How I Became a Good Wog Woman

I was sucked in by the accent and that's the truth. I'd gone to visit a friend in San Francisco. She informed me she was dating her ex again and wondered if I would mind staying at the youth hostel up the road in Marin. I wouldn't want to deny my friend a dirty weekend with her man so off I went. That very night I met an Aussie. Handsome, great smile, knew how to treat a lady. I was ready to hop into his suitcase right then and there. Unfortunately I didn't even have a passport.

After two weeks at the hostel, we were kicked out. It seems they're very strict on time limits so we started camping. I never thought I'd be living out of a station wagon circa Brady Bunch with the Aussie. I have to say though, they were some of the best times I've ever had in my life.

When it was time for him and his best friend to continue their journey, I was sure that was the end. My whirlwind romance with the Aussie was going to end a swiftly as it began. Alas, he convinced me to finally get my passport. I would see 11 countries in total with him. I felt like I was at last one of the cool kids. I had stamps in my passport. I'd seen the Louvre, the Colliseum and the little village in Macendonia where his mother was born.

In 2002, I finally made my way to the great land of OZ. This is where I was introduced to a sub-culture known as "The Wogs". I'd never heard this term before I arrived in Melbourne but have been immersed in it ever since. I was under the impression everyone in Australia knew how to throw a boomerang and wrestle a crocodile. I thought everyone would be dressed in Ugg boots and board shorts and have one of those hats with the little corks hanging off the edges. Boy, was I wrong.

I met all of the Aussie's family and friends. Most of them were the kids of Wogs. Their parent's were from one of 4 places: Italy, Greece, Croatia and Macedonia. Not a single Australian among them.