That Summer: Finding myself in Sydney in 2006

It was a summer of self-discovery, new experiences and self-acceptance for Joanna Whitehead

Bondi Beach at the height of summer (iStock)

After a post-graduation year living in a hedonistic den with – count them – 12 other people, the call of adulthood was becoming harder to ignore. Friends were establishing themselves in ‘proper’ careers, while my biggest achievement was making it through another week without vomiting in the sink at the foot of my bed after (another) mid-week sesh. It was time for a change.

With a heavy heart, I returned to the parental nest in Yorkshire with the aim of saving up to go backpacking. I held two jobs: packing Milkybars in a chocolate factory and working as a receptionist in return for the princely sum of £12,000 per annum. Saddled as I was with various credit card debts, it quickly became clear that saving any sum of substance was out of the question. So I did what any financially irresponsible twenty-something in the mid-noughties did: I applied for a loan.

In the pre-credit crunch era, I simply walked into a bank, informed them of my income and what I wanted the loan for (“travelling”), signed on the dotted line and, within a matter of days, £10,000 had been deposited into my current account. It was outrageously easy.

In the time-honoured tradition, my vague aim was to “find myself” – to have new experiences, make friends for life and develop and grow as a person. I also wanted to push myself outside of my comfort zone by “feeling the fear and doing it anyway”. Travelling alone was a good start. My plan was to spend a month in Australia, Thailand, Malaysia, Sri Lanka and India respectively. It was a well-worn backpacking trail, but I had never really travelled before and, as I was going alone, I was keen to venture to places where I could easily meet other folks.

For the first leg of my journey, however, I would have company – Roh, one of my best friends from university, had already been in Sydney for a few months staying with family.

It was the height of summer in Sydney and I had arrived on the eve of the city’s Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras festivities. Over the preceding three years, Roh had begun to explore her gender and sexuality in new and exciting ways; I had joined her on parts of this journey and met queer folk who had reinforced my own emerging feelings on the same issue. So instead of joining the hordes of gay men who dominated the city’s main gay area, Darlinghurst’s Oxford Street, Roh introduced me to queer Sydney. We hung out on King Street in Newtown, which, at that time, was a prime spot for queer women. We went to squat parties, protests and poetry readings. Roh had procured a video camera and was making a film about gender, so we journeyed to Sydney’s legendary Feminist Bookshop so she could interview the owners.

Despite not feeling queer “enough” – a common experience for many LGBTQ+ folks exploring their identities, and particularly when accessing queer spaces – each experience served to awaken suppressed feelings of my own. The growing awareness of my own sexuality was cemented by my corresponding feelings towards Roh, which intensified the more time we spent together.

The rugged landscape of the Blue Mountains (istock)

And, oh what fun we had that summer. We walked the Bronte to Coogee Beach coastal route in the blazing sunshine, abseiled in the Blue Mountains, watched the fruit bats soar over Sydney Harbour as the sun went down while drinking beers out of paper bags, and swam on Bondi Beach.

It was my first time in the southern hemisphere and the light seemed completely different; the sky was the most perfect blue I’d ever seen. I marvelled at the wildlife – wild parrots, spiders the size of dinner plates and a host of adorable marsupials. One night, we went out to a fish restaurant where the couple next to us ordered a seafood platter so huge they shared it with us. Prior to this, the only fish I’d eaten was battered cod from the fish and chip shop and tuna from a tin. Everything felt new and exciting.

I flew to Bangkok alone on Valentine’s Day after travelling up the east coast alone. Leaving Roh felt devastating. Within 48 hours of arriving in Thailand, I’d awoken at sparrow fart and penned my first (and last) heartfelt poem, waxing lyrical about my burgeoning affection. I can’t remember if I ever showed it to her but, for the sake of my dignity, I sincerely hope not.

As my backpacking trip went on, I quickly realised that my grandiose expectations of what such a trip could offer were flawed. I certainly had some incredible experiences, but I wanted to share those with friends and loved ones, rather than the relationships of convenience that backpacking often engendered. Instead of the “friends for life” I’d hope for, travelling overexposed me to some terrible music and 18-year-old gap-year students who called me “old” at the tender age of 25. And despite coming from a working-class background, my journey opened my eyes to the privileges that I had and the inherent problems of white westerners descending on the global south to create their own private playground.

Jo with Roh in Sydney (Joanna Whitehead)

Roh and I reconnected in the UK that summer around the same time as I came out to my family and friends. A few months later, we finally hooked up. I was terrified that we’d jeopardise an important friendship with sex, but the morning after, it felt as if we’d drawn a line under our summer romance. Our friendship remained solid until her unexpected death less than 12 months later at just 25-years-old.

That year, my summer lasted almost 10 months. It was one of self-discovery, new experiences and self-acceptance and the memories I made will be treasured forever. With added interest (and plenty of missed repayments), it took me over seven years to repay that loan – but it was worth every single penny.

This has been published as part of The Independent’s That Summer series of personal essays cataloguing the intense, daunting and joy-filled holidays that changed our lives for the better