Three years in Melbourne.

It still feels new, you know. Perhaps not new enough to write the rhapsody of a first anniversary, or a favourite-things list of a second, but new enough that calling this city my own still seems an act of temerity, even though I chose it.

It's new enough that I still don't know the suburbs. That's a big-city thing, or perhaps an inner-city thing; I know the suburbs I play cricket in and the ones that friends have retreated to as they start to nest. In the meantime I nod wisely when people tell me where they're from, and hope they don't expect me to comment on the commute, or to point in meaningful directions. 

New enough to be home and the heterotopia, the other-place, all at once. New enough to dig and prune and hack, and home enough to plant and water and feed. To take up running, to spread out the word-magnets on my fridge, to plan on cooking Christmas lunch, to ask the landlord if I can hang paintings*. To purge my cupboards and rearrange my lounge and my car lease, which seemed so permanent three years ago. 

Home enough and long enough to start a blog, get some readers, have a hiatus, try again. Long enough to be cross that my city felt unsafe. Long enough to understand most of this, even. Long enough to miss Melbourne friends who have gone or nested or all those things friends do, and all on top of missing my Perth friends and beaches and family. Heck, long enough to have some Perth friends move here, and Melbourne friends move back. Long enough to see London in summer again, and miss that, too - really, there are too many cities and not enough time. 

In the meantime, in the absence of holes through the earth, I choose Melbourne. I still don't really know how to express the way I fit here, but I do.

Happy third anniversary, Melbourne. 

*this will probably mean my house will be sold within the year.