As a student preparing to study abroad for a semester, it's a term that I have frequently heard. I was given tips to avoid it and warned of its perils, but I don’t think I actually gave it much serious thought. After all, I was going to Australia.

Australia, where prime-time television includes American shows like “Lost,” “House” and “Ugly Betty.” Where Jurassic 5 and Dave Matthews Band are playing shows in the upcoming months and most other music is flown in from the United States as well.

As far as I was concerned, Australia was the United States with an 18-year-old drinking age. However, as is consistently the case with me, I was wrong. Though Oz has its similarities to home, it’s undoubtedly a place all its own.

No one will ever experience true frustration until they go grocery shopping in a different country. And by different country I exclude Canada. Nothing in the supermarkets here is the same. Sure, here and there some familiar names like Kraft pop up, but when they do it’s for products you wouldn’t expect. Like peanut butter. Kraft peanut butter. No seriously, it comes in a red jar.

At one point I found myself starring at an endless array of breads, looking for any familiar faces: Country Kitchen; Pepperidge Farm; Wonder Bread. Nope, not here. I was forced to choose among the sea of brands I knew nothing about, and apparently, since my bread is already moldy, I did not choose wisely.

Desperately searching for familiarity I thought, “Hot dogs.” What I found was what the Aussies call sausage, which isn’t really sausage at all, but some weird cross between sausage and a Fenway Frank. And as for finding ketchup for this ‘sausage,’ no problem, except that it’s called tomato sauce and it tastes more like red wine vinegar than it does Heinz.

The shock extends far beyond the supermarket though. Recently, crossing the street has become the scariest part of my day. When I step off of the certain safety of the curb I have no idea where to look. I freeze like a deer, or rather a kangaroo, in the headlights.

In my mind I know that the cars drive on the left side of the road, which means I should be looking to the right. As soon as I make the jump off the sidewalk though, it seems like this information is magically stripped from my brain.

I had always heard that in the northeast we’re always in a rush. We’re fast talkers and even faster drivers. I never really bought into that stereotype though. Then I met Sean and Scott, two fellow Americans from Arizona State University. Walking around with them I constantly have to slow my pace, and if they’re walking in front of me I routinely step on the backs of their shoes.

But they’re speed demons compared to Aussies.

When I’m talking to any one of the Australians I’ve met so far I’m always tempted to just scream, “C’mon, spit it out.” It feels like their stories just go on and on forever, and hell, I’ve got places to be. Then I think about it and realize I don’t have anywhere to be, that’s just what’s engrained into my head as a Northeasterner.

Before I departed for Oz, I was asked if I preferred co-ed or single sex housing. I checked off co-ed, as I have always done when given the choice. Little did I know that co-ed would mean that three of my four roommates would be 17-year-old Australian girls.

My point is that culture shock is real, though I never would have believed it. Once you experience it you finally understand how frustrating it can be, even if you’re having a generally good time in the new culture you’re in.

When it comes right down to it, Dorothy was right. There’s no place like home.

There’s no place like home.