As some of you may know, I have published a book called ‘Le Guide Officiel to Becoming British’ I am now thinking of publishing the Aussie version and would love to hear your views. Should I? Shouldn’t I?
I have now moved to Sydney and here is the introduction of Le Guide Officiel…to becoming Aussie (How to fit in if you’re French).
Beware, this blog contains sarcasm.
Who the hell is Muriel Demarcus? I bet that’s what’s you asked yourself when you started reading this book, wasn’t it?
Well, my name is Muriel Demarcus. I was baptised Muriel Julie Therese Demarcus, if you must know, because in pure French style I have two middle names, one for each of my grandmother’s first names (it’s a French thing, don’t ask). And yes, I am French-born, in case you hadn’t already guessed. Truth be told, I am a bush girl from Provence, not a Parisian, but I suppose that, from where I live in Sydney, it doesn’t make much of a difference.
The Demarcus family is not famous for doing anything, except maybe for leaving a string of broken hearts and illegitimate children when they emigrated from Sardinia to France. As far as I know I am the first one to be living in Australia. Officially, that is, of course, because I don’t know about the ‘unofficial’ members of the family, although I am told that they are all good Catholics, baptised, confirmed, and the rest of it.
As for me, I am not famous for doing much -if anything- either. I love writing, and once made the cover of The Times magazine with a baguette (fully clothed of course). I also love running and found out that, as I grew older, I was better at endurance than in my younger years. This led me to run various ultra-marathons. Finally, I can’t resist delivering or upgrading metro lines, which got me a Permanent Resident visa for Australia, despite my ripe age.
But how did it all happen?
Well, I’ll always remember the day one of my husband’s Australian colleagues told me that it would be difficult for us to live in Australia because ‘they don’t take anyone’.
Righty-o. I love a challenge and forwarded our CVs to an immigration lawyer. She spent less than two seconds on my husband’s CV and said ‘Another miner? Nah. We’ve got too many of these’. She had a longer look at mine and then stared at me. ‘You, on the other hand, should apply for an Independent Skilled visa. We need more Transport Engineers for our infrastructure projects.’
After filling countless forms, passing an English test and having to take an X-ray of my lungs, I was in. My husband and my daughters were my dependants. I explained to them that they needed to be nice to me or I could kick them out of the country. They laughed at me. Some things never change.
I keep being asked why we moved to Oz. The truth is very simple: I did it for me. After 15 years in Blighty, it was time for a change. I needed some sun. My elder daughter was starting university, and my younger one wasn’t really suited to the British system. I wanted to go back to work, but kept being lectured about my French accent, and patronised at every possible opportunity. To make matters even worse, nobody talks to anybody in my dysfunctional French family: my parents went through a very acrimonious divorce thirty years ago, and haven’t talked to each other ever since. As a result, half of my family stopped speaking to the other half, and I grew tired of keeping track of who talked to whom, and what they had done to upset each other. I reckoned that things would be a lot easier on the other side of the world as I would just have to send Christmas cards from the beach, and as an added bonus we wouldn’t need to spend the exact same amount of time at my Mum’s, then at my Dad’s, and then have to diet for at least three months.
Anyway, here I am, sitting on my balcony early on a crisp Sunday morning, listening to the tapping of the waves on the pier, and sipping my cappuccino while admiring the Sydney Harbour bridge. What’s not to like about Australia?
There is a grey and orange spider on the wall, next to the only plant I have managed not to kill just yet, and I am not entirely sure what to do with it. My teenage daughter, who grew up in London, has gone into hiding, and closed the curtain of her bedroom. She’s scared to death. She’s a city girl, and screams that we should call someone to help as a matter of urgency. I try to explain to her that spiders are useful and eat insects, but she’s clearly in shock. She grew up in London and isn’t used to any form of wildlife. As for me, I still remember fondly a small green lizard that used to keep me company during the holidays when I was growing up in Provence. I am a live-and-let-live sort of person. That said, I might have to get some plastic plants instead of real ones, I think to myself. They’ll last longer anyway.
The spider seems to have disappeared. The neighbour’s garden is much more interesting than mine, me thinks. Problem solved. My daughter is still terrified and suggests that she could use her body board to kill it. I explain to her that it won’t be necessary, because the spider has gone by now. She’s not convinced, but slowly opens her curtains. ‘Where did it go, Maman?’ ‘I have no clue’, I answer ‘Probably onto the next balcony’. It doesn’t really reassure her. She’ll get over it eventually.
Another reason why I love it here is that Australians make the best mates. They have made very real contributions to my education and taught me all the Australian slang. In fact, I have made more friends over the last few months than during years in London. We often meet up for breakfast at a local café and discuss issues that are close to our hearts. We help and coach each other. There is no judgment, just an amazing solidarity that I hadn’t found anywhere else. I am hugely grateful for this, and slightly surprised that I had to move so far away from my home country to find it. But there you go.
Let’s face it: I’m nowhere near understanding the causes of my slow drift towards Aussie citizenship. But I know what sort of symptoms you should watch out for to check whether you’ve caught the same bug as me. Here’s a short list of five easy questions. Please take the test immediately, because at least you’ll know where you stand.
First Question:
If someone asks you: eh mate, where you get your thongs from?
What do you reply?
Answer:
All hail the thong. Thongs are the true national garment.
For clarity, we are not talking about the kind of thongs worn by girls from trendy beaches in Brazil as a dental floss bikini, but what the English know as flip-flops.
For a truly Aussie response to this question, you need to explain that you got your pair of thongs from the vending machine at Woolie.
Second Question:
You are having a quiet lunch in your local park, when an ibis (otherwise known as a bin chicken) comes next to you and steals your sandwich from your lap. What do you do?
Answer:
Whether it’s aggressive seagulls squawking at you, a flight of parrots shouting while you are on the phone, or a bush turkey building a dirt mound outside your window, being on bird alert is part of the everyday Aussie experience. And don’t get me started on magpie swooping season…
Just pretend it’s totally normal to have your lunch stolen. Be gracious. Don’t be aggressive to the bin chicken -you would be in the wrong. As for your lunch, well, next time you’ll eat at your desk.
Third Question:
What is Australia favourite veggie?
Answer:
The Betroot
As a general rule, it’s best to assume beetroot will be on or in everything you order unless you specifically ask otherwise. This will come as a shock to tourists, who see it as a fairly unusual choice to routinely add to burgers, sandwiches, and fancy salads. Now you are warned.
Fourth Question:
How does an Aussie man make a move on someone he likes?
Answer:
This is a tricky one. Australian men are raised to take things ‘like a man’, which means they are prone to guarding their emotions, holding feelings close to their chest.
To make matters even worse and unlike their British counterparts, they don’t use more words than is needed, and they don’t have time to speak in full worded sentences. This doesn’t make it easy to understand what they want.
As an example, if they tell you something like:
“Meet me for a bevi this arvo?”
Don’t panic. This sentence is, in fact, pretty innocuous and means “let’s get a drink this afternoon.” This is a good sign. It means he must fancy you. There is a widespread theory that Australian men shorten all their words because they don’t have enough time to formulate full sentences. They must want to appear to be efficient. Whether they actually are remains to be proven.
Fifth Question:
There’s a signal failure on the train and you get stuck for half an hour without moving.
How do you behave when you finally make it to your destination?
Answer:
Be grateful. Most cities don’t have a train network and Sydney only recently got its first metro line. Until a couple of years ago, services from Melbourne to Sydney were arriving on time only 41% of the time. You need to see the arrival time as an indication, not a firm estimate.
Travelling on a train, in Australia, is all about the experience, and some services are known to never arrive on time. Australia is a big country, it just requires more effort to travel from A to B. You made it, that’s the main thing.
Now you understand why everybody drives in Australia.
So, be honest now: how did you fare? You know by now that becoming Aussie can catch you by complete surprise, so if you’re becoming native, you need to know. If you got correct answers for at least two of these questions, here’s what I would say to you: watch out! You’re getting there without even realizing it! Wait a little bit more and you won’t be able to wear normal shoes any more.
This guide will give you useful tips and insights to help you integrate as painlessly as possible. Believe me: if it happened to me, it can happen to any of us.
(More to come)
