So, Eliza, how are you liking it out there in the country? Don't you miss being in the city? It must be so dull...

Confession: When I lived in the city, I used to have the same perception of country life. Don't get me wrong, it's not that people look down on us for our dusty boots and our broad-brimmed hats. It's that they simply can't imagine how they could enjoy such a different lifestyle, and so it must be automatically wrong for them.

I live in a 5,000-population blip in country Australia, in a town known primarily for being on-the-way to somewhere else, somewhere less obscure. I can announce the town name and see blank faces; but once I say where it is on-the-way to, they register first recognition, then surprise. Oh yes, they remember driving through there. I must know the Douglas family! They live there, I must know them.

I'm apologising to my friend on the phone, and laughing. I know lots of people in my town, but I don't know them all. And BOOM! There goes the one saving grace in their minds, the only thing that could be good about living in a drought-stricken dustbowl: knowing everyone. And I don't.

So Eliza, um, what do you ever do with your time? It must be a very quiet life...

Shall I try to explain that traffic lights aren't what keeps a town alive? I don't even have quite the exact words for why I love this place, beyond tired cliches about country spirit and a sense of community. The fact that we have to work hard physically isn't very nice for city people to hear, so I don't try that tack.

But she's expecting some sort of reply, so I make the effort.

It's the faces, I say, the faces of people when it finally rains. It's hearing the newsagent and the old man laughing in joy about the puddles on the street. It's signs in shop windows hopefully wishing all customers a Very Rainy New Year. It's children, soaked to the skin, whose parents don't scold them but watch in amusement, knowing the treat to be rare enough to allow indulgence just this once.

There's a short silence on the other end of the phone. My city friend is trying to appreciate why rain is wonderful. Fortunately, she concludes that it must matter enough to someone living out here, and murmurs her understanding.

So Eliza, will you stay out there, do you think, or are you going to move back to the city in a few years' time?

At this point I have to apologise and cut the conversation short.

I'll have to call you another time, my friend. I can hear thunder, and it's starting to rain.

Learn more about this author, Eliza Sininen.
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