No Place Called Home

By Matthew Wooding

Growing up with everything you've ever wanted sounds like a dream, but it leaves Jonjo Wells feeling unfulfilled and hollow. Destined for a life of boardrooms and working weekends, he decides to escape on a gap year. Free of his parents’ rules and expectations, he can finally discover his freedom. But the unsheltered world away from mum and dad is a tougher place than he’s imagined, and Jonjo is faced with a steep learning curve...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Wooding
• Release date: Dec 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370241071

Matthew Wooding

Matthew was born in Sydney, Australia in August of 1982. He grew up in The Hills district of the city where he attended school. After graduating from high school he decided to take some time off to travel and in 2002 made his first trip to Canada. He briefly returned to Australia in 2003, but in 2005 flew back to Canada and spent the next eight years living in Windsor, Ontario, where he completed a degree in Communication Studies at the University of Windsor.Matthew is an avid fan of English football club Aston Villa and moved to England in 2013 with his then fiancé when she was offered an opportunity to pursue her career as an English teacher. The two were married in Windsor in October of 2014 and now call West Yorkshire home.

Book preview

Jonjo

Possibly the worst experience of my life.

That’s how I would describe the plane journey from Australia to Canada. The food was terrible and I was so uncomfortable I couldn’t even fall into a medicated sleep, instead sitting in what felt like a terrible, half-dizzy stupor for hours. I briefly considered going to the toilet when I felt the urge to vomit, but I felt like I was floating and I didn’t even have to turn my heavy head to see that the line for the toilets was endless. I’d also landed in Windsor in a plane so small I thought I was going to have to flap the wings when I boarded.

All I wanted was what I now called the three Ss of post-plane travel: shit, shower, and sleep.

But I was energised with excitement at the sight of the world covered in a blanket of snow glistening at the side of the runway. It seemed to provide more light than the gloomy, grey skies above it. I’d never seen snow in person before. It doesn’t get cold enough in Sydney, and neither of my parents were the snow-loving type. They preferred the sun and the beach.

The plane pulled into the gate and a male voice spoke over the intercom.

Thank you for flying Air Canada and welcome to Windsor, Ontario, Canada’s southern-most city. The local time is 3:14 pm and the temperature is currently -9 degrees Celsius.

What?! The temperature was what? That can’t be right. It was 36 degrees when I left Sydney. I didn’t think I’d ever been outside when it was below ten, never mind ten below!

I was still wearing the clothes I’d left home in: a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I’d brought a sweater in case I got chilly, but I didn’t even own clothes for this sort of cold.

Don’t panic, I thought to myself. Once I was inside the terminal I’d buy some warmer clothes before I went outside.

The plane stopped close to the terminal, but still a good twenty-five metres away - too far for any sort of bridge to reach. I couldn’t see a reason why we were unable to go all the way to the gate and wondered what the problem could be. Suddenly, there was a blast of cold air as the door of the plane swung open. I saw what appeared to be a man (though such was the size of his coat it could just as easily have been Big Foot) attach a staircase to the doorway.

The other few people on the plane stood up and gathered their luggage before exiting into the frozen wasteland. The hostess looked at me in my t-shirt and shorts. I looked back at her with the fear of God in my eyes.

Don’t you have anything warmer you can wear, hun? she asked.

I shook my head.

Okay... she replied, looking me up and down. Well...just try and run in there as fast as you can, she replied, kindly pressing a forced smile across her face.

I wasn’t comforted.

Gathering my bag, I stood up and entered into the aisle. The air in the plane was stagnant, yet somehow I still felt the frigid air wrap around my legs as the cold invaded, sending a chill shooting up my spine. I was still a few metres from the exit when the full fury of the temperature began to unleash itself. My muscles seemed to stiffen and my breathing became shorter - sharper. The cold air felt like it was freezing me from the inside.

Mum was always convinced of the power of the mind and its ability to trick your body into believing whatever you want it to. Countless times, I’d seen her lying on the living room floor on a towel in her summer clothes and wearing sunglasses on a cold, wet, winter’s day listening to the sounds of waves crashing onto a shore. She was convinced she could feel the tropical sun on her skin. I always thought she was going a little crazy, but I was desperate and willing to try anything.

I closed my eyes and envisioned myself standing on the beach, a warm breeze brushing over my skin and rustling through the palm trees behind me. I imagined the sun beating down on the crystal clear sapphire water in front of me and the sound of the waves gently washing ashore. I had a beautiful image in my mind of the perfect holiday location, complete with a clear blue sky overhead and warm sand massaging my toes. I took a slow, deep breath in and –

Oh, Jesus!

Just as I’d suspected, Mum was crazy and I was going to freeze to death!

Don’t think about it, the hostess said. Just go as quick as you can. It’s like pulling off a Band-Aid.

With this more logical encouragement, I took another breath (much more shallow to avoid my lungs freezing) and took my first steps into the Canadian winter. I was barely through the door when I considered turning around and heading home.

Surely humans aren’t meant to live in such temperatures! Did these people realize there are places out there where this sort of cold can only be achieved in a freezer?!

Once fully exposed to the outside, my body entered survival mode. The initial shock knocked the breath out of me; it was the same feeling you get when you jump into a swimming pool of cold water.

After this jolt to the system, I didn’t have time to think about what I was doing and ran to the terminal as fast as I could.

The first part of the dash was straightforward; the runway, as you would expect, was clear of any snow or ice. Once off the runway, safety appeared to be in reach.

Until I hit a patch of ice.

My left foot kept going left as my right foot slid forward. I managed to bring my left leg back under control but lost my balance. I started falling forward before overcompensating and almost falling backwards. I appeared destined to land embarrassingly on my butt until the patch of ice gave way suddenly to a rubber mat. Both my feet found grip and stopped instantly, but my momentum kept hurtling me forward. I reached out looking for something to stop me. The automatic doors were still open from the person ahead of me and I burst into the terminal still fighting to regain control of my body. It was a battle I lost within a few metres of the entrance as I landed face-first.

Everyone in the terminal turned and looked at me in a heap on the floor. There was some concern on their faces, though probably more for my mental wellness when they saw me wearing a t-shirt and shorts, than for any injuries I may have sustained.

Made it! I declared to some muffled laughter before everyone returned to their business.

I was battered and bruised and my skin was a bluish-purple, but I had indeed made it!

I picked myself up off of the floor and removed a sweater from my bag. It felt as cold as the air outside, but within a minute of putting it on, I started to regain some sensation of feeling in my upper body.

I made my way to baggage claim to saw my suitcase doing laps. The one positive to a small airport was how quickly the luggage arrived.

I retrieved the suitcase and, having already gone through immigration during my Toronto stopover, was free to leave.

But first things first.

I opened the suitcase and took out a pair of jeans and three sweaters, putting them over what I was already wearing. I felt like a character from Cool Runnings.

I saw a taxi waiting outside the terminal and quickly made my way towards it. As I exited the building, the outside air took my breath away. Surely, somehow, it had gotten even colder. It didn’t take long before I was bundled up in the back seat of a taxi, defrosting.

Where you going buddy? the taxi driver asked.

I realised I didn’t actually know anything about the city. I’d decided to take a gap year after high school, but I didn’t know where to go, overwhelmed by so many great places around the unexplored globe. After a few hours of contemplating how to choose my destination, I was inspired by a YouTube clip of some guys trying to throw darts at moving dartboards. I printed out a map of the world and went down to the basement, cutting out from the Middle East to India (I didn’t think it would be safe to travel that part of the world alone) and attached what was left to the dartboard.

I grabbed a single dart and walked back about five steps, turned and took a random shot without giving myself any chance to take aim.

I slowly approached the board to see where I would be headed first. It was North America, that much was obvious. Once at the board, I could see it was an area surrounded by lakes. I removed the dart to see where destiny was taking me.

Windsor, Ontario.

I don’t know, just take me to a hotel where the action is.

Okay then, boss, he said, as he pulled away. Where are you from?

I’m from Australia.

Australia! Why on earth are you in Windsor?

I wanted to see the world, so I threw a dart at a map and it landed on Windsor.

He laughed and I saw him peer at me in the rear-view mirror.

Seriously? he asked.

I stared back at him, confused. His face became more serious as he furrowed his brow. Well, you may want to move on from here quickly. There isn’t much to see.

Oh, really? I asked. Why is that?

Windsor is a working class town. It’s Canada’s motor city. The Big Three are struggling so there isn’t much work here. The city is dying.

The Big Three?

Ford, General Motors and Chrysler.

I still wasn’t really sure what he was talking about, but decided not to ask any more questions. This guy was a real buzz kill.

So I’ll take you to the Travelodge downtown. There’s a bunch of bars you can go to. Windsor may not have much, but it knows how to party.

A party town. I just might have landed on my feet after all.

The driver looked back at me again closely. How old are you?

Eighteen. Old enough to go to bars, I reassured him.

His eyes widened and he began to laugh. Not in Canada you’re not. Legal age here is nineteen.

There was a moment of silence as my stomach dropped. I felt sick – stupid. How was I going to have a good trip if I was stuck in my hotel every night because I had nowhere to go?

No way, I finally muttered.

Do you mind making a stop?

I didn’t particularly care what happened at this point; I wasn’t thinking straight and agreed to a stop. The driver pulled out his mobile phone and made a call.

Hey, buddy. I got one for you. Yeah, male, brown hair. Use the one we took last week, that’ll be a pretty close match. Alright man, see ya soon.

We turned off the main road and into a badly rundown area with boarded up windows, overgrown lawns, unkempt gardens, and rusted out cars sitting in driveways.

Where are we going? I asked, trying to mask my concern.

I have a buddy who can make you up a fake I.D.

Really? That’s great. Thank you so much. I exhaled in relief.

I can’t have Windsor’s only tourist running around sober. You’ll kill yourself, he joked. The fare is twenty dollars, so give me an even hundred and we’ll call it a day.

All I had on me was twenty Australian dollars. I’d completely forgotten to take out Canadian money. I don’t think I’d ever had to pay for anything myself before.

I don’t suppose you take credit card, do you? I asked, in hope more than expectation.

The driver laughed.

I’ll take you to an ATM.

We pulled into a driveway. The driver stepped out and waved to a middle-aged man coming out of the garage. He stuck his head back into the car.

Wait here a second.

Now that he was no longer behind the wheel, I could see he was overweight, wearing track pants and a sleeveless puffy vest. He had to be at least three times my weight and, as he waddled up the driveway, it occurred to me that if this guy got a hold of me, it would be impossible for me to get away. I waited in the taxi while the two men talked and laughed. I had no idea where I was and started to get flashes of every horror movie ever made. I was positive this scenario had been in a Criminal Minds episode last season. I began to rehearse my escape from the car. I decided lying across the back seat with a double-footed kick as he came through the door would be the most effective. If I could manage to knock him off balance for a second, I could run away and he wouldn’t be able to keep up.

The driver took a small card from the mystery man, shook his hand, and waddled back toward the car. He opened the back door and handed it to me.

Here you go buddy. The photo’s a really good match. Your new birth date is March 3, 1994 and you’re twenty. Memorise that, suspicious doormen will test you on it.

I smiled, mostly because I wasn’t going to die.

Awesome. Thanks.

We continued our trip into downtown Windsor. As I looked out the window, all I could see was street after street of abandoned or rundown homes with sketchy-looking bars and piles of rubbish on the side of the road. This was as far removed from home as possible. This wasn’t a dying city – it was already dead.

Then, almost out of nowhere, we turned onto a road that ran alongside a river. There was a beautiful wide strip of parkland between us and the water. It was filled with people walking their dogs and a few others riding bikes on the footpath. An oasis compared to what I’d just seen. On the other side of the river, in the distance, was the grand skyline of Detroit rising up from the water in a stunning play of shadow and light as darkness began to fall.

We drove down the road and under a crosswalk. Suddenly, I was overcome by the smell of Vegemite. Almost as if anticipating my question, the driver began to explain.

That’s the Hiram Walker Distillery. It’s where they make Canadian Club. That’s what the smell is.

It was an old, beautiful building, well-maintained and standing on perfectly manicured grounds, albeit under a layer of snow – a stark contrast from the neighbourhood we’d left not a minute earlier.   

We carried on down the same road for a few minutes, the Detroit skyline getting closer and more impressive. The parkland beside the road continued as well, widening as we went. Finally, I spotted the Travelodge. The driver pulled into the parking lot and pointed out the bank next door.

I’ll run over and get the money for you, I said.

I walked into the bank and up to the ATM. As I removed the bank card from my wallet, it dawned on me that it was for Australian ATMs. The blood drained from my face as I realised it may not work. I could be stranded in Canada with no access to my money.

The ATM had a familiar symbol on it that was also on my card, the double blue circles of Cirrus. I popped it in, entered my PIN and held my breath.

Processing.

Processing.

Processing.

Finally, it accepted the PIN and asked how much I wanted to withdraw. I took out some money, paying an exorbitant withdrawal fee for the pleasure, and went back to the taxi.

The driver had my bags out of the car and by the doorway waiting for me when I got back.

I can’t thank you enough, mate, I said, as I handed him the money. I don’t know what I would’ve done without your help.

I wanted to hug him, but he didn’t look like the hugging type.

You’re welcome, buddy. All the bars are just back behind the hotel, you can’t miss ‘em, he said, pointing away from the river.

With that, he got back in his car and drove away.

I quickly became aware of the cold again; the icy wind whistled off the river and whipped around the city buildings. I gathered my bags and hurried inside the hotel lobby.

Once I’d checked in and was upstairs in my room, I slumped down on the bed, suddenly exhausted. It had been a very long day, or was it two days at this point? I had yet to take care of any of the Three Ss. I went to the bathroom to knock off two of them and, feeling human again, I curled up for a nap.

The clock displayed 4:56 pm. I had a whole new town to explore and nightlife to experience, so this couldn’t be it for the night. I set an alarm for 9 pm and crawled under the covers. Comfortable and warm, I didn’t even remember my head hitting the pillow before the alarm went off.

Startled and very confused by my surroundings, it took a moment for my foggy brain to catch up with the last twenty-four hours. I lay in bed for a minute or two, contemplating whether I should call it a night and start fresh in the morning. I was about to submit to my desire to sleep when a little voice spoke up in my head.

You didn’t come all this way to sit alone in a hotel room.

I’d spent most my life doing that, with one exception to the solitude: Adam. He was also somewhat of an outcast having only come to my school in Year 9 when his family moved to the area from the country. Adam had grown up around working-class kids in a town called Mudgee where his father was mayor. His political ambitions had seen him elected into State Parliament, so Adam had been forced to join him in Sydney for his term in office.

Adam also stood out from every other kid thanks to his distinct use of country slang, which was unusual amongst our kind. To him, I was JJ, and while Mum was turned off by his bastardisation of my name and general use of slang, she and Dad were always nice to him (I suspect thanks to the advantages of having close, personal access to a member of state parliament).

Adam was from a proper family, with a brother and two sisters. As a result, he was much more outgoing than me. I was shy and quiet around new people, especially girls. Not Adam. He seemed to believe it was a privilege for any girl to be in his presence, yet still somehow managed not to come off as arrogant. A week before the start of year twelve, the voting public of New South Wales decided to put an end to our fun when an early election was called. Adam’s father failed to win re-election. With no reason to stay in Sydney, he moved the family back to their native Mudgee where he could return to running the family business.

Friends will come and go throughout your life, Dad had told me in a manner you might expect from a priest delivering his sermon after Adam moved away and my grades at school began to suffer as I slipped into a lonely depression. You need to keep your eyes on the prize. He paused, I assumed for effect, before he continued. To help you stay focused and improve your grades, here’s what we’re going to do. Get yourself into the business course at Sydney University and we’ll give you a little reward, 10,000 dollars in your bank account. No strings attached.

I was straight up to my room and onto my laptop. I saw Adam was online and quickly sent him an update.

What are you going to spend it on? he asked.

I’m thinking of investing it, I typed.

LOL! Adam replied almost instantly.

The rest of the school year had flown by. I was so concentrated on getting the marks I needed for the money that I barely had time to feel lonely. Before I had time to blink, I’d taken my final exams and was logging on to find out my marks. I stared at an array of numbers, frantically at first, unable to separate my marks from the state averages. I took a deep breath and calmly determined which column of numbers were my grades, following them down the page with my finger to the bottom row.

88%.

I had money in my account for the first time in my life. This was my chance to break free and discover things for myself. People overseas wouldn’t know me as the kid from Castle Wells. This was a great opportunity.

Unfortunately, Mum and Dad didn’t see things the same way. To say they were upset is an understatement - a massive understatement.

When I told them I wanted to take a gap year, Dad was so angry he demanded his money back. I tried to explain I was still going to go to university, but it would just be a year later. He wasn’t having it.

This is not what we agreed to!

We agreed if I got accepted into uni that you would give me the money, which I did. There was no mention of when I would go, if at all. Strictly speaking, I wouldn’t ever have to go...I only had to be accepted, I pointed out.

I instantly regretted it.

The businessman in him was probably proud of me for finding a loophole in the deal. His silence didn’t mean he’d accepted my decision though. He was plotting against me.

He called the bank the next morning to have the money transferred out of my account and back into his. Luckily for me, because I was now eighteen, there was nothing the bank could do without my consent. Dad levelled all kinds of threats against the bank, but ultimately the poor person on the other end of the phone was powerless to do anything.

With Dad defeated, it was Mum’s turn to reason with me. The ol’ good cop, bad cop routine. She quietly came to my door that night when I was getting ready for bed.

Jonjo, she said calmly. Her voice was carefully soft. Can I speak to you for a minute? She didn’t wait for a response; she came and sat down on the bed, folding her hands in her lap.

You do realize how much you have upset your father, right? Her eyes locked on mine, as they tried to find what she probably deemed to be an effective balance between sympathy and motherly expectation.

I know he’s upset, but I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t broken our agreement.

Mum thought for second, briefly glancing down at her hands before unfolding them. Her straight back relaxed. "Why do you really want to take a year off?" she asked.

I told you guys, I want to travel and see things I can’t here. Once I’m done university, I’ll have to start work and might never get the chance again.

Mum stared at me, her eyes flitting back and forth across my face as she tried to determine if I was being honest or if this answer was a front for some ulterior motive.

That’s the honest truth.

Okay, she said, seemingly convinced. I will speak to your father. And with that, she got up and left the room.

The next morning, we had another family meeting over breakfast. Dad was aggressively eating a bowl of cereal when I came into the kitchen.

Your father and I have spoken and if you want to take a year off to travel then you have our blessing, Mum said.

"But do not come crawling to us for money when you run out," Dad snapped. Mum nodded her agreement.

I won’t, I replied. Thanks for understanding.

I didn’t get much of a farewell before I left. Dad left me 80 dollars for a taxi to the airport before leaving for the office as normal. It was a big gesture for him, his way of wishing me a safe trip. I’d have preferred he kept his money and stayed to see me off, but it was better than nothing.

Mum was a little more emotional and gave me a hug before I got in the taxi, using her final words to remind me not to call in the middle of the night. She was already walking back up the driveway as the taxi drove off.

I hauled myself out from under the covers and rummaged through my suitcase to find suitable attire for the evening. I opted for a pair of jeans, a t-shirt over a long-sleeved shirt and a zip-up hoodie, what my parents would normally only allow me to wear inside the house.

I’d been forced to dress like an executive businessman from an early age: collared shirts and pants, dress shoes and perfectly combed hair with a part on the left - hardly the look of a teenage boy who wants to fit in, and definitely a magnet for teasing and abuse. It sucked - big time. Mum thought I looked handsome and Dad insisted I dress for the job I want. My pleas for more age appropriate attire were quickly shot down and attributed to teenage rebellion. My parents were grooming me to follow in the footsteps of Dad: boardrooms, business meetings, and riches. That would have been great if that was what I wanted for my life. Maybe it was. I hadn’t been given the chance to explore other options, so I really didn’t know. All I knew was Dad left for work every morning before I got up, was never home for dinner, and