From Down Under to Down South

Tag: Living in America

  • Why Australians Don’t Tip Like Americans

    Why Australians Don’t Tip Like Americans

    AUSTRALIA EXPLAINED

    Australians aren’t opposed to tipping. We just have a very different idea of when someone deserves one. After living in America, I’ve learned to navigate the rules. Well, most of them.

    I have lived here for eight years, and I still occasionally find myself standing in front of a payment terminal wondering whether I’m supposed to tip the person on the other side of the counter.

    Restaurants? Easy.

    Bars? No problem.

    The barber? I’ve got that one sorted.

    But the person handing me a takeaway bag?

    The bloke who delivered my furniture?

    Apparently, somebody even tips their chiropractor.

    At this rate, I’m beginning to wonder whether I should be tipping the woman who checks my receipt at Costco.

    Tipping is one of those cultural differences between Australia and America that seems relatively straightforward until you actually have to navigate it.

    Australians do tip. I’ve done it myself, both as a customer and during my years working in hospitality.

    The difference is that, traditionally, Australians have viewed tipping as a reward for particularly good service. In America, especially in full-service restaurants, it’s an established part of the transaction.

    After living on both sides of the Pacific, I’ve come to appreciate certain aspects of the American approach. Others still leave me scratching my head.

    restaurant bill showing tip
    After eight years in America, I’ve worked out most of the tipping rules. Most of them.

    Australians Do Tip. Just Not the Way Americans Do.

    Growing up in Australia, tipping was never something my family automatically did.

    I remember occasionally going to restaurants where my parents would leave something extra because the service had been particularly good.

    They’d comment on how well the server had looked after us and say they deserved a tip.

    That was the reasoning behind it.

    Someone had done a great job, so you gave them a little extra to show your appreciation.

    It was also something I only remember happening when we were eating in at restaurants.

    We weren’t tipping the person who handed us a takeaway order, the person making our coffee or someone who performed an everyday service.

    You paid the advertised price, and that was generally the end of the transaction.

    But I think there’s a misconception that Australians simply don’t tip.

    Having spent years working as a chef in Australia, I can tell you that tipping was very much a thing in the restaurants where I worked.

    At one restaurant, the tips went exclusively to the front-of-house staff. At another, more upmarket establishment, they were shared with the kitchen as well.

    The amounts weren’t usually substantial, but occasionally we’d have a particularly good night.

    I remember diners leaving unexpectedly large tips and the staff being genuinely blown away.

    It was a lovely surprise.

    The important distinction was that nobody expected it.

    We weren’t standing around calculating what percentage of the evening’s sales we should receive from customers.

    If someone left a tip, fantastic. If they didn’t, that was perfectly normal too.

    Why Australian Restaurant Workers Don’t Depend on Tips

    Part of the explanation lies in how hospitality workers are paid.

    Australia has a system of minimum wages and industry awards that establish legally enforceable pay rates and working conditions.

    Under the Restaurant Industry Award, employees are entitled to minimum rates determined by factors including their classification and employment status. Additional payments can apply for evening work, weekends, public holidays and overtime.

    As of July 2026, Australia’s national minimum wage is A$26.44 an hour, although restaurant employees may be entitled to different rates under their applicable award.

    The important point isn’t the precise hourly figure.

    It’s that an Australian restaurant worker’s legal minimum wage isn’t dependent on whether I decide to leave an extra ten dollars after dinner.

    That doesn’t mean every hospitality worker in Australia is financially comfortable. The cost of living is a very real issue, and hospitality can involve long hours, difficult customers and physically demanding work.

    I spent enough time in commercial kitchens to know that it’s not an easy way to earn a living.

    But the wage structure is different.

    In Australia, tipping is generally additional income rather than a mechanism employers use to meet their minimum wage obligations.

    And that helps explain why the social expectation surrounding tipping developed differently.

    Chef during service in a restaurant
    Having worked in Australian restaurants, I’ve seen tips distributed in different ways.

    Why Tipping Matters So Much More in America

    Before moving to America, I already knew tipping was a big part of the culture.

    That wasn’t a surprise.

    What I wasn’t entirely sure about was how much to tip and, perhaps more importantly, who I was supposed to tip.

    I Googled it. I asked American friends.

    Eventually, I worked out the basics.

    But understanding why tipping is so firmly established requires looking at how American hospitality workers are paid.

    Under federal law, employers can pay eligible tipped employees a direct cash wage of just $2.13 an hour, provided their wages and tips together meet the applicable minimum wage.

    The federal minimum wage is $7.25 an hour. If tips don’t bring an employee’s earnings up to that required minimum, the employer must make up the difference.

    Here in Tennessee, those federal figures apply to covered tipped employees.

    That doesn’t mean every American server earns $2.13 an hour, or that $7.25 represents what servers typically take home.

    America’s wage arrangements vary considerably by state, employer and individual worker.

    Washington, for example, requires employers to pay the full state minimum wage before tips. In 2026, that statewide minimum is $17.13 an hour.

    Yet tipping remains a familiar part of restaurant culture in states with very different wage systems.

    So while wages help explain why tipping matters, they aren’t the entire explanation.

    Tipping has also become an established social custom. And once a custom becomes that deeply embedded, changing it isn’t necessarily as simple as changing the wage structure.

    Does Tipping Actually Produce Better Service?

    Here’s where my experience might surprise some Australians.

    I think tipping can encourage better service.

    Having spent years living in America, I’ve noticed a considerable difference between the restaurant service I experience here and what I’ve experienced in Australia.

    American servers are often incredibly attentive.

    They greet you when you arrive, explain the menu, check whether everything is going well and make sure your drinks are topped up.

    Sometimes they’re a little too attentive.

    There are occasions when I’d quite like to finish chewing before being asked whether everything is tasting fantastic.

    But generally speaking, I appreciate the effort.

    When we visited Australia last year, the difference was particularly noticeable.

    At several establishments, we weren’t greeted when we arrived. We had to ask for menus, waited a long time to be served and sometimes struggled to get someone’s attention when we wanted the bill.

    Not everywhere, of course.

    Australia has some wonderful restaurants and exceptional hospitality professionals.

    But across a number of dining experiences during that trip, the service felt noticeably more relaxed than what we’d become accustomed to in America.

    Whether tipping itself causes that difference is a more complicated question.

    Restaurant culture, staffing, management and customer expectations all influence service.

    What I can say is that, from my own experience, the American system often seems to encourage a level of attentiveness that I appreciate. Although perhaps we could find a happy medium somewhere between being completely ignored and having someone ask how my meal is going every four minutes.

    Restaurant server attending to customers at a table in an American restaurant.
    American restaurant service often feels more attentive to me, although occasionally I’d like to finish a mouthful before the next check-in.

    The Steakhouse Waitress Who Absolutely Deserved Her Tip

    One of my favourite examples of American hospitality happened at a steakhouse.

    I can’t remember which restaurant it was, but I certainly remember the waitress.

    We were dining with our daughters, who were being a little fussy about what they wanted.

    She was incredibly accommodating.

    Nothing seemed too much trouble. She was quick with the drinks, attentive throughout the meal and genuinely friendly.

    It wasn’t simply that she performed her job efficiently.

    It was how she made us feel.

    We felt welcome, comfortable and looked after.

    She received a substantial tip.

    That’s the kind of experience that reminds me why I appreciate having the opportunity to reward someone for exceptional service.

    Interestingly, it’s exactly the same thinking I remember from growing up in Australia.

    The difference is that, in America, I’m also expected to tip when the service is merely adequate.

    And even when it’s downright awful, I find it difficult not to leave something.

    I Once Left a Tip After Some Truly Terrible Service

    I don’t think I’ve ever left an American restaurant without tipping.

    But I have certainly reduced the amount.

    One experience at a Cracker Barrel in Knoxville comes to mind.

    The server was rude, our order was wrong, everything took forever, and there was virtually no attention throughout the meal.

    It was a thoroughly unpleasant dining experience.

    I still left a tip, although considerably less than usual.

    For particularly poor service, I’ve sometimes left 10% or simply five dollars.

    My normal approach is around 20%, often with a little rounding.

    If the bill comes to $152 and the service has been good, I might round the total up to $190.

    If it hasn’t been particularly good, I might make it $180.

    It’s not a complicated mathematical formula.

    I’m simply acknowledging the quality of the experience.

    But this is one of the tensions in American tipping culture.

    I understand that servers may depend heavily on tips to earn a living.

    At the same time, I don’t think customers should feel obligated to reward genuinely poor service at exactly the same level as exceptional service.

    That’s a difficult balance.

    And it becomes even more complicated when you consider how much individual servers can earn.

    Some American Servers Make Serious Money From Tips

    Living in Nashville, I’ve had conversations with bartenders working on Broadway.

    Some have told me they can make between $1,000 and $2,000 a week in tips.

    That’s a substantial amount of money.

    Of course, Broadway is a particularly busy entertainment district, and those figures are what individual bartenders have told me about their own experiences. They’re not representative of every bartender in Nashville, let alone America.

    The people I’ve spoken to described it as hard work, but they also enjoyed the atmosphere.

    They were young, loved the rush of the job and enjoyed the social side of working in such a lively environment.

    For them, tipping could be financially rewarding.

    But I’ve also spoken to hospitality workers in quieter establishments who tell a very different story.

    Some struggle to make ends meet and need multiple jobs to cover their rent and living expenses.

    That’s the difficulty with a system where a significant portion of someone’s earnings can depend on customer traffic and generosity.

    A busy Saturday night on Broadway can look very different from a quiet Tuesday afternoon in a suburban restaurant.

    It also explains why I’m not convinced there’s a simple answer to the question of whether America should eliminate tipping and replace it with higher wages.

    Some workers may prefer the predictability of a higher guaranteed wage.

    Others may value the earning potential of tips.

    The experiences I’ve heard certainly aren’t all the same.

    A bar on Broadway in Nashville
    Broadway bars are great places to earn tips, but you’ll work for it

    When Did Everyone Start Asking for a Tip?

    This is where American tipping culture starts to lose me.

    I’m perfectly comfortable tipping at restaurants and bars.

    I’ve become accustomed to tipping my barber.

    But I don’t understand why I’m increasingly being presented with tipping options for services that involve little more than handing me something I’ve already paid for.

    Take Starbucks.

    I use the drive-through, order my coffee, and eventually reach the payment window.

    The employee hands me the payment terminal.

    Then comes the familiar line.

    “It’s just going to ask you a question there.”

    I know what the question is.

    You know what the question is.

    The payment terminal certainly knows what the question is.

    Would I like to leave a tip?

    No, thank you.

    I’m not suggesting that making coffee doesn’t involve work or skill. Of course it does.

    But I’ve already paid for the coffee.

    If I’m collecting takeaway and someone simply walks a bag from the kitchen to the front counter, I don’t understand why that transaction should automatically involve a gratuity.

    To me, that’s the service I purchased.

    Apparently, I’m not alone in noticing how widespread tipping requests have become.

    A 2023 Pew Research Center survey found that 72% of US adults believed tipping was expected in more places than it had been five years earlier.

    Research reference: Pew Research Center, How Americans See the Norms and Practices of Tipping (2023) .

    That distinction matters.

    It’s not simply Australians arriving in America and struggling to understand the rules.

    Americans themselves are navigating a tipping culture that can feel increasingly complicated.

    Digital payment terminal displaying suggested tip percentages at a coffee shop counter.
    The familiar payment terminal question. Sometimes I feel like it’s following me everywhere.

    Eight Years Later, I’m Still Not Sure Who I’m Supposed to Tip

    When we moved to America, our furniture took three months to arrive by ship from Australia.

    Eventually, a removal company delivered everything and unpacked it.

    That was the service we’d paid for.

    I didn’t tip the removalists.

    At the time, it didn’t even occur to me.

    Now, looking back, I sometimes wonder whether I should have.

    Were they expecting a tip?

    Did I commit some terrible American social offence without realising it?

    I genuinely don’t know.

    Then somebody recently told me they tip their chiropractor.

    Their chiropractor!

    I’ve never done that.

    Suddenly, I found myself questioning another perfectly ordinary transaction.

    This is what I find most confusing about American tipping culture.

    There are situations where the expectations are clear, and then there are others where you seem to need an instruction manual.

    Restaurants, bars and barbers? Sorted.

    Furniture delivery and chiropractors?

    Apparently, I’m still learning.

    Why I Think Australians Should Tip When Visiting America

    Despite my occasional frustration with the system, I think Australians visiting America should follow the local tipping customs.

    It’s part of visiting another country.

    When you travel, you encounter different expectations, traditions and ways of doing things.

    I’ve lived in several countries, including Samoa and New Zealand, and I’ve learned that respecting local customs is an important part of adapting to a different culture.

    You don’t walk into a Samoan fale and insist on keeping your shoes on simply because that’s what you might do at home.

    Likewise, the Māori hongi, a traditional greeting involving the touching of noses, is something to approach respectfully when invited to participate.

    Different cultures have different expectations.

    Tipping in America is another example.

    You don’t have to agree with every aspect of the system to recognise that the person serving your dinner didn’t create it.

    Refusing to tip a restaurant server because you disagree with American wage structures isn’t going to change those structures.

    It may simply leave that individual worker worse off.

    My approach is to follow the established customs where I live while reserving the right to question the increasingly inventive places where tipping requests appear.

    I think that’s a reasonable compromise.

    Would I Want American Tipping Culture in Australia?

    Not really.

    Australia already has a wage structure designed to ensure employees receive a legally enforceable minimum payment for their work.

    I don’t see a compelling reason to replace the traditional Australian approach with an expectation that customers routinely add another percentage to their restaurant bills.

    That doesn’t mean tipping should disappear.

    Far from it.

    I like being able to reward someone who makes an evening special.

    I remember how much an unexpectedly generous tip could mean when I worked in Australian kitchens.

    But I’d rather it remain a genuine gesture of appreciation than become something customers feel obliged to do every time they encounter a payment terminal.

    And there’s another aspect of the American system that bothers me.

    Restaurant prices have increased considerably during my time living here, at least in the places my family frequents.

    Yet the expectation to tip remains.

    Because tips are often calculated as a percentage of the bill, higher menu prices also mean a larger tip in dollar terms, even when the percentage doesn’t change.

    A 20% tip on a $100 meal is $20.

    If that same meal costs $150, the tip becomes $30.

    That’s a substantial difference when you’re taking a family out for dinner.

    I’m not opposed to paying for good service.

    I simply think the total cost of dining out is worth considering when discussing how much customers should be expected to contribute.

    Perhaps the Biggest Difference Isn’t Generosity at all

    After eight years in America, tipping has become a fairly normal part of my life.

    I generally leave around 20% in restaurants. I’ll happily leave more when someone provides outstanding service.

    I also understand that many American hospitality workers depend on tips in a way that Australian workers generally don’t.

    But I still think about those childhood restaurant visits in Australia.

    When my family left a tip, it was because somebody had made the experience special.

    Nobody had to calculate a percentage.

    Nobody felt pressured by a payment terminal.

    It was simply a way of saying thank you.

    That’s what I liked about the Australian approach, and it’s still what I appreciate most about tipping in America.

    When someone goes out of their way to make my family feel welcome, I’m more than happy to acknowledge it.

    Just don’t ask me to tip the chiropractor. I’m still trying to work that one out.

    Enjoy reading about life in America through Australian eyes?

    If you’ve enjoyed this article and feel like leaving a tip, you can buy me a coffee. Completely optional, of course. I’m Australian.

  • What Tennessee Lost When Dolly Parton Died

    What Tennessee Lost When Dolly Parton Died

    THIS WEEK IN AMERICA

    There are famous people whose deaths you hear about.

    Then there are the ones you feel.

    Dolly Parton died on August 25, and here in Tennessee, you could feel it almost immediately.

    It wasn’t simply another celebrity death appearing on television screens and social media feeds. People were crying. Flowers appeared outside her home. Schools found their own ways to remember her. Radio stations played her music. Conversations that normally had nothing to do with country music somehow ended up being about Dolly.

    I cried too.

    That surprised me a little.

    I knew she’d been unwell. Only days earlier I’d watched an interview with her. She still looked happy. She still sounded like Dolly. There was nothing about it that made me think I was watching one of the final interviews she would ever give.

    Then she was gone.

    Over the next few days, I watched Tennessee react to losing someone who had been part of this state for generations.

    And I began to understand that people here weren’t simply mourning a famous country singer.

    They were mourning something much closer to home.

    Our family at Dollywood in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, with the Smoky Mountains in the background.
    A family trip to Dollywood in Pigeon Forge. Living in Tennessee changed the way I came to understand Dolly Parton and her connection to this part of the state.

    Dolly Was Different in Tennessee

    I grew up in Australia, so Dolly Parton existed in my life long before Tennessee did.

    She was already one of those people who seemed permanently famous.

    The hair.

    The rhinestones.

    The voice.

    The jokes.

    The songs everybody somehow knew, even if they claimed they didn’t listen to country music.

    But living in Tennessee changed the way I saw her.

    Celebrity looks different when you live close enough to see the fingerprints someone has left behind.

    I’ve been to Dollywood several times. What always struck me about the place wasn’t simply that Dolly Parton owned a theme park.

    Plenty of famous people can put their name on something.

    Dollywood feels connected to the place that made her.

    There are craftsmen, music, old Appalachian traditions, reminders of mountain life and pieces of a culture that could very easily have been polished away in the name of creating something newer and shinier.

    Dolly became one of the most recognisable women on Earth without ever appearing remotely embarrassed by the mountains she came from.

    Quite the opposite.

    She took them with her.

    I think that’s one of the things I came to admire most about her.

    Success didn’t seem to require pretending she had come from somewhere else.

    I’ve even been eyeing a Dolly Parton TIME cover poster for the wall of my studio. Eight years ago, I’m not sure that would ever have occurred to me. Now it feels strangely appropriate.

    The Dolly Parton You Heard About Around Town

    Living around Nashville also means occasionally meeting people whose worlds have crossed with people you’ve only ever seen on television.

    Over the years I’ve met several people who knew Dolly.

    One woman had worked as her videographer.

    When Dolly came up in conversation, she described someone remarkably similar to the public version the rest of us knew.

    Funny.

    Sassy.

    Energetic.

    Caring.

    That always stayed with me because celebrity reputations often become considerably less impressive the closer you get to them.

    Dolly’s seemed to work the other way.

    There’s even an antique store not far from where we live where the owner has a photograph of herself with her. Apparently she used to drop in and browse.

    That image of Dolly somehow feels more Tennessee to me than a red carpet ever could.

    Dolly Parton, international superstar, wandering around an antique store.

    Yep.

    That really fits.

    A few years ago, when I was working as a bank manager in Franklin, Tennessee, I saw another side of her that I’ve never forgotten.

    Occasionally, checks would appear.

    They had Dolly Parton’s signature on them.

    Sometimes they were for $10,000.

    Sometimes $20,000.

    They were going to ordinary families who were struggling.

    There wasn’t a television crew standing beside them.

    Or an oversized novelty check.

    There wasn’t a press conference explaining what a wonderful person Dolly Parton was.

    Someone needed help.

    She helped.

    Working in banking meant I obviously couldn’t go home and start telling everybody whose accounts I’d seen. But I remember looking at those checks and thinking about how extraordinary it would be to have reached a point in life where you could quietly alter the course of someone else’s life.

    More importantly, it made me think about what I was doing with mine.

    That’s a fairly impressive legacy for a piece of paper.

    Carnton historic home in Franklin, Tennessee.
    Carnton in Franklin, Tennessee. It was while working as a bank manager in Franklin that I caught a small glimpse of Dolly Parton’s quiet generosity.

    Tennessee Didn’t Mourn Her Like a Celebrity

    In the days after Dolly died, I began noticing something interesting about the way Tennessee responded.

    There were certainly the expected tributes.

    Pink.

    Boots.

    Sparkles.

    Music.

    But there was something underneath all of that.

    Schools across Middle Tennessee encouraged children to wear pink or western clothes, bring books and perform acts of kindness. At Gladeville Middle School, students were invited to take part in a “What Would Dolly Do?” kindness challenge.

    At my daughters’ school, the principal spoke to the children over the loudspeaker.

    She asked them to honour Dolly through kindness.

    Not by listening to one of her records.

    Not by finding the biggest blonde wig in Tennessee.

    Kindness.

    Of everything they could have chosen to represent her, that’s what they chose.

    Meanwhile, mourners gathered outside Dolly’s Brentwood home in such numbers that flowers, signs and balloons accumulated around the property and police eventually had to manage traffic in the area.

    This wasn’t simply Tennessee saying goodbye to someone famous.

    It felt much more like people saying goodbye to someone they believed belonged to them.

    Or perhaps someone they believed they belonged to.

    There’s a difference.

    Tennessee tribute to Dolly Parton following her death in August 2026.
    Dolly Parton’s house in Brentwood Tennessee

    Then I Started Thinking About Mum

    My mum loved Dolly.

    She had her albums.

    One of my earliest memories of Dolly Parton’s music is Coat of Many Colors.

    I remember hearing it as a boy in Australia.

    More specifically, I remember Mum singing it.

    There were times when we didn’t have much money either.

    Mum worked hard. She loved horses, the country and life on the land. Given the opportunity, I think she would happily have disappeared onto a property somewhere with several horses and reappeared only when somebody reminded her she had children.

    There were parts of Dolly’s story that I think Mum understood instinctively.

    So when Dolly died, all those old memories suddenly came rushing back.

    My mum died four years ago.

    Grief does something strange after enough time has passed.

    It stops occupying the whole room.

    You learn to live around it.

    Days go by.

    Then weeks.

    You work. Take the kids to school. You complain about the electricity bill. You wonder why nobody in the house except you appears capable of replacing an empty toilet roll.

    Life resumes its normal nonsense.

    Then something completely unexpected opens a door you didn’t know was still there.

    A song.

    A smell.

    A photograph.

    Or apparently, the death of Dolly Parton.

    Suddenly I wasn’t only thinking about the woman Tennessee had lost.

    I was thinking about the woman I’d lost too.

    My mum helping her granddaughter Georgia sit on her horse in Australia.
    Mum helping Georgia onto a horse. She loved horses, the country and life on the land. I think there were parts of Dolly’s story she understood.

    A Song Somehow Travelled 9,000 Miles With Me

    The strange part is where life eventually took me.

    Imagine explaining this to the little Australian boy listening to his mum singing Coat of Many Colors.

    One day you’ll move to America.

    Not just America.

    Tennessee.

    You’ll visit the Smoky Mountains that Dolly sang about.

    Go to Dollywood.

    You’ll meet people who knew her.

    Even see small evidence of things she did for people when nobody was watching.

    Then decades after first hearing those songs on the other side of the world, you’ll be living just outside Nashville when Tennessee wakes to the news that Dolly Parton is gone.

    Life is ridiculous sometimes.

    We talk about migration in terms of places.

    I moved from Australia to America.

    That’s geographically true.

    But I’m increasingly convinced that when you move countries, you don’t leave one life behind and start another.

    You carry bits of the old one with you.

    Songs.

    Expressions.

    Memories.

    People.

    Most of the time they sit quietly in the background.

    Then something happens in your new home that suddenly reaches all the way back into your old one.

    For me, Dolly Parton became one of those bridges.

    A woman from the mountains of East Tennessee was part of my childhood in Australia because my mum loved her music.

    Decades later, East Tennessee became part of my own life.

    I don’t know that I could have written a more unlikely circle if I’d tried.

    I talked about that strange connection between Dolly, Tennessee and Mum on This Week in America. You can hear the original story below.

    Maybe That’s Why Dolly Meant So Much

    I’ve joked for years that if aliens ever arrive and demand to meet someone who represents humanity, we shouldn’t send a politician.

    Send Dolly Parton.

    Give her twenty minutes.

    We’ll probably be fine.

    It’s a joke, obviously.

    Mostly.

    But there’s a reason it works.

    Dolly managed something that’s becoming increasingly difficult.

    People who disagreed about almost everything seemed capable of liking her.

    She had her own beliefs, but she never seemed interested in turning every interaction into a test of whether you shared them.

    Dolly was deeply rooted in her faith and her culture without expecting everybody else to be exactly like her. She could make fun of herself without diminishing herself, and become extraordinarily successful without pretending she’d achieved it alone.

    Perhaps most remarkably, after making enormous amounts of money, she still seemed to notice people who didn’t have much.

    That’s much rarer than a good singing voice.

    Her Imagination Library has also put hundreds of millions of free books into the hands of children, an extraordinary extension of something Tennessee families had known about her for decades: she cared deeply about where she came from and believed success carried some responsibility to give something back.

    Dollywood has already announced that it intends to preserve that philosophy as it develops tributes to her legacy, including places for reflection and new experiences built around dreaming, storytelling and kindness.

    That seems right.

    Because I don’t think Dolly Parton’s most important legacy is Jolene.

    Or 9 to 5.

    Or even I Will Always Love You.

    It’s certainly not the wigs.

    Although, fair play, that’s a fairly substantial body of work on its own.

    I think her real legacy is much simpler.

    She came from very little.

    Achieved almost everything.

    She never seemed to become embarrassed by the people or the place she came from.

    And somewhere along the way, she made a lot of people want to be a little kinder.

    That’s not bad for one life.

    Goodbye, Dolly

    Tennessee feels a little different without her.

    I imagine it will for quite some time.

    For me, though, her death will always be connected to something more personal.

    I’ll think about Mum singing Dolly’s songs in Australia.

    About growing up without much money.

    I’ll think about horses and country life and those records playing when I was a boy.

    About the absurd route that eventually brought me from there to here.

    And perhaps that’s one of the gifts music gives us.

    It attaches itself to people.

    We think we’re remembering a song when we’re actually remembering a kitchen, a car, a childhood, a parent or a version of ourselves that disappeared years ago.

    Dolly Parton belonged to Tennessee.

    But somehow, a little piece of her belonged to my mum too.

    I hope wherever they both are, Mum finally gets to see the concert.

    Knowing Mum, she’ll probably want decent seats.

    Gatlinburg, Tennessee, at sunset in the Great Smoky Mountains.
    Gatlinburg, Tennessee, at sunset. Somehow the mountains Dolly sang about became part of my life too.

    If you enjoy these stories about life in America through Australian eyes, you can help support From Down Under to Down South with a coffee. Every coffee helps me keep writing, recording and sharing the stories I find along the way. Thank you for being here.

  • Americans Have a Hidden Superpower: Encouragement

    Americans Have a Hidden Superpower: Encouragement

    One of the things I’ve come to appreciate most after eight years in the United States is American encouragement. There are obvious ways living in another country changes you, but this was one change I didn’t notice happening.

    Your vocabulary changes. Your tastes change. You learn new customs and eventually stop noticing things that once seemed strange.

    Then there are the changes you don’t notice happening.

    It took me years to realize America had changed the way I respond when someone tells me they want to do something with their life.

    These days, my first instinct is usually to encourage them.

    That might not sound particularly remarkable. Surely people encourage each other everywhere right?

    Of course they do.

    But there is a particular kind of optimism I’ve encountered in America that feels different from the culture I grew up with in Australia. It’s an optimism that seems willing to give an idea the benefit of the doubt before demanding evidence that it will work.

    Someone wants to start a business.

    Someone wants to go back to college in middle age.

    Someone wants to make a living doing something they’ve only ever done as a hobby.

    The American response I’ve heard countless times is remarkably simple.

    Why not?

    Optimism and Practicality Aren’t Opposites

    Australians aren’t inherently pessimistic, despite what Americans might conclude after spending enough time with us.

    We can, however, be very good at keeping each other grounded.

    I think there is value in that.

    A friend announces an ambitious plan and the questions begin. Have you thought about the money? What happens if it doesn’t work? Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?

    Often those questions are an expression of care.

    You don’t want someone you love making an enormous mistake, so you start looking for the holes in the plan.

    I’ve done it plenty of times myself.

    What I’ve found interesting about America is that many people ask those questions too. They just don’t necessarily ask them first.

    First comes the encouragement.

    Then comes reality.

    It seems like a small distinction, but I’m increasingly convinced it isn’t.

    The first response someone receives to an idea can determine whether the conversation that follows is about making it happen or explaining why it can’t.

    America Has a High Tolerance for Reinvention

    Maybe one reason encouragement feels so natural here is that reinvention is everywhere.

    I’ve met people who have changed careers several times. People who went back to school decades after leaving it. People who moved hundreds of miles to take an opportunity. People who turned side projects into businesses.

    In a country this large and mobile, starting again doesn’t always carry the sense that something has gone wrong.

    Sometimes starting again is the plan.

    That matters.

    If you’ve grown up surrounded by stories of people changing direction, somebody announcing a new ambition doesn’t necessarily sound ridiculous. It sounds familiar.

    America’s national mythology probably plays a part too.

    The country’s stories are filled with reinvention, invention and improbable ambition. Some of those stories have been polished considerably in the retelling, of course. Opportunity has never been distributed equally, and wanting something badly enough certainly doesn’t guarantee you’ll get it.

    Still, cultural stories matter.

    A society that spends generations telling itself that people can build, move, invent, create and begin again is probably going to produce a lot of people whose instinctive response to a new idea is:

    Give it a shot.

    I’ve Watched This With My Own Children

    Having children in America has made the difference much more noticeable to me.

    When a child expresses an ambition here, adults often take it surprisingly seriously.

    Not seriously in the sense that every childhood dream is treated as a future certainty.

    Seriously enough to ask what the next step might be.

    My daughter Georgia is ten and loves dance. She already has ideas about where that might take her years from now.

    What has struck me isn’t whether those dreams eventually happen. Nobody knows that.

    It’s the response from the adults around her.

    The dream isn’t immediately reduced to something more “realistic.”

    Instead, people help her learn.

    They expose her to people further along the path.

    They allow her to imagine herself doing it.

    Eventually life will provide plenty of reality. There will be auditions, competition, disappointment, money, ability, timing and all the other things that determine where a dream ultimately goes.

    She doesn’t need adults manufacturing those obstacles years in advance.

    I’ve come to appreciate that enormously.

    Encouraging a child to pursue something isn’t the same as promising she’ll achieve it.

    It’s telling her the possibility is worth exploring.

    Young dancer performing on stage in Tennessee
    Watching my daughter grow up in America has made me notice how readily people here encourage a child’s ambitions.

    The Internet Made the Difference Even More Obvious

    Becoming a creator gave me another perspective on this.

    Putting something you’ve made in front of strangers is an excellent way to discover just how vulnerable ambition can make you feel.

    You’re effectively announcing:

    I made this.

    I think it’s worth your time.

    I’d like to make more of it.

    There are countless reasons to convince yourself not to do that.

    Yet some of the most encouraging messages I’ve received since starting From Down Under to Down South have come from Americans who have absolutely no reason to care whether I succeed.

    They don’t know me personally.

    Many stumbled across one video by accident.

    Yet they’ll leave a comment telling me to keep going, congratulate me on a milestone or tell me they hope the channel becomes much bigger.

    I’ve always found that generosity fascinating.

    Success can sometimes be treated as a limited resource. If someone else is doing well, there must somehow be less available for everyone else.

    Encouragement operates on the opposite assumption.

    Your success doesn’t diminish mine.

    I can want something good to happen for you without losing anything myself.

    That may be one of the healthiest ideas I’ve absorbed from living here.

    Somewhere Along the Way, America Rubbed Off on Me

    I only noticed the change when I began catching myself doing the same thing.

    Someone tells me they’re considering a career change and my brain doesn’t immediately produce a spreadsheet of potential disasters anymore.

    I want to know what they’re thinking.

    Someone talks about creating something and I’m interested in how they might start.

    Someone mentions an ambition that sounds a little unlikely and I don’t feel the same urge to bring it back down to earth.

    There will be time for practical questions.

    What I’ve lost is the assumption that practical and encouraging have to be opposites.

    You can tell someone their idea will require enormous work and still hope they succeed.

    You can point out a risk without making the risk the entire conversation.

    You can think someone’s chances are uncertain and still help improve them.

    Most importantly, you don’t have to believe someone will succeed to believe they deserve the opportunity to try.

    That distinction took me a surprisingly long time to understand.

    I explored this idea from a slightly different angle in this video:

    Maybe Encouragement Is More Important Than We Think

    There is an obvious danger in romanticizing American optimism.

    “Believe in yourself” doesn’t pay the mortgage.

    Not every business should be started. Not every career change is sensible. Sometimes the cautious friend asking uncomfortable questions is exactly the person you need.

    But pessimism has its own cost.

    Ideas can be killed long before reality ever gets the chance.

    People talk themselves out of applying for jobs because they assume somebody better will get them.

    They don’t create something because somebody else already does it.

    They don’t return to school because they think they’re too old.

    They don’t pursue an opportunity because failure would be embarrassing.

    Most adults don’t suffer from a shortage of reasons to doubt themselves.

    We’re remarkably good at producing those on our own.

    Perhaps that’s why I’ve come to value the American instinct to add something different to the conversation.

    Possibility.

    Living in the United States hasn’t made me believe anything is possible.

    Eight years here has taught me enough about America to know that isn’t true.

    What it has changed is my willingness to decide what’s impossible before somebody has even tried.

    These days, when someone tells me about the thing they’d love to do, I’m much less interested in being the first person to explain why it might fail.

    There will be plenty of people available for that job.

    I’d rather be the person who asks:

    Why not you?

    Enjoy From Down Under to Down South?

    If you enjoy seeing America through an Australian’s eyes, you can support my work by buying me a coffee. Every bit of support helps me keep making the videos, podcasts and stories you find here.

  • The Plague Hath Arrived: And Still the Children Want Snacks

    The Plague Hath Arrived: And Still the Children Want Snacks

    Getting sick when you live overseas can make you realise just how much of your old support system you left behind. It’s not simply that your family lives far away. It’s that when something goes wrong, the people who would normally step in and help can’t physically be there.

    Our family discovered that the hard way recently when all four of us got COVID.

    At one point, my wife Nikki and I were both completely wiped out while our two daughters, aged ten and seven, were sick as well. When one parent gets sick, the other can usually pick up the slack. When both parents are sick at the same time, things get considerably more complicated.

    The kids still needed feeding and looking after. There was washing to do, food to organise and a house that somehow continued producing dirty dishes despite nobody having the energy to do anything.

    For the first time in eight years of living in America, I found myself seriously wondering: what are we actually supposed to do if we both get too sick to manage this?

    Cold and flu supplies with tissues, tea, medicine and cough drops on a kitchen table.
    At this point, our kitchen table was starting to look like a small pharmacy.

    Sick Children Have a Remarkable Ability to Recover When There’s Something to Fight About

    Thankfully, our girls are old enough to do some things for themselves. They can get a drink, find a snack and entertain themselves without constant supervision.

    They are not, however, old enough to look after two very sick parents.

    They also demonstrated a fascinating feature of childhood illness. One minute, one of them would be lying on the couch looking miserable and telling us how terrible she felt. Twenty minutes later, both girls would be running around like crazed squirrels fighting over the television remote.

    Apparently COVID symptoms can temporarily disappear when your sister changes the channel.

    Then the fight would end and one of them would return to the couch.

    “Dad, I don’t feel well.”

    Neither did I, but unlike them, I hadn’t just completed a 100 yard dash through the house.

    At one point their continued demands inspired me to write a Shakespearean proclamation for the household:

    A plague hath descended upon this house, and both Mother and Father lie stricken, weak of limb and weary of spirit. Yet the young heirs show no mercy.

    If thou hungerest, seek thee the pantry. If thou thirstest, journey forth unto the kitchen.

    Cry havoc, and let slip the children.

    It summed up the week surprisingly well.

    When Cooking Becomes Too Much Effort

    Food was one of the first things to fall apart.

    We relied on takeaway far more than we normally would because neither of us had the energy to cook. There’s a particular level of sickness where having ingredients in the fridge becomes irrelevant. Chicken and vegetables might technically constitute dinner, but only if someone has enough energy to turn them into dinner.

    We didn’t.

    Delivery drivers became our humanitarian aid workers. Leave the food at the front door, retreat to a safe distance and we’ll retrieve the supplies when able.

    I also managed to place an Instacart grocery order while exhausted and sleep deprived. When it arrived, I started unpacking things I had absolutely no memory of ordering.

    Scallion noodles?

    Apparently so.

    There were several other random purchases that made perfect sense to whichever version of me had been scrolling through Instacart at the time. It was like receiving a grocery order selected by a stranger, except the stranger was me.

    Packages of Momofuku soy and scallion noodles and tingly chili noodles from a mystery Instacart order while sick with COVID.
    Apparently COVID Michael decided we needed several packs of noodles. I have absolutely no memory of ordering them.

    Three Hours of Sleep Felt Like a Luxury Holiday

    Sleep became another problem. I went an extraordinary amount of time without getting any meaningful rest because every time I started drifting off, I would cough or wake up uncomfortable.

    Eventually I ordered sleep gummies from Amazon and paid extra for expedited same-day delivery.

    This was no longer casual online shopping. I needed those gummies.

    Amazon cancelled the delivery.

    Of all the packages to cancel, this felt personal.

    Eventually I remembered that we had some older sleep gummies in the house. They were out of date, which would normally have been enough for me to leave them alone. After that long without sleep, however, the expiration date started looking more like a suggestion.

    They worked.

    I slept for more than three hours in a row and woke up feeling as though I’d just returned from a two-week wellness retreat.

    COVID Cancelled Almost Everything Else

    Being sick gradually made our world smaller.

    The girls missed school.

    Georgia and Brianna missed dance classes.

    There wasn’t really a choice. Sending a child with COVID into a dance studio full of other children would have been a spectacularly bad idea.

    I had to cancel my own ballroom dancing too. There was absolutely no chance I had enough energy for that. I could barely foxtrot to the bathroom.

    Work became difficult for another reason: I had virtually no voice.

    A large part of what I do involves YouTube, podcasting and recording. My computer was sitting there, scripts were ready and there were things I wanted to make, but I couldn’t talk without coughing.

    It’s a strange frustration when you technically have everything you need to work except the physical ability to do it.

    Empty home recording setup with a microphone on a boom arm while illness prevented me from recording YouTube videos and podcasts.
    My microphone sat unused while COVID took away my voice and brought YouTube, podcasting and voice work to a temporary halt.

    Who Do You Call When Both Parents Are Sick?

    At the worst point, I found myself wondering whether there was some kind of government service for families in this situation.

    I genuinely didn’t know.

    What happens if both parents become too sick to properly care for their children? We weren’t at the point where we couldn’t look after ours, but lying there completely exhausted made me wonder what would happen if we got worse.

    Then I realised that if we were living in Canberra, I probably wouldn’t have been thinking about government departments at all.

    We would have called Nikki’s mum.

    She doesn’t live in Canberra, but I know she would have got in the car and driven there to help us.

    That one thought completely changed how I saw the week.

    The Invisible Support System You Leave Behind

    When people talk about emigrating, they usually understand that they’re leaving family and friends behind. You know you’ll miss birthdays and Christmases. You know you won’t be able to simply pop around for dinner.

    What I don’t think I fully understood was that I was also leaving behind a practical support system.

    It’s the person who can pick up your children when you can’t. Someone who brings dinner because they know you’re struggling. A grandparent who can watch the kids for a few hours while you sleep.

    It doesn’t take much.

    If Nikki’s mum had been able to come over, we wouldn’t have expected her to magically fix everything. Just having one healthy adult in the house would have made an enormous difference.

    Someone could deal with the girls while we slept, make some food or simply say, “Go to bed. I’ve got this.”

    After eight years in America, that was one of the rare occasions when the distance between here and Australia felt enormous.

    Family of four smiling together during a trip to Australia.
    Our family together in Australia — a reminder that although we’ve built our life in America, much of the family support network we left behind is still on the other side of the world.

    Technology Can’t Replace Being There

    Living overseas today is easier in many ways than it was a generation ago. We can video call family in Australia, send photos instantly and stay involved in each other’s lives from thousands of miles away.

    But there are limits.

    A video call can’t make dinner. It can’t collect your children from school, go to the shops or sit with the kids while both parents get some desperately needed sleep.

    There are moments when emotional closeness isn’t enough. You need someone physically close enough to show up.

    Friends can absolutely become part of that support network, but asking a friend to enter your COVID-infested house and take care of your sick children is quite an ask.

    Family can be different. Sometimes all you have to say is, “We need help.”

    Our Kids Miss That Proximity Too

    This experience also made me think about something I rarely consider: our daughters are growing up without grandparents nearby.

    They know their grandparents and love them, but they don’t have the everyday version of that relationship where you can simply go to Nan’s for the afternoon or a grandparent can unexpectedly pick you up from school.

    To them, that’s completely normal because it’s the only life they’ve known.

    During sickness though, I didn’t only wish someone could help Nikki and me. I wished there was another healthy adult nearby for the girls.

    They were sick too, despite occasionally transforming into crazed squirrels, and they still needed their parents.

    Unfortunately, their parents were operating at about four percent.

    I Wasn’t Homesick. I Missed Having Backup.

    That was probably the biggest realisation of the whole experience.

    I wasn’t lying in bed wishing we could move back to Australia. I wasn’t dreaming about Canberra, Australian food or the places I used to know.

    America is home. Our lives are here.

    What I missed was having backup.

    There’s a difference.

    You can love the life you’ve built overseas while recognising that there are things you gave up to build it. You can feel completely at home in your new country and still occasionally wish the people who would drop everything to help you lived a little closer.

    Most of the time, I don’t notice the 9,000 miles between us and Australia.

    This time I did.

    Getting sick reminded me that one of the hardest parts of living overseas isn’t necessarily missing home. Sometimes it’s discovering all the things you never realised home used to do for you.

    And I learned one other valuable lesson.

    Never place all your faith in same-day Amazon delivery during a plague.

  • Why American Chinese Food Tastes So Different (An Australian Explains)

    Why American Chinese Food Tastes So Different (An Australian Explains)

    One of the biggest surprises after moving from Australia to America wasn’t the supermarkets, the roads or even the accents.

    It was Chinese food.

    American Chinese food and Australian Chinese food share the same roots, but over more than a century they’ve evolved into two very different cuisines. The dishes, sauces, flavours and even the menus are often completely different.

    After living in America for eight years—and growing up in Australia—I still notice those differences every time I order takeaway.

    And perhaps the strangest part?

    I didn’t expect Chinese food to be one of the things I’d miss most.

    Australian Chinese takeaway containers

    When I first arrived in America, I expected plenty of culture shock.

    The supermarkets.

    The enormous cars.

    The accents.

    The friendliness.

    Chinese food never even crossed my mind.

    Within my first few weeks, I ordered what I thought would be a familiar takeaway dinner.

    Instead, I discovered something I hadn’t expected.

    The flavours were completely different.

    Not bad.

    Just…different.

    It was one of those moments that makes you realise you’ve carried assumptions halfway around the world without knowing it.

    Then I Started Seeing Dishes I’d Only Heard About On TV

    One of the funniest moments was seeing Kung Pao Chicken on an actual menu.

    I’d heard Americans mention it for years in television shows like Friends.

    I honestly wasn’t sure whether it was a real dish or simply one of those American pop culture references I’d never experienced.

    Turns out…

    It’s very real.

    And it’s everywhere.

    Meanwhile, I couldn’t find many of the dishes I’d grown up ordering in Australia.

    Close-up of Kung Pao Chicken
    One of the first dishes that made me realise American Chinese food had its own identity.

    The Australian Chinese Dishes I Miss Most

    Australian Chinese takeaway has become its own cuisine.

    Growing up, these were the dishes I expected to see on almost every menu.

    Honey Chicken is probably the biggest one for me.

    I don’t think I’ve ever found an American version that tastes like the one I grew up eating.

    Even the fried rice surprised me.

    Australian fried rice and American fried rice look different, taste different and have completely different flavour profiles.

    It’s amazing how something as simple as fried rice can instantly remind you which country you’re in.

    Chicken and Ham Roll
    Chicken and Ham rolls are my favourite Aussie Chinese dish

    American Chinese Dishes Australians Rarely Grow Up With

    On the other hand, America has its own classics.

    Some of the dishes that became completely normal here were things I barely remember seeing back home.

    For Americans, these are comfort foods.

    For me, they were entirely new discoveries.

    Beef with Broccoli Chinese meal
    Beef with Broccoli, an American Chinese favourite

    Why They’re So Different

    The interesting part is that neither version is more “correct.”

    Both Australia and America were shaped by different waves of Chinese immigration.

    Chinese cooks adapted recipes using local ingredients and local tastes.

    Australia’s Chinese takeaway culture has deep roots in the Cantonese communities that arrived during the gold rush era. Over generations it became part of suburban Australia, often appearing alongside local pubs and RSL clubs.

    America followed its own path.

    Its Chinese restaurants created dishes specifically for American tastes, producing favourites like General Tso’s Chicken and Orange Chicken.

    In other words…

    Australia didn’t copy America.

    America didn’t copy Australia.

    Both countries created their own version of Chinese takeaway.

    Australian Chinese Restaurant in Nowra Australia
    Leongs Chinese Restaurant in Nowra Australia

    There’s Another Reason I Notice These Differences

    My first job in high school was as a kitchen hand in a Chinese restaurant.

    I washed dishes.

    Helped prepare vegetables.

    Learned how some of the sauces were made.

    Looking back, it became an unexpected stepping stone towards eventually becoming a qualified chef.

    So when I notice differences between Australian and American Chinese food, I’m not just comparing takeaway menus.

    I’ve also spent time behind the scenes watching how one version of that cuisine was prepared.

    Chinese restaurant kitchen
    Chinese Restaurant kitchens are fast paced

    The Moment I Realised What I Actually Missed

    Last year we travelled back to Australia.

    Something funny happened.

    We ate Chinese food more than almost anything else.

    Not because we’d missed Chinese food.

    We’d been eating Chinese food in America for years.

    We’d missed Australian Chinese food.

    The Honey Chicken.

    The fried rice.

    The familiar flavours.

    It wasn’t until we’d been away for years that I realised those Friday-night takeaway dinners had quietly become part of what “home” tasted like.

    Final Thoughts

    Before moving overseas, I expected to miss beaches, family and Australian coffee.

    I never imagined I’d spend years craving Honey Chicken.

    Living in another country has taught me something surprising.

    It’s often the smallest traditions that become the strongest reminders of home.

    Sometimes that’s a favourite bakery.

    Sometimes it’s a supermarket.

    And sometimes…

    It’s the particular way your local Chinese restaurant made fried rice.

    FAQ

    Is American Chinese food authentic?

    American Chinese food is authentic to the Chinese-American communities that created it. Like Australian Chinese food, it evolved over generations using local ingredients and local tastes.

    Why doesn’t American Chinese food taste the same as Australian Chinese food?

    The recipes developed independently for different customers over many decades, resulting in different sauces, dishes and flavours.

    Does Australia have General Tso’s Chicken?

    It’s much less common than in America. Australian Chinese restaurants typically feature different signature dishes.

    What Australian Chinese dishes can’t you usually find in America?

    Honey Chicken, Chicken and Ham Rolls, Australian-style Lemon Chicken and some versions of fried rice are much harder to find.

  • Why Do Australians Say “Mate”? It Doesn’t Always Mean Friend

    Why Do Australians Say “Mate”? It Doesn’t Always Mean Friend

    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.

    Why Living Overseas Changes How You Hear Accents

    But mate never left.

    Mate Doesn’t Mean What Americans Think It Means

    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.

    Australians drinking at the pub
    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.

    Things Americans Think Are Normal (That Still Confuse Me After 8 Years)

    That’s one reason Australians often sound more casual than we actually are.

    The Same Word Can Also Start an Argument

    Of course, Australians have found a way to make the word mean the complete opposite too.

    Tone matters.

    “Thanks, mate.”

    Friendly.

    “Good to see you, mate.”

    Friendly.

    “Listen here, mate…”

    Not friendly.

    Nobody in Australian history has ever heard the words “Listen here, mate” and thought something positive was about to follow.

    The same goes for:

    “Pull your head in, mate.”

    Or the classic Alf Stewart line from Home and Away:

    “You’re a bit of a drongo, mate.”

    Australians have somehow managed to turn one of our friendliest words into a warning system.

    It’s actually quite impressive when you think about it.

    Why I Still Say It

    I’ve lived in America long enough now that some Australian habits have faded.

    Others haven’t.

    Mate is one of the ones that stuck.

    Partly because it’s habit.

    Partly because it feels natural.

    But if I’m being honest, there’s probably another reason too.

    The person who used the word most in my life wasn’t a tradie, a farmer, or one of my mates at the pub.

    It was my mum.

    Every phone call started the same way.

    “Hi mate.”

    Or sometimes:

    “Love you, mate.”

    I was telling my daughters about that the other day.

    The Moment I Realised My Children Belong in America

    How normal it felt at the time.

    It was something I never thought twice about it.

    How I never imagined I’d miss hearing a single word so much.

    Looking back, I think that’s why Australians keep using it.

    Yes, it’s friendly.

    It’s a social leveler.

    Yes, it’s part of our culture.

    But it’s also a word that carries connection.

    It’s a word we use with friends, family, workmates, neighbours, and sometimes complete strangers.

    Somehow Australians found a way to squeeze friendship, affection, gratitude, sarcasm, and belonging into four letters.

    Not bad, mate.

  • What It’s Like Living in America (Tornado Warnings, NASA & Daily Life)

    What It’s Like Living in America (Tornado Warnings, NASA & Daily Life)

    Living in America as an Australian comes with moments you don’t expect — from tornado warnings to standing under a NASA rocket.

    This week had two of them.

    One where we were standing underneath a rocket that took people to the Moon…
    …and another where we were sitting downstairs close to midnight, waiting out a tornado warning.

    And somehow… both of them felt normal.

    That’s probably the part I wouldn’t have expected when I first moved here.

    The Quiet Shift You Don’t Notice

    When you first arrive somewhere new, everything stands out.

    The way people speak.
    How things are done.
    The way everyday interactions happen.

    You notice all of it.

    You’re constantly comparing it to what you’re used to.

    And in those early months, you feel very aware that you’re somewhere different.

    But over time… that awareness softens.

    Not all at once. Just gradually.

    You stop questioning as much.
    Things that once felt unusual start to feel expected.
    And you don’t really notice the shift happening.

    It just sort of… creeps in.

    Until you get a week like this—where a few moments line up—and you suddenly see it again from the outside.

    Waiting Out a Tornado (Like It’s Just Part of the Week)

    We had our first tornado warning of the season the other night.

    Late. Around midnight.

    There’s something about that time of night that changes everything.

    The house is quiet.
    The day’s done.
    Kids are asleep.

    And then suddenly… you’re waking them up.

    Not in a panic—but not casually either.

    There’s a tone to it.

    “Alright… let’s head downstairs.”

    We’ve done it before. The girls know what’s going on. They know where to go.

    And that’s the part that would’ve surprised me the most years ago—how quickly something like that becomes familiar.

    We went down into the safe room.
    Turned on the live coverage.

    And that’s another thing about storms here…

    You don’t just hear about them—you watch them.

    In real time.

    You see the storm moving across the map.
    You hear street names.
    Nearby towns.
    You listen for anything close to you.

    And you just… wait.

    Not panicking.
    But not relaxed either.

    Just aware.

    Even our cat, Bluey, came down with us—walking between the girls like he was checking on everyone.

    That moment… sitting together… waiting…

    It slows everything down.

    And then it’s over.

    Back upstairs.
    Back into bed.
    House quiet again.

    Just another part of life here.

    Tennessee Weather Has No Interest in Easing You In

    What made it even stranger…

    Two days earlier, I was in shorts.

    Sunday — warm.
    Sunday night — tornado warning.
    Monday — snow and ice.

    And no one really reacts like it’s dramatic.

    It’s just… the weather.

    Tennessee doesn’t ease you into anything.
    It just changes its mind.

    And people here just adjust.

    The Word “Reckon” (And the Things That Quietly Overlap)

    Someone mentioned in the comments recently that the word “reckon” gets used a lot here in the South.

    That made me pause.

    Because back home in Australia, it’s just… normal.

    “I reckon…”

    You don’t think about it.

    And then hearing it here—in a completely different part of the world—used in a similar way…

    It’s one of those small moments where things unexpectedly line up.

    Where you realise…

    Not everything is as different as it first seemed.

    Standing Under a Rocket That Went to the Moon

    A few days earlier, we’d taken a trip down to Huntsville, Alabama.

    To visit the U.S. Space & Rocket Center.

    You walk in… and there it is.

    A Saturn V rocket.

    And it’s hard to explain the scale of it until you’re standing underneath.

    It just keeps going.

    Section after section.
    Stage after stage.

    And you realise…

    This is what took people to the Moon.

    And around you?

    Families walking past.
    Kids running around.
    People stopping for photos.

    It’s not treated like something distant or untouchable.

    It’s just… there.

    Part of where you are.

    That’s something I’ve noticed living here—you don’t just learn about history…

    You live around it.

    Of Course There Was a Buc-ee’s Stop

    On the way home, we stopped at Buc-ee’s.

    Because you don’t not stop at Buc-ee’s.

    Teriyaki jerky again.

    Every time.

    If you want to try this, you can buy it from Amazon, you’ll also need some of their famous Beaver Nuggets to go with it.

    When Costco Flips on You

    We were in Costco the other day.

    And I realised something had flipped.

    Back in Canberra, we’d get excited about American products.

    Different brands.
    Different packaging.
    Things we didn’t normally see.

    Now?

    We’re in Tennessee…

    And it’s the Australian lamb that stands out.

    That’s what catches my eye.

    That’s what feels different.

    Watching Australia From the Other Side of the World

    Australia played Japan in the Women’s Asian Cup Final recently.

    6am start here in Nashville.

    And just trying to watch it…

    Subscriptions. Platforms. Apps.

    Back home, it would’ve just been on.

    No thought required.

    But I was up for it.

    Because those moments…

    They don’t change.

    The anthem.
    The teams walking out.

    It still hits the same.

    Maybe even more.

    What Changes… and What Doesn’t

    Living here changes a lot of things.

    What feels normal.
    What stands out.
    Things that feel familiar.

    But something I’ve noticed over time…

    The people I tend to connect with most here…

    Often aren’t from here either.

    Different countries. Different backgrounds.

    But there’s a shared understanding.

    They’ve had to learn a place… not just grow up inside it.

    And maybe that’s part of it.

    Because even as things shift…

    There are moments where you realise:

    That part of you hasn’t gone anywhere.

    It just shows up a bit differently now.

    Why American Goodbyes Feel Faster Than Australian Goodbyes

    Why Americans Say “You’re Welcome” So Often

    Final Thought

    What becomes normal… isn’t always what you expect.

    Sometimes it’s tornado warnings at midnight.

    Sometimes it’s standing under a rocket that went to the Moon.

    And sometimes…

    It’s just realising you didn’t notice the change happening at all.

    That was this week in America.

  • Is American Friendliness Real or Fake?

    Is American Friendliness Real or Fake?

    If you’ve ever wondered why Americans seem so polite, you’re not alone.

    It’s one of the first things you notice… and one of the hardest things to figure out.

    I remember a moment early on that really threw me.

    We’d have women come over to the house to see my wife Nikki.
    They’d be warm, chatty, asking questions, including me in the conversation like we’d known each other for years.

    And then the next time we’d see them… usually with their husbands…
    they’d barely speak to me.

    Same people. Same setting. Completely different energy.

    I remember thinking,
    hang on… was that real?

    At the time, I genuinely didn’t know what to make of it.

    I remember thinking…
    maybe there’s some kind of unspoken American rule here.
    Like wives don’t really talk to other husbands once their own partner is around.

    It sounds ridiculous now, but in the moment, it honestly threw me.

    Because the warmth I’d experienced the first time felt completely genuine.
    There was nothing fake about it.

    And then suddenly… it just wasn’t there anymore.

    I couldn’t quite reconcile the two.

    And that wasn’t the only time.

    Over the first couple of years, I kept running into moments like that.
    People being incredibly open… and then just as quickly, distant again.

    Not rude.
    Not cold.
    Just… different.

    And to be honest… I’m not even sure I fully understand it now.

    Over time, I realised it wasn’t everyone.

    There are plenty of situations where that warmth carries through.

    The some of the dance mums I see at competitions, for example, are usually really chatty.
    Easy to talk to. Inclusive. Just… normal.

    (Well… most of them.)

    And in those environments, it feels natural.
    Consistent.

    Which is what makes the other experiences stand out even more.

    I’ll be honest… there are moments where it does feel a little bit fake.

    Not in a deliberate way.
    Not like people are trying to deceive you.

    But there’s definitely a situational quality to it.

    I’ve had people I genuinely thought were good friends…
    people we spent time with, had conversations with, felt connected to…

    and then when our situation changed—when we moved, or the context shifted—

    it became clear the relationship was more tied to that situation than I realised.

    In one case, it turned out what I thought was a friendship…
    was really more of a business relationship.

    That was a strange one to process.

    What I’ve started to notice is that friendships here can feel more… compartmentalised.

    You’ve got:

    • work friends
    • school friends
    • dance friends
    • church friends
    • hobby groups

    And those worlds don’t always overlap.

    You can be very friendly with someone…
    but only within that specific environment.

    This ties into something I noticed about everyday interactions as well →
    Why Americans Say “You’re Welcome” So Often

    Whereas back in Australia…
    it often felt more fluid.

    You’d meet someone in one context…
    and over time they’d just become a mate.

    They’d move across different parts of your life with you.

    Barbecues. Birthdays. Random catch-ups.
    It all blurred together.

    Here, it feels more defined.

    Not worse… just different.

    And then there were moments that made it even harder to read.

    When we first moved here, we were invited to all sorts of things.

    Church events mostly.
    Trunk or treat. Fall festivals. Christmas gatherings.

    There was always something on.

    And at the time, it felt incredibly welcoming.

    People were warm.
    Inclusive.
    Eager to have us there.

    We thought… this is amazing.

    But over time, we started to realise something else was going on as well.

    A lot of those invitations weren’t just about connection.
    They were also about bringing people into something.

    Church communities. Groups. Networks.

    And once you saw that…
    it didn’t make it fake.

    But it did change how it felt.

    Because the friendliness wasn’t always just about you.
    It was also about something bigger.

    Seasonal events like this are a big part of American life — decorations, themed setups, the whole thing.
    If you’ve never seen it, this is the kind of thing people go all out for → Amazon Trunk or Treat Decorations

    I think that’s where the confusion comes from.

    American friendliness often feels very real in the moment.
    Because it is.

    People are open.
    They’re expressive.
    They include you quickly.

    It’s similar to something I noticed with goodbyes as well →
    Why American Goodbyes Feel Faster Than Australian Goodbyes

    But at the same time…
    it can also be situational.

    Tied to:

    • the environment
    • the purpose
    • the group

    And when that situation changes…
    sometimes the relationship changes with it.

    That’s probably the biggest shift for me.

    Back home, friendliness often felt like the beginning of something.

    Here… it can sometimes feel like part of the moment itself.

    And if you expect it to mean the same thing…
    that’s where it gets confusing.

    And then there are people who cut straight through all of that.

    One of the people we’re closest to now lives just a couple of doors down from us.

    She’s American… but she spent 14 years living in Australia.

    Sometimes you even hear a slight accent come through.

    And with her, everything just feels… familiar.

    Easy to talk to.
    Consistent.
    Natural.

    Relatable.

    I don’t think American friendliness is fake.

    But I do think it works differently.

    It’s more immediate.
    More expressive.
    More tied to the moment you’re in.

    And if you try to measure it by Australian standards…
    it can feel inconsistent.

    Even a bit confusing.

    But once you start to see it on its own terms…

    it makes a bit more sense.

    You can find audio versions of this article and more on the Listen page.

  • This Week in America: Ice, Cookies & Participation

    This Week in America: Ice, Cookies & Participation

    Some weeks pass quietly.
    Others seem to arrive with a bit more drama.

    This week in America was one of the dramatic ones.

    Not YouTube dramatic.

    Actually dramatic.

    An ice storm rolled through Tennessee. Schools closed. Power went out for thousands of people — some for more than a week. It even made the news back home in Australia.

    But living through something like that and watching it on television are two completely different experiences.

    Because when I think about the week now, it’s not really the headlines that stay with me.

    It’s my youngest daughter selling Girl Scout cookies outside Kroger.

    Sitting in front of the fire when the power went out.

    It’s filling out job applications late at night.

    That’s what the week actually felt like.

    ✈️ Planning travel between Australia & the US?
    :I usually compare flights and accommodation here with Expedia:

    Girl Scout Cookies Outside Kroger

    On Saturday, my youngest — Brianna — stood outside Kroger in full Girl Scout uniform trying to sell cookies to strangers.

    Thin Mints.
    Samoas.
    Tagalongs.

    There’s a folding table.
    A small square card reader.
    A roster system run by mums who sound a bit like army sergeants.

    Everyone has allocated supermarket time slots. Everything is scheduled and organised.

    And the interesting thing is — people just know what to do.

    No one looks confused.
    No one wonders why a kid is selling biscuits outside the supermarket.

    They’ve grown up with it.

    Some people buy two boxes without slowing down.
    Some stop and chat for a minute.
    You’ll hear “Good luck sweetheart,” as they tap their card, and keep walking.

    It’s a very American kind of scene.

    There’s an idea here that confidence is something you practise publicly.

    You walk up to strangers.
    Speak clearly.
    You handle rejection.
    Keep smiling.

    In Australia we did fundraisers too, of course.

    But we weren’t running what felt like a small retail operation outside Woolworths in full uniform.

    There’s something impressive about it.

    It’s community — but structured.

    Standing there with my accent, feeling slightly out of place but also very proud, I realised something.

    For Bri, this isn’t cultural.

    It’s just normal.

    She was born here. This is her country.

    She won’t remember it as “a very American experience.”

    She’ll just remember standing there and being brave.

    When the Ice Storm Hit

    Then the ice arrived.

    If you’ve never lived through an ice storm, it’s difficult to explain properly.

    Rain falls.

    But the moment it touches anything — trees, roads, power lines — it freezes instantly.

    Branches turn into glass sculptures.

    Honestly, it’s beautiful at first.

    The whole neighbourhood looks like it’s been coated in crystal.

    And then the trees start snapping.

    That’s the sound that stays with you.

    Sharp cracks in the night — like something under pressure finally giving way.

    You lie there half awake waiting for the next one, hoping none of the trees in the backyard end up on the roof.

    Then the snow arrived.

    Fresh snow always looks beautiful.

    White rooftops.
    Silent streets.
    Everything softened.

    The deer came back through the neighbourhood too, trotting down the middle of the road like they’d taken the place over again.

    Which, to be fair, they probably had.

    No cars.
    No engines.
    Just deer walking down suburban streets.

    Suburban Skiing

    At one point people were actually skiing down our road.

    Skiing. In the suburbs.

    Meanwhile I’m outside reminding the kids not to eat the yellow snow — which I’m fairly certain is universal parenting advice.

    But underneath the strange beauty of it all, the storm was serious.

    Schools closed for seven days.

    Seven.

    Some people lost power for ten days or more.

    Many homes had no heat.

    And sadly, there were deaths too. Not dramatic headline events — just quiet cold-related deaths. Elderly people found alone in freezing homes.

    That part still feels strange to me.

    Because winter in Australia just doesn’t carry that kind of risk.

    You rug up.
    Have a bit of a whinge.
    Put the jug on.
    Make a cuppa.

    Here — especially in the South where we’re not really built for extreme winter — things get exposed quickly.

    Branches snap.
    Power lines sag.
    Roads turn into ice rinks.

    And within about a day, the bread, milk and eggs disappear from the supermarket.

    I’m still not sure what everyone’s baking during these storms, but it must be something extraordinary. Maybe they are trying to replicate my ANZAC biscuits recipe!

    Every time.

    We lost power for two days.

    Two days without power is annoying, but we were lucky.

    We’ve got an open fireplace.

    So we layered up and managed fine.

    At one point I was outside cooking steaks on the barbecue in minus twelve while snow was falling around me.

    I reckon they tasted better for it.

    Maybe that’s just survival bias.

    The girls thought the whole thing was a bit of an adventure.

    But I kept thinking about the families who didn’t have the same setup.

    America often feels incredibly capable.

    Until weather hits.

    And then you see how quickly everything pauses.

    It’s not criticism.

    It’s just… bigger.

    Everything here feels bigger.

    The Quiet Part of the Week

    And then there’s the quieter side of the week.

    The part that doesn’t make headlines at all.

    Filling out job applications.

    Uploading resumes.

    Typing the same information into online portals that don’t talk to each other.

    America talks a lot about opportunity.

    And that’s fair — there is opportunity here.

    But it’s also very structured.

    Masters degrees required for minimum wage roles.
    Specific certifications required.
    Years of experience required.

    If the box isn’t ticked, the system simply keeps moving.

    Even things like being asked to identify your race on job applications stand out when you’re not used to it.

    It’s not cruel.

    It’s just the system.

    And as an immigrant, you notice those systems very quickly.

    Because work here ties into everything.

    Healthcare.
    Stability.
    Long-term plans.

    So you adapt.

    You build slowly.

    You look for another way in.

    It’s not dramatic.

    It’s just part of living here. I explore that more in this video titled When You Live Between Two Countries

    Participation

    Looking back at the week — the cookies, the ice storm, the job applications — they all seem to point to the same idea.

    America asks something of you.

    It asks kids to step forward.

    Families to prepare.

    Adults to compete.

    There is opportunity here.

    But you participate in it.

    Living here hasn’t made me less Australian.

    If anything, it’s made me more aware of the pace I grew up with.

    Things felt smaller.

    Less sharp around the edges.

    Here everything feels turned up a little.

    Not worse.

    Just louder.

    And watching Bri confidently asking strangers outside Kroger if they’d like to buy cookies, I realised something.

    She won’t see any of this as cultural analysis.

    She’ll just see it as life.

    Living Overseas

    Maybe that’s the real thing about living overseas.

    You adjust.

    Grow into it.

    You learn to stand steady when the ice comes.

    That was this week in America.

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    Thanks for reading.
    Hoo roo maties.

  • Why American Goodbyes Feel Faster Than Australian Goodbyes

    Why American Goodbyes Feel Faster Than Australian Goodbyes

    You know what still catches me off guard in America?

    The goodbye.

    Not the words.

    The speed.

    After years living in the United States as an Australian, I’ve realised something subtle but surprisingly consistent:

    American goodbyes end faster than my brain expects.

    And even now, I’m sometimes still mid-sentence when they’re over.

    Why American Goodbyes Feel So Abrupt to Australians

    You can be mid-conversation — genuinely mid-thought — talking about something fairly ordinary:

    The weather.
    The kids.
    Weekend plans.

    And then suddenly:

    “Well, good to see you!”

    And they’re gone.

    Not drifting.
    Not easing out.
    Gone.

    Keys out.
    Car unlocked.
    Emotionally finished.

    Meanwhile I’m still mentally adjusting my stance.

    I once actually said, “Yeah, and another thing—”

    …to no one.

    They were already walking away.

    How Australians Say Goodbye: The Long Runway Approach

    In Australia, a goodbye is rarely a single moment.

    It’s a process.

    You don’t just leave.
    You wind down.

    There’s usually a soft warning:

    “Righto…”
    “Well anyway…”
    “Better let you go…”

    None of those mean you’re leaving.

    They mean you’re thinking about leaving.

    It’s like the aircraft has taxied to the runway — but we’re not taking off yet.

    There’s rounding off.
    Reinforcement.
    A gentle descent.

    Often there’s more than one goodbye:

    At the door.
    At the car.
    Through the window.

    No new information is exchanged.

    It’s ceremonial.

    It confirms that yes — we are still on good terms.

    How Americans End Conversations: Clear, Warm, Efficient

    In the United States, I’ve found the goodbye is often:

    Friendly.
    Warm.
    Direct.

    And then — click — off.

    No runway.

    No slow descent.

    Just a clean exit.

    What took me a while to understand is that it isn’t rude.

    The conversation itself is usually lovely.

    There’s eye contact.
    Genuine interest.
    There’s warmth.

    It’s just that the ending happens at a completely different tempo to what my Australian instincts expect.

    In my head, we’re still in the “rounding off” phase.

    They’re thinking: conversation complete.

    Different clocks.

    Cultural Differences Between Australia and America: Goodbye as Boundary vs Maintenance

    Over time, I’ve come to see that this difference isn’t about friendliness.

    It’s about what the goodbye represents.

    In Australia, the goodbye often functions as relationship maintenance.

    It reinforces connection at the exit point.

    It confirms the steadiness.

    In America, the connection feels assumed.

    The goodbye is simply a boundary.

    Clear.
    Kind.
    Efficient.

    There’s no emotional admin required.

    You don’t have to reassure someone that you enjoyed the chat.

    It’s already understood.

    That, once I noticed it, was actually kind of refreshing.

    Living in America as an Australian: The Timing Mismatch

    Even after years here, my instincts haven’t fully recalibrated.

    I still feel like I owe the conversation a proper landing.

    Like we should both be emotionally ready before it ends.

    Sometimes my body reacts before my mind catches up:

    A half-step forward.
    A delayed nod.
    That awkward moment when you realise you’re about to say something that no longer has a listener.

    It’s like missing the final train announcement.

    You’re still on the platform.

    The train has already left.

    Do Americans Think Australians Drag Out Goodbyes?

    Occasionally I wonder if Americans think Australians are slightly indecisive.

    Like:

    “Why is he still here? We said goodbye.”

    And I’m thinking:

    “Yes, but which goodbye was that?”

    Because back home:

    The first goodbye doesn’t count.
    The second one might.
    The third one is the real one.

    Different systems.

    Same intention.

    What This Says About Communication Styles

    When I zoom out, what I see isn’t better or worse.

    It’s calibration.

    Australia often trusts the steadiness of the relationship and reinforces it at the edges.

    America often assumes the steadiness and ends cleanly.

    Both are warm.
    Polite.
    Both signal goodwill.

    They just do it differently.

    If you’re interested in how these micro-differences show up elsewhere, I explored a similar shift in:

    👉 When Accents Start to Blur After Living Abroad

    It turns out timing changes in more ways than one.

    And if you’ve noticed how politeness patterns differ too, you might enjoy:

    👉 Things Americans Are Weirdly Polite About

    The Tiny Culture Shocks That Stay With You

    When you move countries, people assume the big things will be what stick.

    Politics.
    Healthcare.
    Tipping.

    But often it’s these tiny moments.

    The micro-timing.

    The slight lag in rhythm.

    The feeling that your internal metronome is just a fraction out of sync.

    Even now, when someone says, “Anyway, good to see you,”

    I stop talking.
    Nod.
    Smile.
    I let it end.

    Internally though, I’m still wrapping things up.

    Putting chairs away in my head.

    And sometimes that’s the most interesting part of living overseas —

    Not that things are different.

    Just that your timing is.

    Anyway.

    Good to see you.

    Righto.

    Hoo roo, maties.

    You can catch the full YouTube video of this article 👉Why American Goodbyes Feel So Different