The myth of ‘finding yourself’ abroad in your twenties

“We assume that sunny weather will brighten our disposition, that by travelling beyond the horizon we’ll broaden our own.”

The month of May marks Melbourne’s decline into June, July and August. If seasonal depression afflicts even the happiest among us, winter drives this city to the verge of madness. That is to say, if we were miserable when the sun’s out, we’re doubly so when it’s behind the clouds. 

It’s no wonder, then, that the blue weather sees the city escape to greener pastures – perhaps those of Northern Italy or Spain, or to the most unimaginative among us: London town. 

For more travel stories, try our Life section.

London was the first stop on my two-month European sojourn earlier this year. Following the state’s grand tradition, I joined my fellow Australians as we looked northward and fled Melbourne’s winter. Of course, we assume that sunny weather will brighten our disposition, that by travelling beyond the horizon we’ll broaden our own. Put simply, Europe holds the possibility of change. 

This myth persists, persuasive as ever, and travellers collect their days abroad as if evidence might eventually reveal a shift they can’t quite name. The travel diary then becomes the proof they hoped for: an account of small moments and passing pleasures, written with the belief that change (if it occurs at all), can be recorded on paper in perfect prose. 

Monday, August 25

I arrived at Heathrow Airport at 7pm yesterday evening. I was catatonic on the flight over. I took the Piccadilly Line to Piccadilly Circus, then I took a pill and went to bed. I awoke close to 4am. I can’t recall the last time I slept through the night. I was showered and shaved by 7am, Americano in hand by 7.30am. I prefer my coffee black. Two PrEP, black coffee, and a chain of Camel cigarettes – that’s my idea of a continental breakfast.

Saturday, August 30

On Thursday, I met my friend Tess in Chelsea. She’s a fantastic conversationalist with a sense of humour to match – traits I possess on my best days only. We rode bikes to Knightsbridge, we spent the afternoon shopping and gossiping. Yesterday, I met her at Spitalfields Market. Henry joined: he knows a good many people and many more stories. These two remain to be terrific company. 

There was a moment tonight when, in Shoreditch, seven of us were crowded around a tiny table out the back of a pub. We enjoyed cigarellos; Henry and Angello blew smoke rings while entertaining us with their mob boss impressions. We played cards, disputed winners and played another round (and another). There was a moment tonight when, in Shoreditch, I felt like a winner, despite losing game after game. 

Wednesday, September 3

I’ve gone to Cascais, Portugal. This morning, just after 9am, housekeeping knocked on my door. I asked her to come back later – told her I was on the phone to “minha mãe”. She laughed and I could hear her singing in the hall. At 1pm, I sizzled on the rocks, overlooking the Casa De Santa Maria. Around 3pm, I bit into a peach; everything tastes better here, happiness comes easy. The swelter of Cascais has me content to smoke my Camels and do little else. Perhaps I have found myself: I enjoy the simple life. 

Wednesday, September 10

We’ve been in Barcelona, Spain, for a few days now. I’ve met the remainder of my party here. It’s currently 7pm, I’m nude in clean white sheets. The doors to the Juliette balcony are wide open; a warm breeze flows through the sheers; there’s a bustle in the street below; bells of the Catedral de Barcelona toll in the distance; my black crocodile sling backs rest by my bed. Tonight I’ll wear them out dancing, and together we’ll sing and sweat. We’ll pull at someone’s belt loops, only to push them away; have our drinks bought, laugh. 

Thursday, September 11

Today was spent in bed. Heavy rain continued on until about 4.30pm. I reluctantly showered and shaved, and opened the balcony doors. I stood outside, the cool air washed over me. If I looked out over the railing and squinted, I could almost make out Australia far in the distance.

I thought of my travelling companions. We’re far from home and yet, there’s familiarity. Amalia is creative; she makes little things and gives them to her friends. Chloe’s presence is marked by her kindness and Georgia always picks the coolest spots, she’s effortless. Sarah, well she doesn’t sweat the small stuff. 

No matter how far we roam, home drifts just out of sight, yet it never leaves the mind entirely. We return eventually, with fridge magnets and memories in tow, but no grand revelations tucked neatly between the folds of our itinerary. The chase of transformation abroad is seductive, if predictable: the European summer, a sun-drenched distraction from Melbourne’s winter, a gentle excuse to pretend our restless minds can be calmed by distance.

And yet, perhaps that’s enough. To notice the small pleasures, to chase them knowingly, is to embrace the absurdity of it all. Life’s little joys – a peach in the afternoon, a friend’s laughter, a kiss shared by strangers – come wrapped in the mundane, and in their simplicity lies a kind of reckless indulgence.

It’s easier to lean into the fantasy, to enjoy it fully, than to wrestle endlessly for meaning that might never appear. In truth, it’s easier to blame the weather.

The approach of November invites the relief of December, January and February. But if the cold weather explains our misery, what do we blame when the days soften and the nights grow long? When the same joys are at hand in Melbourne, why do our minds still drift northward, towards Europe? Perhaps depression isn’t seasonal – it’s habitual. Which is why year after year, we book another escape, as if trying to recapture the fleeting bliss of those that have passed. And so, thoughts return to those moments that once felt perfect. 

Thursday, September 18

I’ve stripped down and I’m lazing by the water in Como, Italy. In a moment, I’ll go for a dip, after which I’ll sleep for a few hours before dinner. Perhaps later this evening, I’ll stroll into the piazza and fall in love among the heady scent of jasmine which wraps the wrought-iron fences. I’m 23 – in three month’s time I’ll be 24. I’ve not a worry in the world. If I were to drown today, I’d die happy in this wonderful place.

For more on travelling and identity, try this.