On a recent trip to the European continent, the most common question levied at me by Europeans was ‘why are you here?’. Our taxi driver in Naples, our rideshare driver in Santorini, friends of my distant cousin in Fano, as we took a passeggiata through the dull, churned-up shallows of the Adriatic, seaweed slipping by uninterested, the sky refusing us a tan.
Some danced around the question first: ‘Australia! So far away!’ and I would lean in and tell them my flight home was 24 hours and watch their eyes pop out of their head. Ahouustrahlia – Italians devote themselves to each syllable.
‘Ahouustrahlia… but why are you here?’ It was, after all, a good question.
For decades I have caught glimpses of Euro summer through Instagram’s flung-open windows, spotting the granita, the pomodoro, the gyros, the rocky beaches and striped umbrellas and leathery nonnas drenched in oil, red lips at the seaside, bikinis off and tits out revelling in divine submission to the heat.
I have spied feats of human achievement peeking behind grinning selfies, centuries of lore foregrounded by staged cafe shots in acetate sunglasses and folds of just-sheer-enough cotton-poly cascading casual over lace bras.
Well, as someone who recently saved for two years to be that person, I’m here to tell you: forget about it. We have Europe at home.
Cheese! Cured meats! Grilled seafood! Two thousand years of culinary invention, spread out on a table 16,000 kilometres away from you swiping in bed with your puffer on, rain lashing the window and the sad scent of clothes left out on the line for three weeks.
For $10,000 that could be you – you, with the sfogliatelle caldo straight from il forno, sweating Aperol Spritz on a linen-clothed table, gazing at the sea.
Well, as someone who recently saved for two years to be that person, I’m here to tell you: forget about it. We have Europe at home.
Yes, not to sound like a total bitch, Europe was amazing. But my time there taught me a very important lesson, and I’ll teach you it right now.
In Australia, we’re spoiled.
Case one: Europe would have been super amazing, if I’d never seen a beach before
In Crete we drove the length of the island, beach-hopping and trying our best not to roll the car off the cliffs. We sat on fold-out chairs at a convincing Bondi imitation. We attempted to swim in the frightening swell at a Clovelly dupe. The little islands we spotted off the coast were like tiny, meek apostles.
In Italy, the beaches are totally free to attend – if you can sandwich a spot between the private gated beach clubs and the ocean, that is.
The bagni spread from coast to coast, and try their best to ensure the poor populace has at least one metre of dirty sand to share.
In Italy, the beaches are totally free to attend – if you can sandwich a spot between the private gated beach clubs and the ocean, that is.
The choice between this and a two-chair-one-umbrella situation in a walled-off sandy community priced between €30 to €90 a day – up about 17 per cent from four years ago according to recent research from consumer group Altroconsumo – has seen Italians skipping the beach this summer.
A woman I met at the airport who was from the darling coastal town of Gaeta told me this ‘seaside-stealing’ was an issue of private bastardry and political cahoots.
Have you ever sprawled on the rocks at Gordon’s Bay or stripped nude at Little Congwong? Been to Wilson’s Prom, the Great Ocean Road, the rock pools at Beechworth Cascades?
What do all of these locales share? Aside from being breathtaking, they are free. Far away perhaps, but at least in Australia, that effort is rewarded.
Here’s a different question: Have you ever considered driving two hours in a Fiat hired for 189 euro per day in a ‘don’t look, just merge’ driving culture, only to arrive at a pay-to-lay rubbish-strewn TikTok beach where the water is hot?
Case two: but the food
Europe boasts some of the world’s most delicious food and produce. Picture eating a margherita pizza in Naples, the very DOC of buffalo mozzarella and San Marzano tomatoes. I will not deny that a fish wrap in Istanbul is a life-changing experience, or that I would sacrifice a toe to taste sweaty Balkan borek or a spread of fat Cevapi with raw onion right now.
But waves of Italian and Greek migrants to this country in the 1800s and then after the war brought their recipes to meet the exquisite produce of Australia, and birthed a cuisine that I argue is better.
After uneasy experiences at restaurants all over the European continent defined by the realisation that Google reviews are useless when the bulk of them are written by Americans who have never had good pasta before we decided it was best to stick to vegetarian mains – pork, chicken and lamb are destined to be tragic when you are used to the world’s best.
But wait, wait, wait. Mozzarella, olives, cured meats, in their birthplace, would at least be cheap?
I regret to inform you that the Australian dollar is so weak that the 100 grams of prosciutto di parma you splurged on at the Mediterranean Grocers costs the same $14 AUD in Rome, too. One is a $3,000 flight away.
Which brings me full circle. If you like money, there’s really no need to fly across the world to do exactly the same thing you would do at home.
Close that app honey – heartfelt service is not the rule in peak tourism season.
You can’t flush toilet paper in Greece and Italy doesn’t believe in toilet seats. It’s €80 to add a cabin bag [read: CARRY ON]. A lido is overpriced Surfers’ Paradise.
We already live in the good bit
Imagine: When it’s cold and miserable in Melbourne we could go to the Gold Coast and dig for pipis, or Perth and watch the sun set over the water. We could go to the Red Centre and sit with 50,000 years of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people’ living cultures and history.
We could eat fresh crayfish in South Australia, guzzle unbelievably divine wine in Tasmania, or just wake the fuck up and eat amatriciana at Mario’s, tiramisu on Lygon Street and a $15 souvlaki with the best lamb in the world.
Never forget: Oysters are $20 a dozen at your local market, fresh mussels are $8 a kilo, and you need to actively seek out a shit coffee.
And that should be enough. We don’t just have Europe at home. We have the whole world.
