I couldn’t help but think of the Chuck Berry song as I landed at LAX, even though I hadn’t been longing for Los Angeles. Berry actually wrote the tune on a return flight from Australia in the late ’50s after seeing the living conditions of the Aboriginies.  Despite that bleak motivation, it’s a catchy tune, and, after all, I was glad to be done with a 13-hour flight.

   And things were different here. Or things seemed different. The most apparent different thing was the attitude of the Customs agents, especially the woman who hustled those of us who were sitting back in steerage out of the bathroom, all the while grinning at us like she knew we couldn’t be rude back to her. And guns. Lots of guns.  And strutting. Plenty of strutting going on down there as well.

   It’s not that I didn’t run across rude or stupid people in Australia or New Zealand. And yes, Australian police carry side arms. I understand that the New Zealand cops do not, but I never saw a single officer when I was over there, even though my hostel in Rotorua was a mere three blocks from the station.

   And rudeness. A boat-load of rudeness, too, with the exception of the final guy who stamped my passport and let me back into the U.S. after saying that he’d look for my book. Cool. Thanks, dude. (I didn’t tell him that I, too, am looking for my book.)

   Along the way, I couldn’t help but make a mental list of the things I did not miss: Rude rental car agents; L.A. traffic; the Inland Empire (an odd name for such a bleak place); landscape the color of putty; snowbird driving habits. However, I did miss my friends and my BMW, and happily, a friend was waiting with my car when I returned the under-powered 4-cylinder Cube I had rented to the Palm Springs airport Hertz.

   Describing the feeling of being back is difficult, especially since I spent most of the flight knowing that I wanted to stay. In fact, I had discussed returning to Melbourne in February and staying an additional month. I didn’t, and now I’m glad I didn’t. Money was scarce for the past few months, I didn’t find employment like I thought I would, and faced little besides frustration in the U.S. I can’t imagine the nightmare of facing all of that in a foreign country.

  As it was, I spent a couple weeks in Rancho Mirage with a very gracious friend, who really has gone above and beyond in terms of allowing me to stay in her home for weeks (months) at a time. The weeks allowed me to visit my things in storage, say hello, pet them a little bit, assure them that I hadn’t forgotten about them.  The best part: getting different clothing. How many of you have worn the same few pieces of clothing for 107 days? Two pairs of jeans, two tank tops, two skirts, two t-shirts, two cardigans, a zip-up hoodie. A pair of boots, a pair of running shoes, a pair of flip-flops. That’s it. That’s all. I left a stack of clothing in the hotel room in Auckland with a note on top, “Free to a good home.” I couldn’t bear to see that white hoodie and that print cardigan ever again. Ever.

   In two weeks, I had switched out my wardrobe (high heels again – hallelujah!) and arranged to spend a couple months at my brother and sister-in-law’s place in Phoenix. My mission was to find work, save a bunch of money, query agents and editors and maybe get interest in a book, then return to Melbourne in late May/early June. It was a good plan.