My Dear Hard Drive

As my regular readers know, I am a Finn who moved to Australia in April this year. While the transition has gone smoothly on most parts, there is one thing that keeps me puzzled. Sometimes people are friendlier towards me than what I expect, and sometimes I feel they are down right rude. I know I make mistakes with my politeness here, as us Finns don’t have an equivalent to the word “please” and all these thank yous and misters and mam’s are used very sparingly and they are not considered necessary at all. Politeness comes from the tone of voice and your expression, not the words you use. We have little such shallow signs of politeness or friendliness, given that we are not the friendliest and most open people out there, not at all. That is to say that I suspect the cold shoulder I receive occasionally is due to my own behaviour, no matter how friendly I attempt to be and no matter how I remind myself to say please and thank you and not reply with one word only and the sort.

One of my problems is to ask questions. Small talk. Australians ask you ever so effortlessly about your weekend plans and the sort, and I go on and blabber about my plans without asking the same question back, not because I wasn’t interested, but because I’m used to people sharing their plans if they want to without prompting. It’s always been a problem for me, even in Finland even though the type of questions is different there, but here it is even harder, as everyone asks you questions that they either do or do not expect an answer to. Like “How’re you goin’?” That question was thrown at me by a young man who was having a smoke in front of his work place (I assume) when I walked past with my dog. What are you supposed to reply to that? Unsuspecting Finn as I was, I just said “good” and smiled, reminding a second later that I probably should have said “good thanks” and then continued on to ask how he was doing. However, by that time I was already meters away and couldn’t, obviously, return to the conversation without appearing I was actually interested in how he was doing. Clearly, he wasn’t interested in my well being either, but he must have been one of those friendly Australians, who just cannot let a stranger pass by without attempting to make a conversation, no matter how short.

I was on my way to buy some more calico. At the shop, I was waiting for someone to come to me and ask if they can help me. There was 3 assistants anyway, and I was the only customer at that point, so I kind of expected someone to come over and offer help. Nobody did though. So I did a circle around the place and returned to my original position next to the rolls of calico, expecting them to understand that I was, in fact, decided on the calico. Nobody approached me or seemed the slightest bit interested in me. Did I possibly fail to look them in the eye when I got in or give some other sort of signal of approachability or friendliness, I don’t know, but I ended up carrying the 20 meter roll onto the counter myself. I was then attended to because there was no other option I would imagine.

As my assistant was measuring 10 meters of the stuff for me, I asked if she knew where the material was manufactured. She didn’t know, but promised to ask someone else. I decided I better explain why I wanted to know, given that calico is like junk fabric to most people (the unbleached, un-everything material that most dressmakers use as mock up dress material testing the pattern) and to most people it doesn’t matter one bit where it comes from. So I explained I make wedding dresses out of calico and that Australians have a really good regulations in pesticide control and the sort when growing cotton, even if it wasn’t organic. She seemed interested at that point, and I felt like I had broken the ice. Good going, Sebbie, you’re getting the hang of it, I congratulated myself in my head.

She then went on to tell me that I should contact this-and-that person at a wedding magazine she used to work for, and tell the manager her name to get a better deal on advertising in that magazine. She also gave me an estimate of the price the advertising would probably cost. I was impressed by her willingness to help me out, but I was no longer surprised as I had noticed a lot of people will go out of their way to help you ahead by giving you contacts and tips. I thanked her excitedly, and told her that I will do exactly that, although I won’t have the money for advertising in high end magazines just yet. When she was done cutting my fabric and packing it up, she went off to find that woman who would possibly know where the fabric came from, quickly explaining why I wanted to know. She didn’t have any idea, so I said it’s all right, that I’ll just need to know where it comes from before I sell the dress to someone to whom the ecological point of view matters a lot. Before I could finish my sentence, she had already drifted off back to a conversation with the other shop assistent, and the one who was serving me had made her way over to some pile of fabric. As I hadn’t even nearly finished what I was saying, I started moving towards the door still talking, uncomfortably aware of the fact that nobody paid any attention to me whatsoever.

I managed to get back home without any more culture shocks, but it did leave me wondering how little things make such a big difference. My culture back home is seemingly very similar to this one, but still I can’t manage to buy a simple piece of calico or the daily croseries without being baffled by the differences. How I don’t know what to say when the cashier asks me that question “how are you today” as I know fully well she really doesn’t care. Why can’t they just say “G’day” and skip the fancy stuff. At least I know what the proper response to that is.