Indooroopilly

And you would not believe how it is pronounced.

Indooroopilly was the place where I lived for a year. Now I returned to it, and that was a small emotional rollercoaster for me.

But from the beginning. As always, from the beginning.

I was still sitting in Melbourne at Queen Victoria Market, somewhere between ginger shots and coffee, and I knew I would not be coming back here anytime soon. It was Saturday, and for the first time that week the market was properly full. Not just with people, but with stalls as well. I did not find anything I wanted, and nobody had messaged me wanting anything either. So I bought nothing and simply walked through the halls one more time as an observer. Taking photos. Collecting impressions. Saying goodbye.

Queen Victoria Market is truly one of the places I will miss here in Down Under. Maybe precisely because it feels so wonderfully European. A little chaotic, a little cramped, a little loud, a little real.

Anyway.

When it was time to leave, I packed up myself and my thoughts, and a few hours later I landed in Brisbane. The sun had already gone down. It is winter here. But even in summer, the sun does not really set late in Queensland. I never fully got used to that. Never mind.

A little later I was standing at Roma Street Station and still had a few metres to walk to my accommodation. I was not the only one. A whole crowd of people surrounded me. I looked at the jerseys and slowly understood: there was probably going to be a rugby match in Milton, at Suncorp Stadium. The Brisbane Broncos against someone.

I let myself drift with the crowd because they were heading the same way I was, and I came out onto Caxton Street. There, next to the game, there was also a street festival going on. Somehow I made it to my accommodation. At check in, the man apologized for the commotion outside the door.

Nothing could have mattered less to me.

He said the street festival would be over by seven in the evening, and then it would get quieter. Inside, I shook my head again. Street festivals that end at seven in the evening. Typical Queensland.

I asked him whether it was still possible to get tickets for the game. He said no. As I found out five minutes later in my room, he was lying to me. Twenty minutes later I was sitting in the stadium. Right by the field. Row four. In a cluster of boys with Down syndrome.

And it was pure fun.

It was the thirteenth against the sixteenth. The Broncos against the Titans from the Gold Coast. We would probably call that a derby. The Broncos entered the field with a level of self confidence that did not quite match their position in the table. Black jerseys, glitter, sequins, individual actions. The Titans were clearly physically inferior, but from the very first contact you could tell they wanted to win. They had more bite, more teamwork, more clarity.

And that is exactly what they did. They played more effectively than the local top dogs and won the game.

The stadium was almost empty before the match was even over. So much for the fans. Disappointing.

During the game, I kept wondering about the rhythm. The match I had seen in Wellington had felt faster, harder, more fluid. This here felt more sluggish. My later research showed that the rules are different as well. In Wellington I had watched Rugby Union. Here in Brisbane I was watching Rugby League. Actually, League is considered faster and more reduced. I still liked Union much more. Maybe because over there I had seen first against second, while here it was more misery against misery. Who knows. It is more of a side note.

Everyone always says these sports are extremely hard. From such close range, I could finally take a proper look at that. And yes, it is hard. But the final hardness is missing. They all turn away very early. There is not really that clash you get in American football, handball, or sometimes even in football. Before contact, they slow down, the body is taken out of it, the force is distributed.

I would play it differently. Definitely harder. I would not turn my body away before contact. But fine. To each their own. Maybe a lot of things here are a little softer, made to look hard.

Something else occupied me much more. Once again: the fans.

In Brisbane, every large event feels more like a feel good event. Even if someone has had one too many, which is really rare, he is supported by his mates so he does not draw any unpleasant attention. As I said, moshing is forbidden at heavy metal concerts. Everything is safe, friendly, regulated, monitored, cheerful and somehow toothless.

Oh, how I miss that. A proper football match in Europe.

When the away section, which does not even exist here, because here everyone can simply walk into the stadium without having to fear being beaten up, and without wanting to beat anyone up either, arrives thirty minutes late to the match and first forces the game to be interrupted because thousands of tennis balls are thrown onto the pitch.

That is world class tennis.

Back then with Takagi san, whom I dragged into the stadium, and who, as a Japanese man, celebrated this insubordination, this disobedience, this pure outrageousness so much that afterwards he kept telling me again and again how great he thought it was and that I knew the best places in Stuttgart.

Oh, Hide san. You liked that.

Here in Australia? Unthinkable.

I noticed it again when I saw the banners in the stadium: “Report bad behaviour. SMS to …”

What counts as this behaviour? Why do I have to report it? Why am I being asked to do that?

I hate it deeply. As a German, I deeply hate informers and calls to inform on people. It goes against everything I grew up with. This 1984 feeling. Stasi 2.0 reloaded. I could vomit when I see something like that. Data protection here is already more of a loose concept anyway. One of the reasons I really do not like it here. I love privacy.

I want real emotions again. Not this reporting from behind the curtain. I want that feeling in the air. Tension. Friction. Something special. I am glad that I will soon be back in Europe. Where it is not only the air that burns, but the whole room.

Those were also my thoughts when I walked through Indooroopilly the next day. My old neighbourhood.

It was Sunday. Basically, I did exactly what I had done almost every Sunday. First I went to one of my cafés and had a coffee.

“Oh, you have not been here for a long time. How are you?”

Then on to the next one. After that I sat in the Indooroopilly Shopping Centre, in the next café. I had been looking forward to that, because there was a waitress there who had always liked talking to me.

She was there.

The coffee came.

She slammed it down in front of me and walked away in pointed silence.

That felt almost untypical for Australia. She was not Australian either. Maybe that was exactly why there had been less surface between us.

For a moment I wondered about that greeting. Maybe, just maybe, I should sometimes ask people whether they would like to go for a coffee with me or something. Especially when you really get along well with someone. But I am simply shy when it comes to things like that. I would rather keep my mouth shut and disappear for three months.

And now?

I knew that her reaction meant something. But I also knew that this would be my last time here, and it was already difficult enough for me. So I finished my coffee and memorized her face. I think when I left, I fought back a small tear and walked away.

That was hard. For whatever reason.

And so I drifted on through Indooroopilly Shopping Centre. Like almost every Sunday. I went to the cinema, to the gym, ate soup. Why? I think I did not want to be alone at home, so I went to the air conditioned mall.

In Europe, being alone is easier for me. Bicycle. Two hundred kilometres. Great landscape. Cool air. Movement. Distance. Body. Clear head.

In Australia, especially in Queensland, there is often just high humidity. And I am more of an outdoor person. That, too, is one of the reasons why I am happy to return to Europe.

Emigrating was never on my bucket list. Really not. And it is not as if the quality of life in Australia were so much higher. Or the political system. On the contrary. I always experienced it more as a step down.

When I compare my emotions, leaving Germany was marked more by sadness. Now, leaving Australia, there is a certain anticipation inside me. For my Swabian home. For Europe. For what is coming back.

So: emigrating was never on my bucket list.

But New Zealand? Check.

New Caledonia? Check.

Island hopping in the Pacific? Check.

Writing a fantasy book? Or rather a ten part series? Check, check.

Okay, the books still need some polishing. Or two rounds of polishing. But hey, the concept is there. A manuscript is there. Or ten manuscripts, at least in rough draft form. The rest is not much anymore. Per book, I only have to increase it from 45,000 to 90,000 words. Minor details, really.

Check, check.

Maybe re immigrating was on my bucket list.

I only emigrated so I could immigrate back to Germany.

Is it that great there?

Yes, I think I could sell it like that.

Did I already mention a certain sense of anticipation?

I would still have so much to say, but now I am tired. Maybe tomorrow at the airport. After all, I no longer have a book to continue.

In that spirit.