Australians say mate because it’s more than just a word. It’s a greeting, a thank you, a sign of friendship, a warning, a term of affection, and sometimes all five at once.
Eight years after moving to America, I still say it dozens of times a day.
“Cheers, mate.”
“Thanks, mate.”
“No worries, mate.”
“See ya, mate.”
Now the people that know are plenty used to it by now but those that don’t always pause for a split second when they hear it. You can almost see them translating it in real time.
Then it clicks.
Oh right.
He’s Australian.
The funny thing is that I don’t even notice I’m saying it anymore.
It’s one of those habits that survived the move. My accent has softened a little over the years. I’ve learned to say gas station instead of servo. I’ve stopped confusing cashiers by handing over exact change and expecting them to appreciate it.
One of the biggest misconceptions is that Australians call everyone mate because we’re all best friends.
That’s not really how it works.
I’ve called complete strangers mate. Shop assistants have called me mate. Taxi drivers, tradies, neighbours, and random blokes I’ve met for thirty seconds have all used it.
It’s less about friendship and more about familiarity.
It’s a way of saying, “We’re alright. Let’s keep this simple.”
One of my closest friends here in Tennessee is Mexican.
Years ago she started saying mate back to me.
These days I call her matey and she calls me mate.
Neither of us are using it correctly anymore, but we’ve committed to it so heavily that there’s no turning back now.
In Australia, “mate” is often less about friendship and more about familiarity and connection.
Not Everyone Gets Called Mate
Despite what Hollywood might suggest, Australians don’t call absolutely everyone mate.
There are situations where it fits and situations where it doesn’t.
When I worked in banking, I wasn’t walking into meetings with ambassadors and saying, “G’day mate.”
That would have been a very short diplomatic meeting.
In Australia, mate is often a social leveler.
It works best when people are meeting as equals.
Tradies use it.
Country Australians use it.
Blokes leaning on fences use it.
People standing around a barbecue use it.
It strips away a bit of formality and makes the conversation feel more relaxed.
Watching them handle airports and travel on their own still catches me off guard.
America Shaped Them Too
When people move overseas, they expect the new country to shape them.
You learn different customs.
Different expressions.
Different social rules.
You learn that biscuits aren’t biscuits.
That football sometimes involves very little foot.
You learn that Americans consider a three-hour drive “close.”
But eventually I realized something else.
America wasn’t only shaping me.
It was shaping my daughters too.
Georgia Carries Two Homes
Georgia was born in Australia.
She still feels connected to that part of her story.
She knows where she was born.
Knows where her parents came from.
She still spells “Mum” correctly, which I consider one of my greatest parenting achievements.
But she has grown up here.
Her school is here.
Her friends are here.
Dance life is here.
And recently she started talking about her dream college.
USC.
The University of South Carolina.
She’s only ten years old, so there is every chance she’ll change her mind another twenty times.
But that’s not really the point.
When she imagines her future, she imagines it here.
Brianna Doesn’t Have The Same Question
Brianna was born in America.
And in many ways, America simply feels like home.
Recently we watched Australia versus the USA on TV at the 2026 World Cup.
When the Australian anthem played, Georgia and I stood up and sang along, hand over our hearts.
When the American anthem played we did too, but Brianna absolutely lit up.
She sang every word.
Then started chanting “USA! USA!”
Meanwhile I stood there having the complicated emotional experience of an Australian father watching his daughter enthusiastically support the opposition.
That was probably the moment I should have figured it out.
There has never been much doubt about where Brianna feels at home.
Going Back Changed Something
Last year we took the girls back to Australia.
For Georgia especially, I think that trip changed something.
She saw old friends.
Old places.
Parts of her earlier life.
But she also discovered something many adults discover when they move away.
Life doesn’t pause while you’re gone.
People move on.
Friendships evolve.
Places change.
And sometimes you realize the version of home you carried in your head no longer exists exactly the way you remember it.
I think that trip made America feel even more like home for her.
Not because Australia stopped mattering.
But because she realized where her actual life was happening.
What is a servo in Australia? A servo is the Australian word for a gas station or petrol station. It’s one of those everyday Australian terms that can completely confuse Americans the first time they hear it.
When I first moved to America, I quickly learned that what Australians call a servo, Americans call a gas station.
The funny thing is that Australians use the word so casually that we often forget it’s slang.
“Just pulling into the servo.”
“Need anything from the servo?”
“The servo down the road has cheaper fuel.”
To an Australian, those sentences sound completely normal. To an American, they can sound like we’re talking about some mysterious piece of machinery.
Why Do Australians Call It a Servo?
The word servo is simply a shortened version of service station.
Australians love shortening words. In fact, it’s almost a national hobby.
We don’t just have:
Servo (service station)
Arvo (afternoon)
Bottle-o (liquor store)
Macca’s (McDonald’s)
Rego (vehicle registration)
We shorten so many words that sometimes visitors feel like they’re learning a second language.
A service station became a servo, and the name stuck.
What Happens at a Servo?
Traditionally, a servo was a place to buy petrol and maybe get basic vehicle services.
Today, Australian servos are much more like American gas stations.
Most have:
Fuel pumps
Convenience stores
Soft drinks and snacks
Coffee machines
Ice
Toilets
Basic automotive supplies
Some larger servos have surprisingly good food.
On long road trips across Australia, stopping at a servo is often part of the journey. You fill the tank, grab a meat pie, buy a drink, and stretch your legs before heading back onto the highway.
Buying meat pies in the US is so difficult! Here’s a bumper sticker for those of you who want to start spreading the word here on how good they are!
Servo vs Gas Station
Although they serve the same purpose, there are a few language differences between Australia and America.
Australia
United States
Servo
Gas station
Petrol
Gas
Fill up the tank
Fill up the tank
Unleaded petrol
Regular gas
Service station
Gas station
The first time someone in America asked me where I got gas, I nearly answered, “At the servo.”
Then I remembered that nobody around me would have any idea what I meant.
Do Australians Ever Say Gas Station?
Not usually.
Most Australians say either servo, service station or petrol station.
If you said “gas station” in Australia, people would understand you, largely because of American movies and television, but it would sound distinctly American.
It’s similar to how Australians understand words like “sidewalk” or “apartment,” even though we would normally say “footpath” and “unit.”
One of Australia’s Most Recognisable Words
Servo is one of those words that instantly identifies someone as Australian.
The moment an Australian abroad says, “I need to stop at the servo,” other Australians know exactly where they’re from.
It’s a small word, but it’s part of a much larger Australian habit of shortening everyday language and turning ordinary words into nicknames.
And once you’ve spent enough time around Australians, you’ll probably find yourself saying it too.
If you’ve ever wondered what is a servo in Australia, the answer is simple: it’s the Australian term for a gas station or petrol station.
In the past three years, I’ve applied for more than 2500 jobs.
That number sounds made up.
Honestly, if somebody had told me a few years ago that a former regional banking manager with 24 years of experience would end up applying for Amazon warehouse jobs, driving for Uber, uploading résumés at midnight and getting rejected from roles he could probably do blindfolded… I would’ve assumed they’d taken a wrong turn somewhere.
But here we are.
And somewhere between application number 700 and application number 1800, I realised modern job searching has become its own form of psychological warfare.
Upload your résumé.
Now manually type your résumé back into smaller boxes.
Write a cover letter.
Now answer personality questions designed to determine whether you’re passionate enough about moving cardboard boxes.
Then hear absolutely nothing ever again.
I suspect I may now hold the unofficial world record for hearing nothing from HR departments.
The strange part is… I wasn’t always “starting over.”
I’ve actually done this before.
Apparently I Have a Habit of Reinventing Myself
When I left high school in Australia, I completed a four-year chef’s apprenticeship.
Before banking, there was hospitality, kitchens, Samoa, and another life altogether.
I eventually became a sous chef and then landed an executive chef role in Samoa. Later I moved into hotel management in Fiji.
Then I came back to Australia and realised something uncomfortable:
I didn’t want to do it anymore.
So I started again.
I got a job as a bank teller.
That somehow turned into a 24-year banking career.
Over time I worked my way up through management until eventually I became a regional banking manager.
On paper, this probably looked like success. In many ways, it was.
On paper, it probably looked like success.
And financially, in many ways, it was.
But toward the end, my life had quietly narrowed into work.
I was commuting three hours a day.
Working six days a week.
Seventy-hour weeks had become normal.
My youngest daughter was three and barely knew me.
I’d become one of those blokes who spends his entire life providing for his family while somehow barely getting to participate in it.
Then came the moment that broke me.
In July 2023, after finally securing a transfer closer to home, my boss had me fire my second-in-charge before I even started. I’d have no backup which meant even longer hours.
Then I was informed my office was being removed.
No desk.
No office.
After 24 years.
I quit on the spot.
No backup plan.
No next job.
Nothing.
At the time, I thought I was escaping burnout.
In hindsight, I think I was also escaping a version of myself.
The Part Nobody Talks About
When most people picture unemployment, they imagine somebody sitting around not wanting to work.
That wasn’t my reality at all.
I wanted to work.
I just didn’t want my entire identity consumed by corporate life anymore.
When I first moved to America, I actually hoped I could transition into something more meaningful.
Fraud or Investigations.
Just wanting to help people without chasing targets and goals.
Something where experience mattered.
Instead, after four or five months, I ended up back in retail banking managing a downtown branch.
And somehow, years later, I found myself sitting in front of LinkedIn at midnight applying for literally everything.
Insurance roles.
Fraud teams.
Case management.
911 dispatcher positions.
Local police departments.
Sheriff’s offices.
Warehouse jobs.
At one point I think I applied for enough positions to qualify as a full-time applicant.
Somewhere along the way, job searching became its own full-time job.
The strangest part was being simultaneously “overqualified” and unemployable.
In the very few interviews I actually got, people would ask me why I wanted such “basic” jobs.
Which is a very polite way of saying:
“Why is somebody with your background here?”
The truth?
Because bills still arrive and kids still need dance lessons.
Because groceries still cost money and pride doesn’t pay the electricity bill.
And because somewhere along the way, I realised I no longer cared about status nearly as much as I cared about having a life.
The Job I Thought Changed Everything
There was one role that nearly broke me emotionally.
A position with the Department of Community Services.
It genuinely felt like the first job I’d ever applied for that aligned with who I actually was.
I would’ve been working with victims of human trafficking and child abuse. Things I had experience in as a Bank Manager.
Helping people.
Something meaningful.
I had a phone interview.
Then a panel interview.
Then I got the call.
I got the job.
I accepted it.
For a little while, I thought I’d finally found something meaningful.
I remember feeling absolutely ecstatic. Telling people excitedly.
Honestly, I thought maybe my entire career had been leading toward this.
Then it disappeared.
Background checks revealed I didn’t have a university degree.
Nobody had mentioned one was required.
I had 24 years of banking leadership experience.
International experience.
Extensive management experience.
The Chief Justice of the Tennessee Supreme Court as one of my references.
Didn’t matter.
No degree.
No job.
That one flattened me.
I think that was the moment job searching stopped feeling frustrating and started feeling personal.
After that, even the thought of another application made me physically recoil.
The Quiet Shame of Starting Over Later in Life
I’m 52 now.
And while nobody will openly say it, I do believe age plays a role.
Maybe it was age, or maybe it was being Australian.
Maybe it was experience or that employers saw somebody who’d managed large teams and assumed I’d leave.
Or maybe they preferred younger graduates, maybe all of it.
I’ll never know.
But I do know this:
At some point, repeated rejection stops feeling professional and starts feeling existential.
You stop wondering:
“Why didn’t I get the job?”
And start wondering:
“Has the world quietly decided I’m past my use-by date?”
That’s a hard feeling to explain to people.
Especially as a man who spent most of his adult life being the provider.
For years my role was simple:
Work.
Provide.
Keep moving.
And to be fair, I did that.
But I also burned myself out doing it. Multiple times.
I missed huge parts of life while climbing ladders that, in hindsight, weren’t attached to anything meaningful.
Losing my Mum a few years ago changed something in me too.
It made me realise life is a lot more fragile than corporations would like us to believe.
One day you’re working 70-hour weeks.
The next day the people you spoke to every day disappear.
That was another strange lesson.
People you think are your friends at work often aren’t.
The moment you leave the system, the system moves on.
Very quickly.
The Unexpected Part
Here’s the part I didn’t expect.
Somewhere inside all this uncertainty, I accidentally found parts of myself again.
Somewhere during all of this, I found my way back onto a dance floor too.
I rediscovered dance.
Built a media brand from scratch.
I taught myself podcasting.
Audio editing.
Video editing.
Writing.
Graphics.
Storytelling.
I spend over 40 hours a week building it now. I’m sitting here at midnight writing this.
Building the brand didn’t just give me work. It gave me a creative life again.
And the funny part is… it doesn’t feel like work.
Not because it isn’t real work.
It absolutely is.
But because for the first time in a very long time, it actually feels like me.
Ironically, people often don’t see content creation as a “real job.”
So these days when somebody asks what I do, I usually say:
“I’m a writer.”
That tends to confuse people less than saying:
“I’m an Australian YouTuber and podcaster living in Tennessee trying to explain American goodbyes to the internet.”
But while the financial side has been difficult, this period also gave me something banking never could.
Time.
I’ve been able to drive my daughters Georgia and Brianna to school.
Take them to dance.
For years I provided for my family. This period finally let me participate in it.
Music lessons.
Do the groceries.
Be present.
And honestly?
I’ve loved it.
I think somewhere along the way, I realised the version of success I’d spent decades chasing may not actually have been mine.
So Where Does That Leave Me?
Recently, after nearly three years of applications and rejection, I was offered a part-time job in a completely unrelated field.
The interview was quick.
Simple.
Human.
And the next day they offered me the role.
No endless personality tests, or corporate theatre.
No twenty-stage recruitment process requiring the emotional resilience of a Navy SEAL.
Just:
“You seem capable. We’d like to hire you.”
Honestly, I felt everything at once.
Relief.
Exhaustion.
Sadness.
Gratitude.
Maybe even grief.
Because part of me wanted the media brand to become fully sustainable before I ever had to go back to regular employment.
But another part of me knows something important now:
I don’t actually want my old life back.
Turns out happiness sometimes looks less like a boardroom and more like bothering skeletons at a Spirit Halloween store.
Financially?
Sure.
There are parts of it I miss.
But the version of me who only existed to work?
No.
I’ve already done that.
Twice, apparently.
And maybe that’s the strangest lesson in all of this.
Careers are chapters.
Not identities.
At 18, I thought I was a chef.
Then at 30, I thought I was a banker.
At 52, I’m honestly not completely sure what I am yet.
But I know this:
I’m bigger than my job title.
And if this whole experience has taught me anything, it’s that starting over can happen to anyone.
Even the people who looked successful from the outside.
Life After Corporate Work
There were nights during all of this where I’d finish another application, close the laptop, and wonder whether I’d somehow become invisible.
I think when your career identity starts falling apart a bit, you begin trying to make sense of yourself in other ways.
For me, that became storytelling.
Podcasting.
Writing.
And weirdly enough… ballroom dancing.
Going back to dance after all these years genuinely helped my mental health more than I expected. There’s something strangely grounding about having to focus on timing, movement and not tripping over your own feet for ninety minutes.
Honestly, this whole brand exists because I finally stopped pretending work was the only meaningful thing about me.
If you’ve found yourself in that strange middle ground too — between careers, identities, countries, expectations, or versions of yourself — you might also connect with some of the other stories I’ve written:
You think the big things will be what you miss when you move overseas.
Family. Friends. Familiar places.
And you do miss those things.
But honestly… some of the strongest homesickness hits come from standing in an American supermarket looking for chicken salt.
Or opening a packet of “Australian-style” lollies and realising they just don’t taste right.
I’ve lived in America for around eight years now, and over time I’ve realised that home slowly becomes a collection of tiny things.
Little routines. Familiar foods. Smells. Phrases.
Small comforts that quietly remind you who you are.
A typical care package from Australia never lasts long in our house.
Vegemite Becomes a Survival Item
We go through a lot of Vegemite in our house.
We normally keep four or five jars in the cupboard at any given time. I have it most mornings on toast, and both of our girls love it too. Nikki’s mum sends it to us in bulk from Australia, so at any given moment there are usually four or five jars sitting in the cupboard like emergency supplies.
If we ever got down to one jar, I’d probably start rationing it.
Americans are fascinated by Vegemite too. Whenever friends come over, it eventually turns into: “Alright then… let’s see you try it.”
The reactions are usually dramatic. But for Australians overseas, Vegemite isn’t really about the taste anymore. It’s familiarity. It’s routine. It’s sitting at the kitchen table in the morning feeling, for a few minutes at least, like you’re back home again.
I talked more about the strange experience of keeping an Australian identity while living overseas in this article:
One of the things I never expected to miss was Australian road trip culture.
Growing up, road trips for us usually meant driving from Canberra to the coast, or inland to see Nikki’s family in Griffith. And before every trip, there was always the same ritual.
Fill up the car.
Go into the servo.
Buy a bag of Allen’s snakes, maybe some other lollies, and drinks for the drive.
There was something oddly comforting about it.
Now, in America, we’ve replaced that ritual with Buc-ee’s stops.
And honestly? Buc-ee’s is incredible.
Australia has absolutely nothing like it.
But even now, grabbing nuts or lunch at Buc-ee’s still doesn’t quite hit the same emotional note as buying a bag of snakes before heading down the highway in Australia.
Part of that is because the lollies here just aren’t the same. The snakes are too sweet. Even the Cadbury chocolate tastes different because the version sold here is British Cadbury, not Australian Cadbury. You don’t realise how specific your memories are until you try to recreate them somewhere else.
I’ve spoken before about how living overseas slowly changes the way you think, sound and even remember home, the below video is a great example of that.
Care Packages Mean More Than You’d Think
Care packages from Australia hit differently when you live overseas.
Nikki’s mum sends boxes over for us and the girls, usually packed with Australian food, little gifts, chocolates, random surprises… and somehow it always feels bigger than just “stuff.”
One year my old workplace in Australia sent us a huge Christmas box filled with Australian snacks, games, soccer balls, all sorts of things.
It honestly felt like someone had posted a piece of Australia directly to our front door.
And for the girls, it’s not even necessarily the food they love most.
It’s knowing that Nanna packed it.
That connection matters.
I will admit though that they always beat me to the Caramello Koalas, they barely last a few days.
Australian Bakeries Overseas Are Usually Disappointing
This might upset a few people, but Australian bakeries overseas are almost always disappointing.
We’ve been to Australian bakeries in America — including one in Atlanta that’s pretty good — but it’s still not quite the same.
There’s also an Australian-owned café near us in Tennessee that sells meat pies and sausage rolls.
Again… not even close to home.
The funny thing is, the first thing I want when I land back in Australia isn’t anything fancy.
It’s a bakery stop.
A sausage roll.
A meat pie.
A vanilla slice.
And an iced coffee Dare.
That’s home.
I make my own sausage rolls here now because sometimes it’s easier than trying to recreate the feeling through substitutes. We buy Jamaican meat pies and chicken pasties occasionally too, and while they’re definitely not Australian pies, they scratch a similar itch. Close enough becomes an important concept when you live overseas.
Because in some ways, that’s exactly what living overseas feels like yourself. You slowly become a mix of places.
The Small Things Matter More Than You Expect
I think that’s the biggest surprise about moving overseas.
Home stops being one giant thing.
It becomes little things.
A jar of Vegemite in the cupboard.
A care package from family.
A bag of snakes before a road trip.
A bakery stop after a long flight.
A phrase your kids still say with an Australian accent.
Tiny things that remind you who you were before life got complicated.
And maybe that’s why Australians overseas hold onto those small comforts so tightly. Because sometimes the smallest things are the ones that make a place feel like home again.
If you enjoy these Australia vs America reflections, I also talk about them regularly over on the podcast and YouTube channel:
If you ask an Australian what a bogan is, there’s a good chance they’ll immediately say:
“Basically Australia’s version of a redneck.”
And honestly… that’s not completely wrong.
A bogan is usually someone seen as rough around the edges, loud, proudly uncultured, and deeply committed to their own style regardless of what society thinks about it.
But like most Australian things, it’s a bit more complicated than that.
Because in Australia, “bogan” can be:
an insult
a joke
a personality type
or something people weirdly become proud of once they hit their 30s.
Especially once winter arrives and half the country suddenly looks like it’s preparing for a camping trip to Bunnings.
The easiest way to explain a bogan to Americans is this:
Imagine someone who:
drinks energy drinks like water
owns at least one pair of thongs specifically for the servo
thinks a loud exhaust adds horsepower
and has definitely said “yeah nah” during a serious conversation.
That’s roughly the territory we’re working with.
There’s also a decent chance they:
own a Holden Commodore
wear a flanno year-round
have strong opinions about meat pies
and know someone named “Dazza.”
And before Australians start yelling at me…
Yes, women can absolutely be bogans too.
Women Can Be Bogans Too
Important clarification here: bogans are not exclusively blokes.
Australia has produced many female bogans over the years too.
Usually identified by:
oversized sunglasses
aggressively highlighted hair
iced coffee
and the ability to yell across an entire carpark without moving.
There’s also a strong chance of seeing:
fake leopard print somewhere
a cigarette being held with deep emotional commitment
and at least one sentence beginning with:
“Listen here, hun…”
Growing Up Around Bogans
I grew up on the south coast of NSW in a town called Nowra, which Australians would politely describe as “a bit bogan.”
And by “a bit bogan,” I mean there was a decent chance of seeing:
someone doing laps of the main street for three straight hours
someone arguing outside Centerlink before 9am
or half the Bomaderry Pub carpark filled with Commodores held together by stickers and optimism.
Australian country towns also have a long tradition where young people simply drive up and down the same street repeatedly for entertainment. (I may have done that myself in my yellow Datsun 180b years ago too).
Which sounds ridiculous now that I say it out loud…
Because Australia has a lot of overlap in clothing.
Tradies wear flannos. Farmers wear flannos. Half of Canberra wears flannos once winter hits.
Wearing one doesn’t automatically make you a bogan.
Otherwise half the country would qualify by July.
My wife loves calling me a bogan because I wear flannos around the house, but honestly, if you’ve spent a winter in Canberra you realise the entire city starts looking like a camping catalogue.
UGG boots everywhere. Flannos everywhere. People scraping ice off their windscreen holding servo coffees the size of paint tins.
Canberra might be Australia’s capital…
…but there’s a strong argument it’s also the flanno capital.
And regional Australia is different again.
You’ll see plenty of farmers in old flannos and muddy boots, but that doesn’t make them bogans. That’s just practical country Australia.
A farmer with an Akubra and an old ute is not the same thing as a bloke doing burnouts outside a kebab shop at midnight while blasting AC/DC through a cracked Bluetooth speaker.
There are levels to this.
To really become a bogan, you’ll be needing some of theseUgg Boots and of course a decent flanelette shirt
Bogans Exist in New Zealand Too
Australians don’t fully own bogan culture either.
New Zealand absolutely has bogans too.
Slightly different flavour… same overall energy.
More likely to involve:
rugby
old Falcons
stubbies
and someone named “Gazza” yelling across a backyard.
Australians and New Zealanders may disagree on many things…
…but both countries can instantly recognise a bloke wearing a flanno carrying a box of beer like it’s an Olympic event.
…but every Australian knows someone who reminds them of her.
Housos is what happens when you turn the dial all the way to maximum.
Australia’s greatest cultural achievement might honestly be our ability to create entire TV shows based around people yelling in thongs outside a servo.
So… Are Bogans Australia’s Version of Rednecks?
Kind of.
But Australian bogans usually feel a bit more suburban than rural.
Less camouflage. More flanno. Less pickup truck. More Holden Commodore with one mismatched door.
And unlike America, Australians tend to joke about bogans constantly — including themselves.
That’s probably the biggest difference.
Deep down, most Australians know they’ve got at least a tiny bit of bogan in them somewhere.
Usually it appears:
at Bunnings
during summer cricket
or while wearing UGG boots to the shops pretending it’s acceptable.
They come as a collection of smaller moments. Things that seem ordinary while they’re happening, then linger afterward. A conversation here. A surprise there. Something familiar appearing in an unexpected place.
That was this week for me.
Not dramatic. Not life-changing.
Just quietly revealing what it actually feels like to live in America as an Australian.
The School Night That Brought Australia to Tennessee
Recently, Georgia and I took part in her school’s very first international night.
Around fifteen countries were represented. Booths from places like Uzbekistan, Samoa, Guatemala, India… and there we were for Australia.
It felt a little surreal standing in a Tennessee school gym representing home.
What We Brought to the Australian Booth
We tried to keep it properly Australian:
Sausage rolls
Vegemite sandwiches
Fairy bread
Tim Tams
Violet Crumble
Amazon has a great assortment of Aussie items these days in the US:
Talking About Australia in the Middle of Tennessee
What I enjoyed most wasn’t the food.
It was simply standing there and talking about Australia.
Some people had visited. Many wanted to go. Some wanted to discuss cricket.
And that always catches me off guard a bit.
You don’t expect to be having a cricket conversation in Tennessee.
Yet there I was.
That’s one of the lovely things about living overseas — home appears in strange places.
The Unexpected Samoan Moment
At one point I ended up speaking some Samoan with the neighbouring booth.
That took me back instantly to the years I lived there.
Funny how language works like that.
You can go years without using something… then suddenly it returns as if it had only been waiting quietly in the corner.
They were so excited they called their father over because there was “this guy here” who had lived there and could speak the language.
For a moment, Tennessee disappeared.
I was somewhere else entirely.
Identity Carries Weight
Our booth sat next to Belgium.
The couple running it weren’t actually Belgian.
She was from Belarus, but with everything happening in the world, she didn’t feel comfortable representing that nationality publicly right now.
So they chose Belgium.
That stayed with me.
Because where you’re from can carry more emotional weight than people realise. Sometimes pride. Sometimes pain. Even complexity.
Identity isn’t always simple.
Bluey, Bingo and Vegemite Reactions
Georgia disappeared quickly once her friends arrived, which felt extremely on-brand for a child whose father was left doing passport duties for hundreds of children.
We also had Bluey and Bingo there.
That may have been the most popular part of the entire booth.
And surprisingly, plenty of people liked the Vegemite.
Though not everyone.
There were still a few faces that suggested immediate regret, followed by a quiet search for the nearest bin.
There are certain things you don’t realise are uniquely Australian… until you leave.
Chicken salt is one of them.
It’s not something you think about growing up. It just exists — on hot chips at the local takeaway, shaken over a roast chook from the supermarket, sitting quietly next to the vinegar bottle like it’s always been there.
Then you move overseas… and suddenly it’s gone.
You can find just about anything in the US if you look hard enough — but chicken salt isn’t one of them. Not really. Not the way we know it.
And it’s strange how something so small ends up carrying a bit of home with it.
What Is Chicken Salt?
Chicken salt is a seasoned salt blend that’s become a staple across Australia — especially on hot chips.
Despite the name, it’s not always about chicken. It’s about flavour.
Salty, savoury, slightly smoky… and just enough depth that plain chips suddenly feel like something more.
Every shop does it slightly differently. Every Aussie has a version they swear by.
This is a simple, classic blend — the kind that gets you close to what you remember.
