Between finishing my final exam and papers, packing up my room in Australia to leave for Los Angeles in two days, and still trying to keep my word count up for NaNoWriMo, I am surprisingly unbothered by the hubbub that should surely be stressing me out. instead I am excited, and diligent, and the only thing I really wish for escape is another trip to the beach to cool off in the country’s sizable waves one last time. After all, when I will be returning it will be to winter, and I have so enjoyed the sunshine. Here spring has clearly had its way with Brisbane: the city is crawling with students on Christmas vacation, the Melbourne Cup is everyone’s topic of conversation, my mates are all griping about how fast Big Day Out sold out, and the jacarandas around the city are in full bloom. You can see the gardeners waging fruitless war trying to contain the tiny purple blossoms. And if it wasn’t a breeze-free 27 degrees out I’d be lying on the grass, grateful for my newfound tan.

Unfortunately I’ve been cooped indoors writing away, attempting to finish my last three papers before I land in Fiji. I’ve been playing possession tetris with my belongings, assured that if I rotate them in the right way, everything will fit in my tiny suitcase. I’ve consumed an entire jar of Peanut Butter and about fifty packets of strawberry jam during my many lunches in, stooped over a computer. I’ve been sweating in my sweltering dorm room while glands I didn’t even know existed excrete sweat in amounts I didn’t think were possible. I’ve piously followed Manchester United’s run up the tables and avoided all news of the election since I dropped my ballot in the box a month ago. And I’ve been trying my best to keep my room clean is I rifle through my drawers one last time and pitch the graded papers I don’t think I’ll need, but even with my good intentions, my desk still remains a mountain of paper rubbish the size silverfish dream of. My bed is the worst, hosting snippets of dialogue, character profiles, and difficult to remember quantum physics formulas I occasionally nest in when my chair is otherwise occupied by laundry. I’ve lost about three pens to the carnage. It looks like this:

The college cleaner, Marie, comes in to clean every week, and usually teases me a bit about my neatly made bed, my unblemished writing desk, and my separate piles for trash and recycling. Generally, when she comes in I kindly go take a shower (we take four-minute army showers here to contribute to drought relief) so she can hoover and dust without me getting in the way. When I come out, trying my best not to drip, she always says the same thing,

“You make it too easy. You’re room is too clean!”

I’m probably the only person in the whole wing who keeps her room so tidy. It’s a matter of prinicple. But the last time Marie came in it was a different story. She opened the door with her usual good morning greeting, a slack rubbish bag in one hand and hoover in the other, and stopped dead. Her eyes get wide. I grin sheepishly and start stammering apologetic explanations about how I’m sorting through my stuff before I leave, a date which is about two weeks earlier than anyone else. And Marie, bless her, turns to me and exclaims,

“Now that’s more like it. I was beginning to wonder if you were a student after all!

More bashful facial expressions, more scattered attempts to form coherent piles that reveal there is indeed carpet underneath all of this. How can so little stuff take up so much space? I probably turned pink, but Marie was laughing. I realise she will probably miss me at college next year if for no other reason than the six minutes I shave off her work clock and I will certainly miss her looking out for us. Goodbye, Marie. Goodbye, Australia.