Culture Shock and the Island. (P.1)

 

In the last several decades, mainly with my little family, we traveled by car to Queensland, crossing NSW and into the state's northern parts. We would visit my Russian in-laws, both in their late 70's, and settle into an old Baptist Church that my father-in-law renovated into a comfortable living space. This was my first trip into the State, and really had no preconceived notions about it. It was only after visiting the town, eating out at a few restaurants, and walking amongst the living natives, that the differences in culture stood out to me. But when my wife and I traveled to a little island, a resort, off the coast off the mainland, that the notion of cultural differences became clear.

Only a few years before this trip, I had landed in Melbourne with only an overnight bag and my guitar. Anyone who has visited LA or has lived there understand that the sheer energy level of the place is off the charts. I loved LA. So traveling to Melbourne was a considerable cultural shock. I not only had to learn the Australian slang but, in some cases, couldn't understand the check-out girl at the grocery store. Most of the time, over the few months since my arrival, I made a conscious effort to listen with intent. But really, it was all hit and miss. Sometimes I'd piss off the waitress in a restaurant while charming a woman at a club with my California accent. I needed to work, so really, it was a steep learning curve.

My strong belief in 1988 while living in Melbourne, is that at least 1 and 5 Australians despised the “Yanks,” and the rest intrigued or neutral. In my first months in the city, I would run into the former more often than the latter. I'd be having a beer in the pub with my stepfather, and someone would hear my accent and the “Aussie stirring” would commence. This “stirring” was a new phenomenon to me. Of course, American's give other Americans a hard time, but the Melbourne “Stir” was altogether a different species of animal. I would take offense when none was justified, and it would escalate from there. It was only after I connected-up with a woman from the local theatre group in town that I truly began to understand Australian culture's specifics. She taught me the slang and even bought me a book about words and the native Aussie's subtle innuendos. (The the book does exist) She was a great help. But like politics, it would take me years to learn the ropes and feel generally comfortable in my new home.

In the first week of my arrival, I decided to travel to the city alone and see the sights. If you have never been to Melbourne is a beautiful city, a combination of the old and the new. In the late '80s, however, we didn't have the Casino, and parts of the town needed a serious upgrade. It was in an older part of town that I entered an ancient bookstore.

Talk about experiencing culture shock, as I was casually browsing the overstocked shelves, enjoying the scent of old books, I realized all of the merchandise had a socialist and communistic slant. Biographies of Lenin and Marx, and a full shelf of Marx and Engels, “Communist Manifesto.” Looking up, the walls were draped with posters of famous communists, including Mao, Ho Chi Min, and Trotsky. Let me say, I froze like a deer in the headlights. My first thought, no kidding, as if I was being followed! My pure emotion was absolute fear. It was then I left the store as stealthily and as humanly possible.

 A few years later, I realized the extent of my cultural brainwashing, the extent to which I had been schooled in the evils of communism and socialism, growing up in the US. It became clearer to me once I returned to university and learned the history of ideas across time. I had learned that I had been systematically conditioned to believe the political ideas of socialism and communism were the roots of all evil. Of course, The Stalinist era in Russia, after the revolution, didn't run by the tenets of Marx, but the rules of fascism and totalitarianism. My awakening about culture and politics, like my understanding of Australian culture, continued on a steep learning curve.

Now, leaving our baby son behind in the care of my Russian in-laws, we launched on a small ferry, bouncing over the waves from the shores of Queensland, to a resort island, that in hindsight, was another steep learn ing curve in my understanding of culture and Australia.