Grab Your Fanny Pack, Fani!
A Life of Keeping "My Eyes 14" Across Three Continents
My whole life has been a cultural adjustment - blending, navigating, and figuring out where I fit without sticking out too much.
I was raised as an Australian in a Greek household, moved to London for over ten years, and have now lived in Los Angeles for twelve. Each place, each chapter, left its mark - adding new layers, new translations to who I am. And it all started with my name.
My actual Greek name is Fani (Φανή) . Yes, you heard right. Fani - pronounced Fa-NEE.
In the Greek Orthodox religion, Fani is derived from Theophania - meaning "epiphany," a sacred moment, a revelation of spirit and new beginnings.
But by the time I started school, my mom realized that in Australia, "Fani" didn’t quite carry the same divinity - it sounded like "fanny," slang for the female private part. Not exactly ideal for playground banter!
Wanting to protect me, she gave me a choice: Francesca or Fiona?
We had an Irish neighbor named Fiona, and for whatever reason - at the wise old age of four - I chose Fiona. Years before Princess Fiona from Shrek made it cool.
There were other name incidents too.
My Aussie friends would ask, "What's your mum’s name?" I'd stumble. My mom’s real name, Stavroula, sounded too ethnic to my young ears. Thinking fast, I'd blurt out "Kathy"- no idea why. Maybe it felt like a royal abbreviation of Katherine, a way to imagine myself into Buckingham Palace.
It sounds funny now. But back then, it was survival.
A small attempt to blend in, to soften the edges of being"different."
When I moved from Sydney to London, I thought, "Perfect. Everyone here speaks English."
Except... calling someone "daggy" or yelling "stop looking like a stunned mullet" got me blank stares - unless they'd grown up watching Aussie soaps like Neighbours or Home and Away.
Meanwhile, living in London, my friends would always say “I’m skint," but somehow never too skint to have the best time at the pub. They were "chuffed to bits" when the sun came out, but everything was "the dog's bollocks” when it was grey and miserable. (Still one of my favorite expressions. Bollocks.)
I love my Brits - and the incredible friends I made there.
Always "taking the piss," teasing each other in a way that was hilarious and endearing. Humor was their language of love.
Small gestures mattered too: making someone a cup of tea with a plate of biscuits wasn't just polite. It was everything.
So there I was, adjusting again - swapping my Aussie "How are you going?" for the classic British "Hiya!"
Trying to fit into a culture that felt both familiar and foreign.
But if we rewind even further:
Growing up Greek in Australia was its own culture clash.
We desperately wanted to be like the Aussie kids - eating fairy bread sprinkled with hundreds and thousands at school, running free without a second thought.
When we opened our lunchboxes, I remember often closing mine quickly - embarrassed to explain why my food smelled different.
It wasn’t just about food. It was about wanting to blend in.
And as teenagers, that's when the full Greek sayings came out from our parents:
"Τα μάτια σου δεκατέσσερα!" ("Your eyes 14" - stay alert!")
"Θα σε δείχνουν με το δάχτυλο!" ("They'll point at you with their finger!")
Every outing came with a lecture about reputation, honor, survival.
When you grow up with a Greek mother, her voice isn’t just in the room - it's stitched into your conscience.
Even when you think no one's watching, you feel her presence, a ghost mirage appearing just as you're about to make a decision - whispering those warnings into your ear, scaring the living daylights out of you.
Needless to say - we didn't dare cross the line.
By the time we moved to LA, I thought I'd seen every culture clash imaginable.
Wrong again.
Los Angeles was... beyond friendly.
Everyone was so positive, so open, it almost made me suspicious.
I remember clutching my basket at Target when a woman stopped me, casually explaining she'd just had her uterus removed - and could I help her pick between two tops?
Instinctively, I gripped my bag tighter, thinking, This must be a distraction to pickpocket me.
But no.
She just genuinely wanted help.
Because in LA, strangers talk to you like you’re old friends.
(At least, that’s been my lucky experience.)
Within a month of arriving, we had multiple invitations to Thanksgiving dinners - from people we'd just met.
That had never happened to me growing up in Australia. Definitely not in London.
And then there were the house parties.
Forget backyard barbies (Aussie slang for BBQs).
LA house parties were full-blown productions: Circus marquees, fairy lights, photo booths, ice sculptures.
Extravagant, cinematic - like stepping straight into the movies I'd grown up watching.
And standing there, I would flashback to the kind of parties we threw during my Greek-Aussie childhood.
Lamb roasting on a spit. Fifty people crammed into the backyard. Drunken uncles dancing the ζεϊμπέκικο like the fate of the universe depended on it.
My dad would haul out massive speakers on our Greek-columned balcony and blast Stelios Kazantzidis until the neighbors surely thought a full-blown rebellion was underway.
We kids would bargain for our one hour of "English music" - before being dragged back into the bouzouki and bittersweet ballads.
The uncles and aunts would reminisce about the good old days in their hometowns of Greece.
The food stretched across endless six-foot tables.
It wasn’t curated.
It wasn’t fancy.
It was soulfully perfect.
Until, inevitably, someone attempted a somersault on the trampoline - no safety nets back then - miscalculated, and landed face-first onto the cement.
Greek family response?
"You're fine, no broken bones. Walk it off."
Concussion?
What concussion?
You were handed food and told to get back to the party.
These are just a few of the adjustments I've made over the years.
And somehow, the irony always loops back to one small word: my name - Fani.
I still remember trying to keep a straight face when an American friend said, with total grace: "Grab your fanny pack!" (Which, for the record for my non-American friends, is simply a pouched bag strapped around your waist.) In Australia, we called it a bum bag - which honestly made more sense.
Standing here now in LA - between three continents, three meanings, and three versions of myself - I realized something bigger:
Through all the clashing, all the adjusting - I’ve become exactly who I was always meant to be.
England gave me the confidence to embrace my imperfections.
LA taught me to be as extravagant, as unapologetically bold as I dared.
Rock a feathered coat to the grocery store?
Go for it.
The girl with the big dreams - and the even bigger fringe - found her spirit revived in LA.
My Greek heritage gave me passion, soul, intensity.
My Aussie upbringing grounded me in grit, humor, and friendliness.
I don't belong to just one place.
I belong to every memory, every contradiction, every hilarious mistranslation.
And somewhere in that patchwork,
I didn’t just find belonging.
I found myself.
I’ll always be that young girl - Fani - who once tried so hard to fit in.
But not anymore.
It was never about belonging or running away.
It was always about finding me.
You are an absolute GODDESS & the world will be blessed with your light ♥️🌞
❤️👛