposed to rely on Aussies for help.’
 
That’s how he saw it, totally immersed in Japan after coming back.
 
At first, I ignored him because he was just wierd. But gradually, his true nature started to show.
 
Every so often, one of the flatmates would suggest going to the library together, and whenever we did, there’d always be Matthew lurking around, trying to sabotage us.
 
If there was a Japanese student who’d been to Japan in the flat, Matthew was always trying to intervene. He’d barge in and disrupt whatever we were doing.
 
I introduced Matthew and another Japanese student, John, to Wakana, hoping they’d hit it off since they both missed Japan. They met up a couple of times, but then Matthew started coming back to my flat, saying Wakana’s English was too hard to understand.
 
‘You speak Japanese-accented English, don’t you?’ I asked, but he just mumbled and said Wakana wasn’t reliable. It became clear what he meant.
 
When it came to studies, he’d say they should do the Japanese homework instead. He was so confident he could nail it and get top marks if a native Japanese speaker did it for him.
 
When I asked what exactly he didn’t understand about the homework, he said ‘Everything.’
 
‘Maybe the class is just too hard for you. Why don’t you just tell the professor?’
 
‘Can’t do that. We’ve been to Japan for a year, so we have to be fluent in Japanese.’
 
‘But that’s your own fault, isn’t it? Why should I do your homework?’
 
‘Because you’re Japanese. If you do it, I’ll graduate with a perfect A grade. So, get on with it.’
 
I wrote on the homework: ‘This homework was done by a Japanese student. This student says they don’t understand the class and that a Japanese person should do it to get an A. Please scold them.’
 
After that, students who hadn’t even been to Japan started showing up at my door asking me to do their homework.
 
Since they kept coming so often, I wrote on the homework each time: ‘This homework was done by a Japanese student. This student always tries to make Japanese students do their homework. It’s really annoying.’
 
Eventually, they stopped coming. I guess the professor must have said something.
 
When I told my flatmates about it, they were all laughing.
 
‘He’s obviously a bit of a weirdo. Don’t go thinking he’s an example of an Aussie.’
 
After that, they kept interfering with any interaction I had with people in the flat. They couldn’t stand it if a Japanese student got along with an Aussie. But I always felt like I was being watched in my own flat and couldn’t concentrate on studying properly.
 
If they kept interfering with dorm life, there was no choice but to just focus on my studies.
 
The knocks on the door were so annoying, I started using the study rooms at the library. At least in there, I didn’t have to listen to Japanese students yabber on about random stuff.
 
By the time second term rolled around, things were getting more intense with the coursework. I couldn’t keep up with just the reference materials I’d brought from Japan, so I was scouring the library for anthropology and sociology books while trying to keep up with lectures and tutorials.”**
 
------------------------------
So, during the holidays, I heard from another Japanese exchange student that Saki-san had gone off somewhere again. On her own, obviously.

 

“Hey, Motegi-san, aren’t you going anywhere?” Yamaguchi-san asked.

 

“Ugh, like, I dunno where the cool spots are, ya know?” I said, flipping my hair.

 

“Well, why not try Sydney? It’s a big city—totally different vibe from Adelaide. There’s the Opera House and stuff, so maybe you could catch a show or something.”

 

“Yeah, but, like, I have no idea how to even get there, and I don’t know where I’d stay, soooo…”

 

“There’s a Thomas Cook desk on campus. They can help you plan it out.”

 

“But, like, I don’t really understand Aussie English that well? And are they gonna, like, book everything for me or what?”

 

The student—his name was Kenta Yamaguchi, a grad student in the master’s program—looked at me like I was a puppy who’d just gotten lost. “I’ve got something to do right now,” he said, “but after that, I can go with you. How long do you wanna stay in Sydney?”

 

“Uh, like three nights?” I said, like I was planning a weekend in Monaco.

 

“Okay. Let’s meet at 3:30 in front of the library.”

 

Kenta-san had been a helpful presence since I met him. Our lecture times were close, and after an introduction, I found myself asking him for advice on all sorts of things.

 

“Inaba-san is just, like, so useless,” I complained to him as we walked. “She doesn’t help me at all. Not even when I first got here!”

 

“Maybe she thinks you’re, you know, capable enough to handle things on your own?” he offered with a shrug. “And she’s probably busy herself.”

 

“Pfft, as if. She’s been here way longer than me. She totally knows all about Australia. But, like, she doesn’t feel the same way I do about stuff, ya know? I try to talk about homesickness, and she just doesn’t get it.”

 

“Well,” he said carefully, “homesickness happens to everyone, I guess. Some people handle it better than others. And, hey, you’re living on your own for the first time overseas, right? You’re doing pretty well, all things considered.”

 

“Ugh, but I don’t feel like I’m even in Australia! Like, what even is Australian? I only know European luxury goods, so everything here just feels… questionable. Like, I don’t know what’s worth buying and what’s just tacky.”

 

“Tacky?”

 

“Yeah, like, is it high-quality and legit? I don’t wanna waste money on overpriced junk. I need to buy stuff that proves I lived a proper, refined life here, ya know? Something I can show off back in Japan.”

 

“Hmm. Not sure what you mean by ‘proper,’ but a lot of people here care about eco-friendly stuff. You know, like organic vegetables, fair-trade coffee, or sweaters made from undyed wool.”

 

“Ugh, that’s, like, sooo hard to understand.”

 

“You’ve probably seen it, though. There’s this big organic shop not far from campus. Ever been inside? They’ve got flowers at the entrance, and they sell, like, fair-trade coffee beans from Indonesia and a ton of herbs.”

 

“Wait—that’s supposed to be Australian??” I asked, my voice rising in horror.

 

“Well, it’s one part of Australia, anyway,” he said, grinning.

 

Honestly, it’s just impossible to meet people who actually get me.

 

Like, I’m not asking for much, okay? I just want my American and European luxury goods! That’s it! In Japan, they’re, like, everywhere. Here? Oh no, honey. You’ve gotta squint at every label in English, double-check everything like five times, and then still wonder if you’ve been scammed. I mean, I know they’re supposed to sell French and American stuff here, but where is it? Am I just not looking in the right places?

 

Anyway, I boarded this domestic flight Kenta-san booked for me, off to Sydney for what everyone kept saying was a “fabulous experience.” He’d also reserved a suite for me at Spicers Potts Point—a five-star Club Suite, no less. It was supposed to be in a prime location, and yeah, I’ll admit, the classic exterior and warm, elegant interiors did calm my nerves a little.

 

But, ugh, I had zero clue what I was even supposed to see in Sydney. Like, what’s the vibe here?

 

I asked the hotel staff—thankfully, one of them spoke Japanese—to arrange a taxi to take me around all the so-called “must-see” spots. Sure, the Opera House was a thing, and okay, Sydney had a slightly more classic charm compared to sleepy little Adelaide. But all I could see was, like, ocean, ocean, and more ocean. Honestly, it felt like I was still stuck in Adelaide.

 

For meals, I stuck to the hotel’s restaurant. Eating out alone? Yeah, not happening. At least in the hotel, I could call on the Japanese-speaking staff if something went wrong. The elderly waiter, bless his soul, seemed to take a shine to me and made sure I had only the best—Italian and French classics, of course. It wasn’t exactly what I was used to in Japan, but having something familiar was, like, a total relief.

 

On the second afternoon, I decided to try their afternoon tea in the club lounge. Very British, very proper. They served the usual: tiered trays with sandwiches, scones, and cakes. One of the cakes caught my eye—a light meringue layered with cream and fruit. The staff told me it was called a “Pavlova.”

 

“Is this, like, an original creation of the hotel?” I asked.

 

“Oh no, ma’am,” the staff member explained. “Pavlova is a classic Australian dessert. It was created to honour Anna Pavlova, the famous Russian ballerina, when she toured Australia.”

 

“Oh. Cute.” I sipped my tea. “And this tea? Is this, like, an Australian thing too?”

 

“Yes, ma’am. It’s called Billy Tea. It’s a traditional Australian brand, known for its history and authenticity.”

 

“History? Spill the tea—what’s the story?”

 

“Well, in the old days, workers in the Outback drank this tea. They would brew it in a billy—a tin can with a wire handle—over an open fire. The tea is even mentioned in traditional Australian folk songs.”

 

“Wait, so this is, like, working-class tea?” I wrinkled my nose. “Isn’t there, like, an upper-class tea? Something more, I don’t know, exclusive?”

 

“For upper-class tea, perhaps Twining’s? Earl Grey is a favourite among British aristocrats, and it’s available here too. I believe they even sell Twining’s in Japan.”

 

“Ugh, boring. If I can get it in Japan, it’s not special enough to be a souvenir.”

 

Honestly, Sydney was a complete letdown. Nothing stood out. Even the tea didn’t feel unique enough to take back home. The hotel was lovely, but the rest? Meh.

 

I ended up just bouncing between Adelaide and Sydney, eating slightly better food, and chatting only with the Japanese-speaking hotel staff. It felt like a trip to Hawaii—nothing groundbreaking. Definitely not the life-changing, glamorous getaway I’d imagined.

 

 
So, like, the minute I got back to Adelaide, Saki-san shows up with these two Australian guys in tow. Apparently, they both did exchange programs in Japan and can actually speak Japanese.

 

“They’re feeling all nostalgic for Japan and want someone to talk to about it. Plus, they know Adelaide pretty well, so you might as well pick their brains,” Inaba-san said.

 

The guys—Matthew and John—were, like, totally average Australians. Tall, broad shoulders, one with brown hair, the other blond. Their faces? Oh, I guess one was what you’d call a “sauce face,” the other more “soy sauce face,” if you know what I mean. Anyway, it was already cooling down outside, but these dudes were still rocking T-shirts and cargo shorts. Gross. No way was I letting them into my apartment.

 

I was like, “Y’all know any cute cafés around here? We could go there instead.”

 

John’s all, “Yeah, I’ll drive. It’s just a short trip from here.”

 

So, the three of us piled into his silver sedan, and off we went.

 

On the way, Matthew goes, “You know, Japanese people are, like, super intense about their tea and coffee. Honestly, it’s kinda stressful. Every house I went to, they only served Fortnum & Mason tea. I swear, all Japanese people must be loaded.”

 

I laughed and went, “Duh, it’s totally normal to serve your guests the best you’ve got. I mean, wouldn’t you hate it if someone served you green tea outta nowhere?”

 

“Right?! But the thing is, Japanese people never ask what you want to drink. You walk into a room, and boom—Fortnum & Mason Earl Grey, every single time. And they don’t even make it right! Just lukewarm water from an electric kettle. I think I’ve had a lifetime’s worth of Earl Grey.”

 

I giggled. “Yeah, well, that’s Japan for you!”

 

After about 20 minutes, we pulled up to this new spot called Joe’s Café. It had this killer ocean view, very scenic, very chill.

 

We grabbed a prime seat and started looking at the menu.

 

“So, like, do you guys have any coffee beans that are, like, totally Australian?” I asked.

 

Matthew smirked. “Not really, but they’ve got cappuccinos. Japanese girls love those, right?”

 

“Eh, I’m more of a café au lait kinda girl. But, like, only if it’s French. Australian coffee just doesn’t hit the same.”

 

“What’s been your fave coffee since you’ve been here?” John chimed in.

 

I shrugged. “Uh, instant coffee at home? Maybe a café mocha from the campus canteen after class? I don’t know which cafés are legit, so I just stick with what I know.”

 

“Why’d you decide to study in Australia?”

 

“Because, like, a friend said they were coming here, and I was like, ‘Sure, why not?’”

 

“And what are you studying?”

 

“Creative writing, duh.”

 

Matthew raised an eyebrow. “So your English must be pretty amazing, huh? I’ve never met an international student in that program.”

 

The way he suddenly switched to English threw me off. His Aussie accent was so thick, I only caught half of what he said. Time to pivot the convo.

 

“So, why’d you guys start studying Japanese?” I asked in Japanese, all curious.

 

Matthew shrugged. “I wanted to do something different. Our uni has an exchange program with Japan, and knowing Japanese could help me get a job there someday. You know, live it up in rich Japan, be the exotic ‘gaijin’ everyone adores.”

 

John chimed in, “I used to teach English to elementary school kids in Japan. I’d love to do that again—teach more Japanese people English.”

 

“Okay, so here’s an idea,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Why don’t we have Japanese convo sessions at my place every weekend? Two hours, tops. In exchange, John, you can drive me to the supermarket, and Matthew, you can take me out to eat at nice restaurants. I still don’t know what’s good around here.”

 

Matthew hesitated but finally said, “Yeah, sure, I can take you to a restaurant.”

 

“Perfect! You’ll cover the bill too, right? Everything’s so expensive here, I haven’t really done much eating out yet.”

 

Dead silence. Both of them just stared at me.

 

Seriously? I thought I’d struck gold with these two—chauffeur and meal ticket in one package. But nope. They never came to my flat, not even once.

 

And I’d even cooked rice for them! Can you believe that? So much effort, all for nothing.

 

Ugh, such a waste. I was totally ready to play the give-and-take game, but they just bailed. How boring.

 

------------------------------
 
May had arrived, and finally, exam season was upon us.

Under the cold, I typed away on my trusty old typewriter, jotting down reports well into the late hours of the night. When hunger hit, I would dash to the nearest convenience store to grab a cup of instant noodles, just to stave off the emptiness in my stomach.
 
The day of the exam arrived, and I exchanged a “You’ve got this!” nod with my Dutch exchange student friend as we both geared up for our three tests.

History felt like a lost cause. I was sure I had flunked it, especially when I realized I hadn’t quite wrapped up the last report—there was something crucial missing, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It was a complete lack of preparation.
 
Sociology and anthropology exams went better—progressing smoothly, and I felt cautiously optimistic about them.
 
Results from this university come out quickly. Within days of the exam, scores were posted. It was painfully clear that not speaking up much in tutorials had caught up with me.
Best case scenario: a B+.
With grades like these, I feared next year’s exchange program might be out of the question.
 
Despite the anxiety gnawing at me, job hunting loomed large on the horizon. As soon as the results were out, I hurriedly booked a flight back home.
 
-----------------------------------
 
April rolled around, and the cold was getting downright disrespectful. Like, I was legit shivering inside my own apartment, wrapped up in my puffer coat like a burrito. No heater in sight. Not even a proper futon, so I’d been sleeping in my coat under two scratchy blankets. Every night was the same ordeal—chug something hot, dive straight into bed, and thank God for warm socks and my trusty down jacket.

 

A few days before my exams, I was typing up my final creative writing piece on this ancient typewriter when Saki-san decided to drop by.

 

“Oh, we had a mochi-making event at the Japanese Society today,” she said, handing me a Tupperware. “Here, have some. Also—oh—your room is freezing. Why isn’t the heater on?”

 

I let out a dramatic sigh. “I don’t have a heater! I’m, like, freezing to death over here!”

 

Saki-san gave me a look like I was insane. “You mean you don’t know how to use it? There’s a panel heater right under the windows.”

 

“Panel heater?” I asked, blinking like she was speaking another language.

 

She pointed at this white, flat panel thing I’d totally ignored all winter. “This,” she said, walking over and fiddling with the little knob on the side.

 

“What even is that?” I muttered, watching her twist the handle. She kept placing her hand on it like she was waiting for magic to happen.

 

“See? It’s warming up now,” she announced. “Your building has central heating. When it gets cold, you just turn this knob, and hot water flows through the panel to heat it up. Oh, there’s one by your bed too—let me fix that for you.”

 

She turned the knob on the second panel, and—OMG—my room actually started warming up. Like, finally.

 

For the first time in weeks, I could focus on my final assignment without my fingers turning into popsicles. I sent the finished draft over to the university’s international student support office for a spellcheck and grammar review, then submitted it on time.

 

Fast forward to June—report card season. My creative writing grade? D-minus. That’s right—rock bottom.

 

I was shook. Like, how dare they? I’d skimmed most of the required reading, even snipped and translated the juiciest parts from some Japanese novels I brought over. But my professor’s feedback? Just one brutal sentence: “Lacks originality.”

 

It was June already, which meant job hunting season back in Japan was in full swing. Meanwhile, I was stranded here in Adelaide, weeks behind everyone else. All the top-tier companies were already wrapping up their hiring.

 

This was a disaster. If I couldn’t land a primo job, what was the point of coming to Australia in the first place? I’d just wasted time, money, and effort.

 

I called my dad, putting on my most tragic, pitiful voice. “Daddy, I need to stay another year at university. Please, it’s the only way I can recover from this and get into a first-rate company.”

 

My parents, terrified at the thought of me not ending up in an elite job, agreed. Crisis averted—for now.

 

Then I did what any self-respecting girl in my situation would do: booked a ticket back to Tokyo. And not just any ticket—I made sure it was First Class. Obviously.

 

I sweet-talked Kenta-san into booking me a seat on Qantas First Class because, hello, I deserved it after all this drama.

 

That flight was going to be my moment. Spacious cabin? Check. Top-shelf wine, liqueurs, and whiskey? Double check. Fresh Australian seafood prepared by some Michelin-tier chef? Oh, you better believe it. Unlimited movies? Yes, please. It was all essential for a 13-hour flight.

 

Settling into my plush, fully-reclining seat, I sipped the prettiest pink welcome champagne and flipped through the in-flight movie selection. I had 13 hours to bask in luxury before touching down in Tokyo.

 

And then reality hit. Another year and a half of university stretched out ahead of me. Ugh. My champagne suddenly tasted a little less sweet.

 

------------------------------------
 
I came back to Japan at the start of June. After shedding my heavy coat, I returned home. Job hunting was already in full swing, and I spent the summer and the start of the new term visiting the university's career office almost daily.
 
After a few months, I found a job and breathed a sigh of relief, only to run into Wakanae, who had just come back to Japan. Despite studying abroad as a third-year student, she was now in her fourth year because the university’s program extended to five years.
 
I thought maybe I’d misunderstood, but no, that was the plan. She wanted more time to study thoroughly and prepare for job hunting. True, Wakanae had returned halfway through June, but the job hunt was just beginning for her.
 
Spending her third year abroad and then stayng in Japan for another two years wasn’t exactly a common time-management strategy. I remembered going out for drinks with Wakanae and our circle mates after graduation. Some of the group had studied in the US and joined us for a night out.
 
One of them mentioned having family in the States and hosting circle members who were nearby. Then Wakana snapped. "Man, that’s just great! I didn’t get anything like that from Inaba-san, you know! How come  you get family welcome like that, huh?!"
 
Sure, I’d lived in New Zealand before uni, but my parents and siblings had long since moved back to Japan. There were no homes in New Zealand to host Wakanae. When I explained this, Wakanae pouted.
 
"It’s not like that, you know. I thought if anyone would get Australia, it’d be you, Saki. You could’ve shown me around, taken me to see things, but you didn’t do anything. I’m in the same club as you, but you hasn’t done anything for me either. Didn’t take me sightseeing or anything. 

Damn, if I knew it’d turn out like this, I woulda been living my best life in Europe. Every summer, my family goes shopping in Paris or has dinner in London, getting custom-made clothes, all that fancy stuff. I can’t even do simple stuff like that in Australia. Man, maybe I should’ve gone to Hawaii instead—at least there’s Japanese food. And man, having to get used to a whole different culture? Such a drag.."
 
Back in university days, Wakanae hadn’t really talked to me much. Her comments now seemed unlike her—more like the sort of thing a newbie would say, not someone fluent in English. If she had just mentioned wanting to go somewhere, maybe we could have made plans. Instead, it seemed like she was just waiting for me to invite her.
 
“I mean, didn’t you bring a guidebook or something?”
 
The one who went to Amrica as an exchange student asked.
 
"There’s no way I would’ve brought it, you know. I thought Saki was gonna show me everything—take me around and everything. But then Saki didn’t do anything. Didn’t invite me over, didn’t show me New Zealand, didn’t take me to Table Mountain when we got to Adelaide. Saki’s so cold! She doesn’t think like me, doesn’t get my feelings. Everything I do, I’m on my own. I thought if I went to the same university as Saki, she’d take care of me. Come on, you gotta give me my freakin’ year back!!"
 
Wakanae’s complaints chilled me. It seemed she expected me to take charge of everything. The thought that she didn’t even bring a guidebook—relying entirely on me to set things up—sent a shiver down my spine.
 
Wakanae didn’t seem to enjoy her touristy weekends here, and it was our fault for not making the effort to show her around. She didn’t gather information about her study destination herself, didn’t take action to explore or experience things. Instead, she seemed to think that I should take care of everything.
 
It was like she wanted me to take her on all the sightseeing trips and was upset when I didn’t. But with my own packed schedule—one that included study and social commitments in Adelaide—there simply wasn’t time to coddle Wakanae. And since she spoke English fluently, I wasn’t sure she needed hand-holding either.
 
There was no sign of Wakanae reaching out to me before her arrival, either. The whole situation left me guessing about her intentions.
 
Unfortunately, our relationship with Wakanae was over. It was a small miscommunication, but without her speaking up, it felt like a bigger misunderstanding. This goodbye left a bad taste in my mouth.
 
-----------------------------------
 
The year after I returned from Adelaide to Japan, I started my job hunt in March. I made my rounds at TV stations and newspapers, scouring for any possibility where I could turn my writing into a career. Every single time, I had to endure the same tedious question: Why did it take you five years to finish university?

 

Well, I just told them the truth—that I’d gotten a late start on my job hunt and was now looking for something that matched my true aspirations. Simple, no fuss.

 

Then, they’d ask about why I chose the University of South Australia as my study destination. Again, I laid it out: I wanted to take creative writing courses, and since it was my first time living abroad, I opted for a place where I knew a person.

 

My early start in the job hunt paid off—by May that year, I had an offer from Hinode Shimbun, a major newspaper. I’d be writing. I was finally going to get paid to write, something I’d dreamed about. But my writing... well, people had called it plagiarism. And now, I was going to graduate and potentially write stories based on my own research and interviews. It could be my words, my work.

 

That last year of university was beyond dull. I’d already earned all the credits I needed for graduation, so I didn’t even have to attend classes anymore. I’d found a part-time gig at Hinode Shimbun, working four times a week, and the rest of the time, I took a course in American contemporary literature—because why not? I was looking for an excuse to stay busy.

 

And yet, all anyone asked me was: “What’s Australian literature like?” Seriously, I couldn’t answer. All I’d spent a year studying was British literature, the classics. I never had the time, nor the inclination, to dabble in Aussie works. I spent my time reading English literary classics, patching up pieces of my favorite stories, and weaving them into my own. Had no one told me that wasn’t original? I could have sworn I was creating my own stories.

 

Graduation day came and went, and I was officially an adult—finally! A grown-up with responsibilities. Naturally, I was invited to a reunion of sorts with my old circle. Most of them had studied in the U.S., so by the time I was back in Japan, they’d already left, and I hadn’t seen them for years. The reunion was a party the American group organized.

 

When I showed up, there he was—Inaba. She was sitting with Yumi-chan, a classmate from the Public Speaking department. Yumi had gone to England for her exchange year during our third year, and she and Inaba were already busy reminiscing about their overseas adventures.

 

At the same table, there were several others who had studied at UCCA on the West Coast of the U.S. They all seemed so... at ease with each other. They had been in the same campus or nearby campuses, and they kept in touch, moving between campuses like it was nothing.

 

One of them, Marina—an English major—was telling this story about how she’d been invited to a classmate’s family’s house in America. She talked about how she was amazed to hear their siblings speaking English fluently and how they had a BBQ on the balcony of their high-rise apartment, with a heated pool on the roof. Mariko was practically glowing, relishing in her American dream experience.

 

I could feel the anger rising inside me, threatening to explode.

 

I had chosen the University of South Australia because I thought Saki Inaba—yes, Saki—would invite me over and show me the ropes, let me experience something special. But no. She did nothing.

 

She didn’t take me anywhere. She didn’t invite me to anything fun. She didn’t teach me a thing. She didn’t even show me any sympathy when I was homesick. Instead, she hung out with foreign exchange students, talking to me like I was some amateur with terrible English. She loved showing off her perfect English, acting like she was the world’s expert on Australia.

 

And there I was, listening to Marina’s stories, practically dying of envy.

 

I had expected Saki to take care of me, to make me feel at home, but she did nothing. Nothing! She didn’t even reach out when I needed someone.

 

I couldn't hold it in any longer. All my frustration came pouring out. Everyone at the table just listened. But from Saki—nothing. Not a word of apology. Not even a reaction. I could feel it in my bones—she was cold. She was completely indifferent to me. All the time I’d spent with her, all the years we’d known each other, and when I needed her in Adelaide, she acted like I didn’t exist.

 

I was invisible to her.

 

And that was the last time I saw her. Apparently, she was working somewhere, but frankly, I didn’t care. Saki? she was irrelevant to me now.

 

Life, though, went on. Slowly but surely, it moved forward.

 

By the time I was engaged, I went with my fiancé to view a new apartment. The realtor gave us the usual spiel.

 

“A four-bedroom unit would be perfect when your parents or friends come to stay. And if you have children, you’ll have the perfect rooms for them.”

 

Children. The word lingered in my mind. When I had children, would I teach them English?

 

And if one of them wanted to study abroad, I’d probably say something like, “If you know someone at your study destination, make sure they’re someone you can trust. You need someone who will stand by you when things get tough. That’s what real friends do.”

 
 
 

1st part of trilogy : here

3rd part of trilogy : here