I met my wife, Cece, in 2014 at a music-video shoot in Austin. A mutual friend invited a group of us, we got talking, and we had our first date the next night.
Two weeks later, she flew to Australia. After nine months of long-distance, she moved to Melbourne for good.
I’d always assumed Australians and Americans were basically the same. We speak the same language, watch the same movies and TV shows — but more than a decade into this relationship, the small differences still catch us off guard.
I still can’t figure out how to hand someone a tip
In Australia, tipping isn’t a thing. Servers are generally paid well — the minimum wage here is just under $25 an hour, compared to $7.25 in Texas — and the price on the menu is what you pay. When I started spending more time in the US, tipping culture completely threw me.
When the check comes, I hand it to Cece and let her handle the math, even when the suggested percentages are right there on the receipt.
Cash tips are worse. Handing money to a tour guide should be simple, but I approach it like a spy making a covert drop. I slide the bill across, fumble it, and end up in some awkward handshake that confuses everyone involved.
Cece had the opposite problem. Tipping was so wired into her she couldn’t stop, and for a while, there were some very happy servers and baristas around Melbourne.
We speak the same language, but we really don’t
Last year in San Antonio, I walked into a coffee shop I visit regularly and ordered a cappuccino takeaway. The barista stared at me. She said she only had normal cappuccinos and didn’t know what I was asking for.
After a painful back-and-forth, I pointed at a cup and said, “Can you pour it in there so I can leave with it?” Her face lit up in understanding.
There have been other language mishaps, too. Once at Cece’s parents’ house, I came into the kitchen and asked her mom if she knew where my thongs were. The look on her face was somewhere between alarm and deep suspicion. It took me a moment to realize I should have said flip-flops.
Cece struggles just as often here. She asked for arugula at an Australian grocery store and got blank looks until Google advised her to ask for rocket.
Early on, she told a group of my friends she was rooting for the San Antonio Spurs. The room erupted. In Australia, rooting means having sex.
A weekend trip means something very different to each of us
For Cece’s 35th birthday, I planned a surprise getaway. I told her to pack for warm weather, three nights. She assumed we’d visit Queensland, maybe the Great Barrier Reef.
When she realized I’d bought tickets to Taiwan, she couldn’t believe it. A nine-hour flight for three nights seemed completely unreasonable to her. From Australia, though, nearly everywhere worth visiting requires a long flight — so it felt perfectly normal to me.
I’ll often suggest a quick trip to Asia or Hawaii, and Cece thinks we should go somewhere closer. Most of her family won’t visit us because flying to Australia feels like a mission to Mars.
My wife was surprised by her first Election Day in Australia
As an American, Cece was used to tense election seasons. Her first Australian election was the opposite.
In Australia, voting is compulsory and happens on Saturdays. You walk to your local school, vote, and grab a “democracy sausage” from the PTA grilling out front. Dogs wander into polling booths. Children sell cupcakes.
Conversations around politics look a bit different here, too. You’ll occasionally spot a yard sign, but campaign merch and bumper stickers are almost unheard of.
I’ve found that many Aussies change their vote from one election to the next, and most don’t know who their friends support. I couldn’t even tell you how my own parents vote.
After more than 10 years together, I’m not sure if Cece is becoming more Australian or if I’m becoming more American. She’s eligible for Australian citizenship but hasn’t applied. She says it would feel like giving up a piece of who she is, and I get it.
At this point, we’re probably both a little Ausmerican — I wonder if there’s a passport for that.
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