Dad hugged me. ‘You will always be Belgian, Son, and you belong here with your bricks.’ He whispered in my ear. I later found a little reseal bag with some dirt from the garden and brick fragments from our house that he had hidden in my luggage. Lucky sniffing dogs didn’t find the package when I went through Customs.
I felt much lighter as soon as I set foot on the plane. I had mixed feelings: instant relief and betrayal toward them, but also righteousness. I was finally ready to start my life from scratch I was finally free.
The Steve Irwin movie, Crocodile Hunter, was playing on the plane. OMG, what a thick accent, if they were all going to talk like this, I was not going to understand a thing. I needed the subtitles on and a rock-hard focus to translate his slang.
I landed in Melbourne in October 2002, jumped on the Gull Bus and arrived on Tim’s porch. I just owned a bike bag with only my bike and clothes in it. I had no money, no job, no degree.
It was a new world that I mildly feared, but I wanted to become part of it quickly. Geelong was the place of opportunity, rebirth and excitement. I didn’t know much, except that I loved the weather, the people, the beaches, nature, and how could I forget, its triathlon culture.
I found the Aussies so friendly and welcoming but hard to get a deep connection with. They were not as emotional as Europeans and would not invite me into their homes until they called me a close friend. Friendship groups were hard to crack into; you had to work and be deserving of your spot. My sister’s reaction when she started living in Geelong was that she had never seen such an all-or-nothing culture. Women were either bitchy or super nice, and men were either extreme—Alpha male or down-to-earth cool guys. People were either overweight or super fit. I must say I agreed with her. I felt like I always had to prove myself to them and they often created a competitive atmosphere towards me. It was what we call a ‘biggest dick competition’ here. I had no interest in this sort of game. I always proved myself on race day. I also felt like I could not be direct when I spoke, like we were in Europe. I had to say in two minutes what took me ten seconds to say in Belgium or people would crack it and leave, offended. I was often called blunt or rude. I thought they retained the Anglo-Saxon culture.
The Aussie sense of humour matched the Belgian sense of humour, which was also cheeky, but I was stunned by how far strangers pushed the boundaries. I was told people did this when they liked you. An Aussie who did not like you wouldn’t talk to you. If they really liked you, they would hang shit on you like this.
I went out with my tri friends one night and I went up to the bar to order a Coca Cola. The lovely female bar tender did not understand a thing, so I went back to the table and pointed at the glass bottle with the famous white writing on its sides. ‘What do you call this? She could not understand me,’ I said in my thick French accent.
‘You need to ask for a cock mate, not a Coca Cola’. So I went back. ‘I’ll have a cock, please,’ I said. She laughed and said, ‘Someone is pulling a joke on you, love. Just point to what you want. You call this a Coke. A cock is what is in your pants, love.’ I wondered why she was calling me love. I didn’t even know her. Was she into me?’
