“Let’s take the scenic route.” My roommate Andrew pulls off the interstate I have traveled so many times between the Twin Cities and Northfield, and soon we are winding our way south through Minnesota farmland. As we pass farms, cows and the occasional tractor on the shoulder, I can’t believe I haven’t gone this way to school before. Tomorrow I’ll leave to find my own road from Carleton. In the morning, I’ll catch a flight to Los Angeles, before boarding a plane bound for Melbourne, Australia to start my study abroad program. Tonight though, we’ve managed to get everyone together in Northfield for a "Happy Trails" Barbeque. An end-of-summer hurrah to say goodbye before collectively scattering to the wind.
The barbeque, for anyone who has spent the summer months in Northfield, is a ubiquitous fixture of the Carleton social scene. Friends gather, someone brings a grill and sale-priced ground beef from Cub Foods ensures a surplus of burgers. It is an idyllic plan that in the hassled hour before our friends arrive, evaporates into six large pizzas and a giant watermelon. Settling down at the picnic table, we make our way through the pizzas before conquering the watermelon. The conversation moves between summer jobs, newly acquired vaccinations, exchange rates, public transportation and flight times. We stay outside chatting until dark and move indoors to escape the mosquitoes. As people start dispersing, I unexpectedly find that it’s not that hard to say goodbye to friends, even though I know in a few days everyone I meet will be unfamiliar.
Later at Andrew’s house, I pack and re-pack furiously, scrutinizing every piece of clothing and sundry object I plan to bring. Although I’ve followed the packing list to a "t", I can’t help but think that I’ve packed too much, while simultaneously feeling like I’d need 10 suitcases to bring everything I need. At three in the morning, a mere four hours before I have to get up, I manage to eliminate one shirt, two pairs of socks and a book from my baggage. Frustrated and no less nervous, I zip shut my bags and go to bed. Though it sounds ridiculous, all I can think about is whether Australian beds will feel the same as this one.
Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, nearly 11 hours into Qantas flight 94 and almost a day after leaving Minnesota, August 30th, 2004 is erased from existence, falling victim to the International Dateline. Around the same time, George Renwick, American cross-cultural trainer and author of "A Fair Go for All: Australian/American Interactions," calls out to me with the following warning: “Australians and Americans have usually had rather high regard for one another—as long as they were some distance apart. It would seem as though these two peoples should be able to get along well together. However, they often do not.”
As I page through the book, I notice that the chapter "Similarities" fills a scant three pages, while "Differences" occupies a dominating 40. I read on and discover the various arenas in which Australians and Americans habitually butt heads. A laundry list of "Do’s" and "Don’ts" follows, at which point I look out the window and ask myself if this can all be true. My naïve assumptions about Australia are, according to George Renwick, about to be put to the test. I shut the book and watch the live flight plan on the seat-back TV screen. Fiji disappears underneath the plane and the Australian continent slowly surfaces on the horizon.
