So, inspired by Serena Solomon and her immigrant friends, here is my list of the things that struck me as strange when I first arrived:
Specialty Food Stores
The lack of butchers, fishmongers, delis and bakeries. There are exactly zero of the first three in at least a 20km radius of me, on the peninsula. If you want meat, fish or fancy cheese, you go to a farmer’s market or pick it up in a Styrofoam and plastic-covered container at the supermarket.
All Bread is Sweet Bread
Sliced bread is awful and bread rolls and baguettes are not far behind. I don’t know what flavouring or preservative they add to bread but it has a really unpalatable aftertaste. On a bright note, it makes it slightly easier to stay away from carbs.
Are You Over 21?
Supermarkets have a policy of carding you for alcohol up until you’re 40-years-old. So I have to take my passport down to the bottle-o, which largely cuts down on any spur of the moment alcohol purchases. It’s also makes it much more disconcerting when they don’t card you. “Do I look over 40 today? I should probably wash my hair”.
Start Writing Cheques
It’s still 1970 here and everyone writes cheques for everything. Want to buy a car? You need a cheque (spelled check here). Handing over your apartment bond? Get yourself a cheque. You pay for the privilege of electronically paying your rent. Probably the biggest mistake that I made here was declining a personal cheque book when I opened my bank accounts. But it’s archaic and confusing.
Everyone tells you to “have a good one”. A good one what? For the record, I prefer “take it easy”.
This one was already mentioned by Solomon, but it’s diabolical so I’ll give it another go: bright orange cheese (please note Mr M, it is described by both Solomon and I as fluorescent orange… not yellow). That’s the other thing, they call it yellow cheese. Look at it! It’s clearly not yellow by any stretch of the imagination. I don’t care what your cows eat, cheese should not be that colour.
Work is extremely hierarchical. The vice president of the department won’t look at me, much less speak to me. And if he has a task for me, he will speak directly to my manager, even though I sit right next to said manager. This might be a universal thing though considering I worked in journalism prior to this job.
It feels like there are many more homeless people on the streets here than there are in Sydney. Maybe I just stuck to parts of the city that didn’t have a lot of people living rough. In San Francisco there are tents pitched along railway line fences, under bridges and on footpaths. I get the feeling there isn’t a great support system in place here.