Something to look forward to
A letter takes days, weeks, to arrive, and there's something exciting in that wait. We feel genuinely happy when it’s here.
About Notes from Down Under
The Frenchy behind the letters, and the platypus who tags along
I'm Victoire (or Vic), French and Australian by now, though it didn't feel that way at first. I moved from France to Australia two years ago, mostly for love, a little for adventure. I didn't plan on missing baguettes and (real) cheese as much as I do, or on falling for a bird that laughs like it's mocking you.
I started keeping a diary in my first few months here, partly to process how disorienting it all was, partly because I didn't want to forget the small details once they stopped feeling strange. A new grocery store layout. The first time someone called me "love" at the checkout. The particular quiet of an Australian summer evening.
Notes from Down Under grew out of that diary. Each month, I write one letter, still in that same voice, still about whatever's caught my attention that month. It's not curated or polished. It's closer to what I'd actually write a friend back home.
Vic & Ploc
Meet Ploc
Ploc showed up in my sketchbook not long after I arrived, drawn without much thought, the way doodles usually happen. He stuck around. Equal parts curious and a little lost, he became a stand-in for how I felt most days that first year: paying close attention to a place that was still unfamiliar.
He's not really a mascot. He's more of a companion, the one who notices the odd detail I might otherwise have written past. He shows up in the letters, on the stickers, and in the small illustrations tucked into each envelope.
If you've ever moved somewhere new and felt half-curious, half-out-of-place, Ploc is probably a fairly accurate self-portrait.
Why I send letters
It slows things down
You sit down, you make a cup of tea, you actually relax to read it. That kind of unhurried moment is so rare these days.
A few small pieces of me
A sticker and a postcard I drew, my own handwriting on the front. Little traces of an actual person, not just words on a screen.
