I'm not in Kansas anymore. Nor am I in Oz, where I found the Emerald City (Sydney) was like all shiny glittering cities: its promise always better than the reality. The sea-girt shores of my native Australia are far away now and, like so many before, I am in America—a phrase I never expected to use of myself. And I am lost. I am no one anymore. My very being here is dependent on my husband. Dependent. I have been dependent before, as has he. We have supported each other at various turns, but for the first time my status, my very validity, is dependent on him: "dependent spouse." It's official. I feel I have lost some essential part of myself. At least I still have my own name, my own passport. But we are here now, this was my decision as much as his, and we are founding our new home.

Is it so very different, this new home? After all, Australia is now the 51st state of the USA. Our cultures have more in common than any other. Our leaders are friends, buddies. We speak the same language—or do we? I find I know the words, but the meaning slips and slides as I try to understand, try to make myself understood. I buy a comforter but pass on the pillowtop. I use the crosswalk. I buy coffee to go. I buy fresh vegetables and cilantro, using smell as well as sight to identify the herb. The supermarket is a labyrinth; I must find my way using sight, smell, touch as never before, for words are deceptive, labels are misleading, and signs are confusing.

I am lost in an archaic world measured in miles, inches, and feet, drowning in gallons and pints, weighed down by pounds and ounces. These words have as much meaning to me as leagues and cubits. But the money is metric; at least I don't have to negotiate guineas or shillings; the dollars make sense. But the notes all look the same, the coin sizes mean nothing to me, and I have to peer closely to read each note and each coin before paying. Paying! No price is the real price. $4.95 says the ticket. After careful scrutiny I hand over a $5 note. But I forgot: plus tax, plus gratuity. I never seem to have the right money.

Slowly I am finding my way. I learn to order an 8oz double shot mocha, no whipped cream, thank you, instead of a regular cappuccino. I learn that an entree is a main course, that an appetizer is an entree. My appetite is not lost, just bewildered as I learn serving sizes start huge and only get bigger. So I learn to order half portions—just the sandwich not the soup too, no extra fries thanks. I will not be supersized.

No, I'm definitely not in Kansas anymore. In this strange world, bus drivers smile and say hello and stop for the latecomers. Banks are staffed with friendly, helpful people. (Banks are staffed with people! No one in Oz will believe this.) Here, one can overhear a conversation between a black guy and a white guy, total strangers on the bus, on the merits of theatre as a medium of expression. Everyday one sees women playing soccer, training, competing, and it's not unusual. I order lemonade and it's lemon-yellow and refreshing, my favourite drink, not the clear and fizzy lollywater I am used to. Here, iced water is brought, I didn't have to ask once, twice, three times before giving up. Now that's worth a tip. Here Lauren Jackson is still queen of the basketball court. And I found Vegemite in a "world store."

Such finds will be my ruby shoes. I click my heels and repeat "There's no place like home." I am not lost any more.