Returning to Eastford: a 'Homecoming'

Before moving to Australia, I lived in Eastford.

The city shaped me in countless ways - its relentless rhythm and its curious balance of warmth and reserve. Time and distance softened my memories, yet Eastford remained imprinted on me like an old watermark.

Years later, I returned - not alone, but with two Australian friends: Vincent, of European background, and Minh, whose family roots are in Vietnam. For me it was a homecoming; for them it was an adventure into the unknown.

Vincent carried himself with the easy swagger of a man accustomed to being noticed. Broad-shouldered and sun-bronzed from weekends on the golf course, he had the kind of effortless charm that turned heads when he entered a room. His laugh was warm and unrestrained, his gestures expansive, and he spoke with the confidence of someone who trusted his own footing in the world. At times that confidence edged towards cockiness, yet never in a way that repelled; rather, it lent him a boyish bravado that people found disarming. Handsome and magnetic, he moved through life as though every encounter were a chance to play to the crowd - and more often than not, the crowd was glad of it.

Minh, by contrast, seemed carved from quieter stone. His frame was slighter, and though he spoke less often, his words carried the weight of careful thought. He had the air of someone who read poetry in cafés and sketched in notebooks during train rides, not to impress but to make sense of the world. His eyes lingered where others passed over - on the pattern of light across a tiled wall, on the unspoken tension in a waiter’s smile. Where Vincent was certain, Minh was tentative; where Vincent pressed forward, Minh observed. Yet his introspection was not timidity but a form of attentiveness, a way of catching details the rest of us were too hurried to see.

Having landed in Eastford, at first they were both enchanted - dazzled by the food, the glittering harbour lights, the ceaseless vitality of the streets.

But by the third day, Minh admitted that something about the city unsettled him. Soon after, Vincent quipped, half in jest, “I think I’ve lost my superpowers here.”

Intrigued, I pressed them for details.

The Maze

Both explained that in Australia, their sense of direction was impeccable. Having grown up driving, they rarely needed a map. But in Eastford, where life is tethered to the sprawling underground railway, they were constantly disoriented. I, who knew the stations and exits by heart, could navigate with ease. For me, spotting the nearest station was enough to regain my bearings.

But for them, deprived of street-level landmarks and the sun’s rising and setting as their compass, this subterranean shuttling through shopping malls and escalators was maddening.

Vincent stopped in the middle of the concourse, map unfolded like a battle plan in his hands. The ceiling hummed with neon light, escalators crisscrossed in every direction, and commuters streamed past as if they alone knew the secret code. He gave a half-laugh, half-growl. “This isn’t a city, Mark - it’s a maze designed to break your pride. Back home I could drive blindfolded and still find my way. Here I can’t even tell where the sky is.”

Minh, meanwhile, stood quietly at the edge of the concourse, his eyes tracing the tiled walls and mirrored ceilings as if they were verses to be read. Where Vincent cursed the loss of the sky, Minh murmured, almost to himself, “It feels like walking inside someone else’s design for the world - a place where direction is borrowed, never owned.”

I reassured them: “Here you don’t need direction. Just follow the signs.” Minh looked genuinely shocked.

“How can life be lived without direction?” he asked, half-serious. We laughed, though the unease lingered.

A Lack of Holiday Romance

Vincent was troubled by something else. He remarked that the women of Eastford were strikingly beautiful, impeccably dressed, yet not once had one smiled at him.

I rolled my eyes. “Really, Vincent? You’re being absurdly self-assured. Why on earth should they smile at you simply because you’re foreign? You’re not special here - Eastford has seen plenty of Western faces.”

I was ready to give him a lecture, but Minh surprised me by agreeing. “Yes. I’ve noticed the same. People are polite, service is efficient, but no one looks at me as if I matter. It’s as though I’m invisible.”

That struck me. In Australia, even when you buy a coffee, the barista will exchange a few warm words. In Eastford, the cup is handed over promptly, efficiently - and that is that.

Vincent then nodded towards a young woman nearby. “Look at her - she’s stunning, yet her eyes are empty.”

Minh’s gaze lingered longer than Vincent’s. Where Vincent saw only emptiness, Minh seemed to search for the story behind her silence. “It isn’t that her eyes are empty,” he said softly, “it’s that they’re guarded. As if every glance has been rehearsed, every expression weighed.”

I looked again. To me, it wasn’t glass or armour, but fatigue - the kind that seeps in after too many hours beneath fluorescent light, after too many days spent measuring words and appearances. She was simply dressed as an office worker, nothing more, nothing less.

“That’s just professional attire,” I explained. “Here, looking polished is part of the job. Men wear suits and ties, women wear dresses, heels, a touch of make-up. It’s not about self-expression, it’s about professionalism. In fact, our HR departments issue very specific dress codes: what fabrics are acceptable, what colour lipstick, even the height of heels.”

I paused, remembering. “I once wore a shirt that had faded slightly from too many washes - and my boss scolded me for looking careless. And I still recall my first interview in Australia: I arrived in a full suit and tie, only to find the interviewer in a short-sleeved shirt. The whole office was dressed casually, and I was the only one in a suit. You can imagine my embarrassment.”

They both stared in disbelief.

“So she dresses like that… for work?”

“Of course,” I said. “Who would want to conduct business with someone scruffy?”

“That,” Minh murmured, “is even more unsettling.”

Vincent threw up his hands. “This must be a nightmare! I need to wake up.”

The Expats

Later I brought them into my English-speaking circle at a European-style bar. Wine glasses clinked, conversations flowed in a dozen accents. Surely, I thought, this would give them the warmth they craved.

I introduced them to Edward, a long-settled Englishman, and Julien, visiting from France.

As the night deepened and the glasses refilled, Edward leaned back with a grin. “First week in the frat house, I thought I could hold my liquor. They kept pouring shots, and I kept saying yes. Next thing I knew, I woke up with marker all over my face — moustaches, devil horns, the works — and my mates were hauling me back across campus like a sack of potatoes. I remember stumbling into the bathroom, trying to scrub it all off, throwing up between splashes of cold water."

Julien clapped his hands, eyes shining. “Mine was back in Bordeaux. I drank far more than I should have at a family dinner — wine flowing, uncles egging me on. I felt perfectly steady, certain I could walk a straight line. But when I tried to climb the stairs, my legs betrayed me. My parents stood at the bottom, laughing, whispering to each other, ‘If he can make it up, perhaps he’ll manage in life after all.’ Only then did I realise — I was hopelessly drunk.”

The two of them laughed, shoulders shaking, swapping anecdotes of seaside summers and schoolyard pranks as if they belonged to a gentler world. For a moment the bar dissolved. Vincent and Minh listened, half enchanted, as though watching through glass a life that had never been theirs.

Edward and Julien spoke animatedly about their lives, but when asked whether they had local friends, Edward shrugged - “Not really. We just have different ways.” Julien explained he was often between Europe and Eastford, with little time for deeper ties.

On our way back to the hotel, Vincent laughed as he replayed Edward and Julien’s stories. “They’re wonderful company - I could sit with them all night,” he admitted. Then his tone grew softer. “But I still don’t feel I’ve learnt anything about the locals. It’s as if that door remains closed.”

I told them the local tongue was fiendishly hard to learn, which is why outsiders rarely manage to fit in.

But Minh was thoughtful. “It’s not just the language. It’s the lack of desire to connect. The body speaks when words fail, but here, even when people understand English, they don’t seem to want the exchange.”

I countered, a little defensive: “Local people don’t owe you their time. They work hard all day, then go home to families to feed. They’re not like Australians who can linger over coffee or wine after work. They’ve no energy left for idle chatter.”

But Minh pressed on: “Even amongst themselves, I sense little exchange. Yes, there are couples and families, but even they seem to walk side by side without speaking.”

I shook my head and pointed across the street at a young couple laughing together. “See? They do talk.”

Minh gaze lingered on the couple as they walked past.

“They burn so brightly within their own little world,” he murmured, “yet the flame seems to reach no further. Beyond their circle, the air grows cold - there is no bridge to the outside.”

I sighed. “That is the lesson we were given from childhood: do not speak to strangers, do not invite yourself into another’s troubles. We learnt to fold our warmth inward, to guard against the world. Protection, yes - but also distance.”

Vincent interjected, with his characteristic exaggeration: “It’s a dystopia and it's driving me mad. Get us out of here, Mark. Anywhere else. Please.”

Eventually, Minh pleaded as well, “Mark, take us anywhere, even across to the Newbridge. I need to breathe.” Vincent nodded: “Yes, I want to see the sun again.”

The Escape

Eastford and Newbridge have long existed as contrasts on the same map. Newbridge, a patchwork of rural settlements, remained marked by scarcity - modest schools, little English spoken, and the lingering sense of distance. Eastford, by contrast, gathered itself into towers and tunnels, a city wound tight with glass and steel.

We boarded the new high-speed rail to Newbridge. I thought of a film once popular, Crossing Newbridge, in which the heroine escaped the suffocation of her rural hometown by slipping into Eastford and gasping the air of freedom. In the story she was a schoolgirl from the edge of the fields, her English broken, her shoes worn thin.

She learnt to navigate the tunnels, to read the codes of the city, to talk her way into jobs and out of debt. She met people from every walk of life - traders, dreamers, hustlers - each encounter teaching her another rule of the metropolis. By the end she had carved a place for herself, smartly dressed, fluent in English, gazing from the top floor of a glass tower with a mixture of pride and disbelief. The city had opened the world for her.

And now here we were, three travellers on the same line but in reverse, fleeing Eastford for Newbridge - and finding air that felt, in its way, freer.

The streets teemed with groups - colleagues sneaking out for tea, friends laughing and jostling, not just couples or families but whole clusters of people enjoying each other’s company.

“Good heavens, she smiled at me!” Vincent exclaimed. A modest, slightly plump young woman had glanced our way and, catching his gaze, blushed and smiled before walking on. He was radiant.

Over lunch, the waiter enthusiastically described each dish - even though he must have known we barely understood a word. Still, he wanted us to feel part of the meal, pointing out ingredients, gesturing with delight.

“Do you feel it, Mark?” Minh said excitedly. “Even without language, he wanted to share something with us - not merely perform a duty.”

When we left, the young waiter waved vigorously, sensing we did not understand his words but eager to leave us with warmth. Minh waved back with equal force.

Indeed, willingness to connect mattered more than the tools of communication.

Vincent shook his head, still puzzled. “I don’t quite understand what’s happening here - why it feels so different.”

Minh, however, stretched like a man on holiday. “Whatever it is, it feels like a break, as if we’ve slipped into some unexpected vacation.”

A Eastfordian Conversation

Back in Eastford, we took a taxi. I sat up front with our driver, who chatted in Eastfordian about his family.

He sighed as the traffic stalled at the lights. “My daughter is only six, and already we queue overnight just to secure a place for the school interview. You have to dress them up, rehearse answers. It’s about passing the gate.”

I asked if that eased once the child was admitted. He shook his head. “It only grows harsher. Extra classes after school, endless exams. Parents spend their evenings running between tutors, then weekends filling out application forms for the next stage. We push them so hard, and yet…” He trailed off, eyes on the brake lights ahead.

“And yet?” I prompted.

He gave a weary laugh. “And yet, even if they graduate, where will the jobs be? Too many degrees, not enough chairs. You spend half a life preparing them to run a race, only to find there’s no finish line.”

When I mentioned that I had once lived in Eastford but now worked abroad, his face softened. “Then I’m glad for you,” he said simply. “If you’ve managed to step outside, you’ll see life isn’t only timetables and quotas.”

As we rolled past the harbour lights, he leaned closer, lowering his voice. “If you have a spare day, take your friends up the mountain trail by the old temple. The tourists don’t go there; the air is clear, and you can see the whole city laid out like a chessboard. It will remind you why we still love this place, even when it breaks us.”

When he asked if my friends had enjoyed the city, I admitted, “They find it a little cold compared with Australia.”

“You’re not wrong,” he said after a pause, eyes following the red tail-lights ahead. “When I was young, neighbours still looked out for each other. If trouble came, someone would step in, or at least shout your name. There was fear, yes — but there was also a kind of rough loyalty, a sense that you weren’t entirely alone.

Now Eastford has grown taller and sharper. With every new tower and every new device, life has sped up, and so has the rivalry. Families move in and out, faces change too quickly to remember, and everyone builds their own shield. The busier the city, the stronger the guard. Trust has become the rarest thing of all”

He drummed his fingers on the wheel, then added more softly, “And yet… look around. The city suffocates you, yes, but it also feeds you. We curse it every morning and still cling to it at night. That’s the truth of Eastford - it bruises you, and still you can’t let go.”

My friends listened from the back seat, delighted to hear such a torrent of local words, even if they couldn’t understand them.

“Good job, Mark,” Vincent grinned, giving me a playful nudge.

Minh’s eyes shone. For the first time he was watching an Eastfordian conversation carried with such fire, and he took it as proof of warmth.

To them it was a moment of connection — a doorway cracked open at last. They smiled, believing they had glimpsed the city’s hidden heart, never realising that beneath the driver’s passion lay a harsher truth.

A Warm Farewell

On our last day, at the airport, Clara at the check-in desk treated my friends with cold professionalism, yet when she turned to my Eastford passport, her tone sharpened. She demanded proof of my visa with such severity that I fumbled, digging frantically through my phone until I produced the PDF.

At last the papers were in order. My friends prepared to leave the desk when Clara leaned in, eyes fierce beneath her immaculate make-up, and said in Eastfordian: “Be clever out there, Eastford boy.” Her tone was sharp, almost scolding, and her gaze cut through me like a reprimand. For a moment I felt like a schoolboy caught misbehaving, shrinking under her authority.

Yet beneath the lacquer of impatience there was something else - a tightness in her voice, a flicker that betrayed more than annoyance. It was not only irritation at my fumbling papers, but a kind of guarded care. As though she wanted to say: I cannot protect you, so you must protect yourself.

Her words carried the bluntness of Eastford - affection disguised as severity, concern wrapped in command. In that instant I sensed she was not merely pushing me away, but willing me forward, hoping that abroad I might wrestle my way into a better life.

Her eyes bulged with an intensity that could be read as warning, encouragement, or threat - but I knew it was, in its own rough Eastfordian way, a blessing.

My friends, sensing the friction though not the words, asked if I was in trouble. I forced a smile. “This is simply how we Eastfordian speak to one another.” They shuddered visibly at the thought.

Epilogue

Tomorrow my friends would wake from this dream. Eastford was a journey.

Yet for me, it was a homecoming that pressed its weight upon me with every familiar sound and gesture. The city did not let me drift as a guest; it claimed me, reminded me that I once belonged entirely to its rhythm.

I cannot simply lay it down, nor would I wish to erase it. Yet I yearn for the day when memory loosens its grip.

Perhaps then it will rise quietly, as a cloud rises, carrying with it all that cannot be said. And I, watching it drift, may at last step forward, unbound yet not bereft.