Saturday night was DMC, a huge international DJ competition, which I had been invited to because I’m friends with last year’s winner.
But then, as is often the case with me since I’ve been here, plans changed, and I found myself…
Me. With my chipped nail polish, $2 thrift store necklace and Target shoes seeing my first ever opera at THE SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE, 10th row, on a comped ticket.
Okay, that’s fine.
Like the first time I saw Wicked for my 25th when Megan Hilty was G(a)linda and she got me four 10th row seats and then, when I met her the next day, she sang me happy birthday.
Except more dying of tuberculosis.
I kept hearing about April.
From Whitney when I first moved in. (She’s from LA and she was here and everyone loved her, but then she had to leave, but she’s supposed to be coming back out.)
Then from Nick a few weeks ago. (I think you guys would really get along ’cause she’s a dope chick.)
Thursday night, another woman I met, upon hearing that I am an Angelena, asked, “Do you know April?”
“No, but I feel like I should!”
Friday, at work, a call came in, as they do, and I answered it. After a bit, she asked,
“Are you American?”
“Yeah, me too. Where in America are you from?”
“Cool, me too!”
*As her account details load*
“I keep hearing about you!!”
So we got brunch on Sunday.
Because sometimes you move 8000 mi away from home and meet someone who lived about 5 minutes from you.
And with whom you share an uncanny amount of things in common.
My life. Too normal, if anything.