A tale of two cities

Sitting at Heathrow Airport during the tail-end of London’s summer heatwave, waiting for a flight to Sydney, I did something incredibly vain: I re-read my own words. I had returned to England a few months earlier, after an unexpected yet brilliant year-and-a-half in Australia, to pack up my life, farewell my friends and bring my decade-long European chapter to a close.

But things hadn’t gone to plan.

When I’d arrived back in London, for what I’d assumed was a farewell tour, it hadn’t taken long before the warmth I had always felt for my adopted home to come flooding back. This took me a little by surprise.

Having given myself the chance to put down roots in Sydney, I’d assumed London would be different upon my return; still dazzling, but no longer mine. I’d thought, after spending so much time away, I would only have one home and that it would be among the terraces and cafes of Paddington.

But sitting at Heathrow, ready to depart, I felt equal parts worried and confused, struggling to understand how one could have such deep ties to two astoundingly different locations. Was it really possible to slip between two meaningful worlds at whim, both of which you adored equally?

Seeking answers, I turned to a Local Paddo piece I’d penned nearly two years previously, when I was just beginning to carve out a space for myself in Sydney. I had written about how lucky I was to have multiple homes. How they mirrored each other, yet each offered something unique.

I’d felt such clarity writing that story. I was so confident that London would wait for me and that life in Sydney (the city that raised me) could be resumed at will. What I realised re-reading those words was that things are a little more complicated.

Yes, it is possible to have two homes, especially when they’re filled with people you love. But if we want a place to feel like it’s truly ours, we have to build it. And rebuild it. Constantly.

I’d had 18 months to make Sydney my own again, and I’d set about doing this in Paddington. I walked its streets, daydreamed in its galleries, found a favourite bookshop and gravitated towards the things that made me smile: the scenes of life outside Alimentari Cafe & Bookstore, the buzz of Saturday markets, spring’s blooming jacarandas, the small business owners who were more than happy to share their stories.

I’d taken my Polaroid camera on lockdown rambles to capture the beauty of the everyday, and when normality returned, I made it my mission to eat at every restaurant along Oxford St.

Geographically, Paddington was a place I knew inside out. But it soon became clear that to really belong somewhere, you need a community. This realisation was crystallised by a project I worked on with my mum during the Sydney lockdown and after, a book called Pearls. To make it, we travelled across NSW, chatting to 41 brilliant women who were quietly changing the world.

Our book’s interviews were divided into two sections. The first was a celebration of everyone’s journey and offering an insight into what it is they do. The second was far more personal: an exploration of what it means to love, dream and have a place that feels like home.

It was only when we were halfway through the project that Mum and I realised we hadn’t actually put some of these personal questions to our own family, let alone our friends. So we did just that.

In the sun outside Ampersand, or while lounging in Paddington Reservoir, and wandering along terrace-lined streets, I asked friends old and new for their love stories, what they would say to their younger selves, and where they went in search of peace.

The insights we gained were illuminating. Finding the time to chat openly and honestly can be daunting, but it’s important to share the parts of ourselves that may not always be visible, and to encourage those around us to do the same. And so I rebuilt my life in Sydney, by asking questions and seeking beauty (which in Paddington, isn’t hard to find).

And I think that’s why I felt so discombobulated back in London. Due to the tyranny of time and distance, I had felt my connection to the city had faded. But during my weeks back there, chats with friends helped bring the magic back; it, too, began to feel like home again.

Which left me with the question: where exactly was home? We all have moments where we feel out of place, but our community centres us and candid conversations are often all we need to feel grounded once more. It may have taken a while to find my feet again in London, but here I was, feeling home again.

So, as I sat among the chaos of Heathrow — re-reading those early Local Paddo words and indulging in a bit of introspection — I decided it was unnecessary to choose. That it can be OK to embrace the pull of two cities. That even though I would feel wobbly again upon landing in Sydney, and in need of a Paddington walk or two to right myself, once I got chatty and let the joys of an Australian winter wash over me, I would feel at home once more.

Because that’s the thing about building a life across two continents. It’s complicated, but if you build with care, and welcome the work involved, home will always be there — wherever ‘there’ may be.

Pearls: Wisdom from the women of NSW, by Angela Schaffer, edited by Liz Schaffer, $65.

To order go to: angelaterrell.com