A Summer Christmas

The days are long, warm, and bright. Very bright. Australia has one of the harshest sunlights on this earth. Take a photo during a sunny day, and you’ll get no shadows, no contrast, just glaring shades of white.

The Christmas season in Europe is dark but well-lit, cold and sometimes miserable but also cheerful. You want to jitter in the cold, holding on to a mug of mulled wine, and then later cosy up in a pub and eat a hearty roast. You’re looking forward to Christmas to spend the time at your parent’s warm house and eat Goose.

This year, the first of 42, I won’t experience any of this. And, boy, it’s different. It feels wrong. It’s hot outside. How are you supposed to get into the festive spirit when you’re wearing shorts? The fairy lights outside the houses in the neighbourhood do nothing. There is no darkness. The Christmas tree by the life-savers club, the candy canes on Princes Bridge, the oversized koala wearing a Santa hat—nothing feels right.

It’s summer here. Christmas is supposed to be in winter. I miss home.