Finding Home
Tonight we are tourists in a city we know well. The cool, early autumn air is filled with the smell of cold stone, and smoke from the crowded food stalls. The last rays of sunlight paint across the skyline in a brash and beautiful sweep. Oranges and pinks brush the lemon sherbet sky, turning the church and cathedral spires to silhouettes. Pigeons take flight, winging their way to the safety of the arches of Scott Monument, away from tromping feet below. With complimentary champagne fizzing on our tongues we bustle out of the too-warm hotel room, to walk the last kilometre to Edinburgh Castle.
We have journeyed to Edinburgh, to visit my partner, Graham’s family, escape future decisions and attend a concert. The 16,322-kilometre trip has taken us over thirty hours. Greeted by jubilant cousins and fed by mothering aunties, our arrival in Scotland after eight years is the warm embrace we’ve both been longing for. 2011 has been a difficult year; one in which parts of Australia were swept by devastating floods. We counted ourselves lucky, unlike many of our fellow Queenslanders, some of whom lost their lives. The water crept up from the river 500 metres away, insidiously easing itself into our second-storey flat. Days later after we’d gained access, we found that the dank mud had washed our belongings in a bottom-dwelling stink, and the tideline was a metre up the moldy wall. We joined the estimated one billion homeless people in the world, but from a privileged position. We had been displaced by a natural disaster, but we knew it wouldn’t be permanent.
Our booted feet hit the cobbled streets, marching and tripping in our excitement. We hug close, arms intertwined in our new coats, bought from a boutique store in Rose Street. The crowds swell with laughter and screams –– they have come for the finale of the Fringe Festival; we have come to see one of our favourite bands, Arcade Fire. We forge our way through the jokes and buffoonery, to the castle gates.
The atmosphere in the city is thrilling. People have come from across the world to be amused, pranked, and entertained by some of the best comedians and artists around. Cheers, whoops, and applause combine to stir our growing anticipation. There is music spilling from pubs, and we are immersed in the magical madness of the night as we join the throng converging on the Royal Mile.
We have travelled far to be here. After months of sorting through mud-soaked belongings and sharing spaces with generous family and friends, we have yearned for a higher understanding as to why home is so important. Home to Graham and me means sanctuary, music and comfort. We both work hard in our jobs – being employed in physically, mentally and emotionally demanding careers focused on animal health and rehabilitation. Coming home to a calm home is something we cherish. The ability to disengage from work is fundamental to our health. In order to live and travel we work, but to work we must be strong and capable. Music helps us escape everyday life through rhythm and song, but stay connected to our world-community through narrative and meaning. Arcade Fire is a band that sing of the zeitgeist. They see a world that is being driven away from community and into the suburbs, and their voices and music tell tales of a devolving society.
Arcade Fire’s album ‘The Suburbs’ has had us enthralled since its release in 2010. We can feel the desperation and energy in the poetic lyrics. They share their worries of losing the feeling of home.
‘Took a drive into the sprawl
To find the places we used to play
It was the loneliest day of my life
You’re talking at me but I’m still far away
Well sir, if you only knew
What the answer is worth
Been searching every corner
Of the earth’. Sprawl I (Flatland)
The first time we saw Arcade Fire was in Melbourne, 2005 at the Princess Theatre. A huge organ with brass pipes graced the stage. The band, with their multitude of instruments, filled the theatre with an angelic blast — captivating the audience. When the organ played, the sound swelled to the high ceilings, and we sang as one. Since then we have been singing together when we listen to their albums. Our voices are wary, cracking on the high notes and stumbling over words, but no matter how we may sound, the union of our voices brings us together in our home.
The irony of ‘The Suburbs’ is that the lyrics spell out a world where everything you dreamt of in your youth that made growing up appealing, like freedom of choice, travel to new destinations and finding new perspectives, is forgotten. It’s ground down by the relentlessness of living life; of work, bills, chores, driving to and from work, sleeping, eating and repeat. Many people long for a ‘home’ in the suburbs – a parcel of land and house that they can call their own. The reality is that many of us will never be able to afford a home of our own, and never want to live in the suburbs. The evolution of a suburb is what terrifies me. One day a section of bushland is bulldozed and then houses are erected, exact replicas of each other. The same shops are built, for your convenience, and people are isolated by the banality and brashness of the sprawl.
The sameness of the suburbs is a stark contrast to Edinburgh city. The mismatched rooflines, the cobbled streets, worn by countless feet, wheels, tyres and hooves, and the sandstone buildings of the Old Town make this a place a festival for the eye. There is so much to look at, listen to and think about here. The history of the city reaches back to 5000 BC. When compared to the urban sprawl and suburbs of Australian cities like Brisbane, Edinburgh feels like a wizened elder. It sits on its volcanic basalt plug, ruminating on the thousands of souls treading its laneways, living their lives, and making their homes.
Brisbane has often felt like a temporary home to me while I decide where I would like to live. It is becoming increasingly more difficult to afford to pay rent here, let alone buy a house. The cries from well-meaning friends to, ‘buy a block outside of the city where there is space’, go unheeded. There is little space between these ‘new builds’, easy access to public transport, hospitals, pubs, restaurants and work, make these sprawling suburbs deserts. There is no community, just a massive mortgage and a crushing realisation that the home you longed for is just a symbol; a sign that you have searched for and continue to search for, one of meaning of existence.
When there is a questioning of why and what ifs, then what better way to find that answer but to hop on a plane, travel to your partner’s homeland and drink whisky. And that’s what we did. Following the devastation of many of our personal belongings and the flat that was trying to be our home, we were both looking for answers. Why did we feel like transient visitors in the city we had lived in for decades? Why should we feel like misfits if we didn’t own a house? Like Michael Allen Fox, the American philosopher suggests, ‘home is a restless, shifting, somewhat elusive notion’. The notion of home for us had definitely slipped from our grasp. Ignoring the hidden, well-meaning pressure to be polite and decent, we gleefully swigged whisky from miniature bottles in the cold, evening air. St Giles Cathedral soared over us, its reach extending upwards to heaven, not down to the two red-cheeked tipsy revellers in the street below. After watching a man dressed as a stilted Pan, the god of fertility, playing the bagpipes, we jig our way to the concert.
We reach the esplanade and go through the Portcullis Gate, finally feeling the embrace of Edinburgh Castle, one of Europe’s oldest fortified buildings. It stands above Edinburgh, Scotland’s capital, having seen many changes over the years. This year for the annual Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo, the seating stands have been left in place so that Arcade Fire can play. The band is on a world tour and a long way from their Canadian homelands. The darkening sky looms over us as we find our seats. The castle is the backdrop for the stage, and it makes this moment seem special and tinged with magic, like a night when witches could take to the sky, or dragons rain down fire just for fun. There are seven members in the band, capable of playing sixteen instruments, and they are passionate and brilliant at their jobs. They bring a massive noise to the crowd, and I know that Graham and I will remember this moment for the rest of our lives.
Being transported by music is soul-reviving. I think if it weren’t for music, my home would feel like a strangers’. We like to have music playing when we cook, and talk, when we eat and when we are drifting to sleep. It fills a void that could make our house feel like the rental it is. It could make it feel like a silent, awkward mistake — an error that we’ve picked the wrong city to live in and don’t own a house. But when we turn the volume up and the guitar, bass, drums, strings, and voices vibrate upwards to our vaulted ceiling a warmth replaces the draughts. What will never be affordable to us suddenly doesn’t matter because the cost of living here, in this home, is one that we don’t count as economic. It is a toll we are willing to pay for our freedom, for our safety and for our companionship. Together with our cat Betty, we make this place our sanctuary. But is it enough? Is it where our hearts belong, or is this figment or mirage of home transferable to another house, another city, or even another country?
Graham migrated to Australia from Scotland in 1983. The hot sunshine and humid air were so different from his hometown of Tranent, six miles east of Edinburgh. And if it weren’t for Margaret Thatcher destroying the economy and the coal mining industry in Scotland, he may never have travelled here. But due to businesses being privatised and many companies folding, his father, being heavily involved in the Miner’s Union, was forced to leave the country they called home. Since their arrival in Australia, and their subsequent years living in Brisbane, they have left part of themselves in Scotland. Some may call it roots, or heritage, but I think it is a sense of belonging.
Una, Graham’s Mum, and I sit at our local bar in Brisbane, sipping cold gin and tonic. She shares her grief of leaving Scotland nearly forty years ago.
‘It was hard moving to a new country, away from family and friends,’ says Una.
‘I had a good life, and a nice home. We were far from rich, but I was happy to be a mother to our three kids. It was a shock being treated like a foreigner here. I remember catching a bus to pick the younger two up from school. I asked the bus driver if he stopped at Bannerman Street, and he asked me what I said. I repeated myself twice. He said, “You no speakee Engrish?” I was so angry and humiliated.’
‘Did it come as a shock to you that you were treated like a foreigner because of how you spoke?’ I ask.
‘It did. I had seen racism before, but as a white woman I had never been on the receiving end. I couldn’t believe how we were treated. The kids also had a hard time fitting in, and were teased because of their accents,’ Una says.
Graham has shared with me how he was bullied for sounding ‘funny’, and how he changed his accent to fit in with the other kids. Now his accent is a muddled thing, not knowing whether it’s Australian or Scottish. And when he visits his family in Scotland, it becomes even more muddled. Is this what home is, not necessarily a physical place, but a safe space to be accepted for who you are without receiving reprimands from others?
The feeling of home is made up of tiny things that give us comfort. For me it is the smells and the sounds of the bush. The crazy cackle of the kookaburras, the waft of wood-smoke on a winter’s day, the sweet, astringent scent of the eucalyptus trees warming in the summer sun. I also know that having supportive, caring and loving friends and family fills me with a sense of home. Graham and I have made some brilliant friends over the years, and with their constant friendship we have found some solace in our decision to live in Brisbane. Our families, despite our differences, are strong. Knowing that we have people that care and want us in their lives makes us feel like we belong in this place. Homesickness may come and go, but so do other sicknesses. If we dwell on the sickness, we will never be healthy.
Over the years since visiting Edinburgh in autumn, I have reflected on our holiday. We escaped the devastation of floodwaters, worry and mud, and transported ourselves to a fantasy of music, mischief, and merriment. It was exactly what we needed. We stepped outside of the everyday realm of work, bills and homelessness. We gave ourselves time to enjoy life. We gave ourselves time to reacquaint ourselves with a larger world — a world that holds enchantment in the songs of our favourite bands, in the freedom of the journey and finding home in the hand that’s in yours, as you make your way along a cobbled road. Home shouldn’t set you apart from others, it should be the music that draws you in, to be safe and comfortable and free. I have found the answer, and home is a feeling more than a building. Home is where you make it, and who you make it with.
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