If there's one story I heard when I was growing up, oh, let me see, perhaps three hundred and sixty thousand times? It was the story of my mothers first trip to Renmark. It's not so much a story, but a moment. The moment when the bus made its way out of the city, and headed north to the top of Accommodation Hill, which is about an hour or so into what would have been a four hour journey.
"We came over the top of Accommodation Hill and there was just nothing, NOTHING! And I thought my lord, where am I going? There's nothing here!"
She was seventeen and going to party, a party where she would meet my father. And the rest, as they say, is history.
As a child I never thought too much about the fact that she was originally from the city. I guess there were times that I actually felt sorry for her that she couldn't call herself a born and bred Renmarkian. I mean, was there anywhere better than Renmark? If there was, I hadn't seen it.
If we went to the city in our summer holidays there were activities that my mother felt had to happen. We took the tram, we went to theatre, we visited Aunts, and we relived the stories that came with the spotting of a certain landmark. I'm sure my mother must have often wondered how differently her life may have been had she not got on that bus. She never said it out loud. It never once occurred to me as a child that she gave something up or left something behind.
"Where am I going? There was just nothing. NOTHING!"
At breakfast this morning I asked Mum about the bus ride, about meeting Dad at the party, about driving over the top of Accommodation Hill and seeing nothing.
"Now I can't wait to get over the top of Accommodation Hill - it means I'm nearly home."
The little travelers are having a fantastic holiday, but every now and then I catch a glimpse of uncomfortableness while they navigate their new surroundings. They are travelers living in a non traveling world. I've enrolled them in weekly activities with children who are in the midst of their routine, children who have arrived from school or home. The little travelers are rotating the same two pair of tracksuit pants, jeans and long sleeved shirts while sharing a room full of bunk beds in a familiar but not everyday address.
It's important to them to fit in, to be the "same". When you're eight you may love your individuality, but the last thing you want to be is the weird kid who didn't get the joke. "What's a bickie?" someone will whisper in my ear. "Just shorten every word and you'll be fine - biscuit, bikkie".
"That explains breaky" giggles the third traveler.
If I was to describe the organizational habits of the third little traveler it would probably be easier to just mention that I find it necessary to check he's remembered to wear his underwear before the leaving the house. He's a very relaxed child. T-shirt on back the front?
"Doesn't matter - I like it better this way".
Huge hole in the bum of your jeans?
"No-one will care Mum".
During the school year I think he managed one, perhaps two weeks of handing in his homework on time. This of course was homework that he had completed, but then somehow misplaced from the dinner table to his backpack. I found it under his pillow, I found it in the garage, I found it dripping wet next to the bathtub. "Thanks Mum! I was looking for that".
From the moment we arrived at our first set of swimming lessons our newness stood out. We had to ask where the change rooms were, we weren't sure which end of the pool to head to. Was it lane six to the right? Or lane six to the left? The little travelers eyed off the children who arrived in bathrobes over the top of their bathers, I could almost feel them telepathically questioning their lack of robe wear. Surely I would have realized that the bathrobe could have provided the camouflage to make them blend, they could have been just like everyone else. I watched them all wander towards their respective lanes for their first lesson and remembered the awkwardness of not knowing anyone, not understanding how it all worked, wanting somehow to return and begin at week three.
It wasn't until the third little traveler was standing by the pool that I realized he was wearing his bathers back to front. My heart melted at the predictable cuteness, but I prayed that no-one would notice. I then realized that he wasn't actually wearing his bathers, he had his younger brother's bathers on. I was now the mother with the small child in the long shorts and the tall child in the short shorts. Due to our mismanagement of beach towels (they are all in the Qatar house) I was also the mother of the children carrying mismatched bath towels. So uncool. I know this because I was told.
Today I swore I'd have them more organized. I followed the third traveler out of the change rooms and gave him a good looking over before he went off to his lesson, bathers were on the right way and tied at the front, goggles were in hand. We'd made it. I watched him wander off to his lane and then noticed the fourth traveler by the side of the pool - his pants were on inside out and his goggles were upside down.
I looked over at G and giggled at our aquatically challenged family. How hard is it to put a pair of bathers on? It was at this point that I discovered the third traveler, not only didn't he have a beach towel, he didn't even have a bath towel. He'd brought along a bath mat.
One of the hardest things about moving to Libya was the food. Okay, so the scenario with the goat in the basement, and the lack of a vehicle with a 2 year old and a three week old baby were a pain in the bum, but the goat disappeared and we eventually purchased a car. The food issue continued.
Don't get me wrong, I love humous and lamb, and one of my favourite dishes is Libyan soup, but in 2002 trying to buy a curry paste or a particular Asian cuisine was almost impossible. Our trips to Malta always involved a freezer bag and a extra suitcase that came home bulging with supplies.
We'd arrived in Libya after a long stint in Asia and in that time we'd become almost dependent on a weekly curry. We'd been incredibly spoilt to have the worlds best housekeeper while we lived in Jakarta. Yanti was a women who somehow managed to make Nasi Goreng appear out of nowhere, I swear our refrigerator could have a carrot and an onion and she would somehow manage to feed ten people. To this day I've never been able to recreate her Soto Ayam (Indonesian Chicken Soup).
I'd cheated in Kuala Lumpur by using the "Indofood" mix, but without the fresh supplies there was nothing available to me in Libya to recreate the flavour. My days of Soto Ayam appeared to be over. It wasn't that I mourned the food, I mourned the memory of it. In the same way that the smell of a tuna mornay can have me back sitting in my parent's lounge room in my netball uniform, watching an episode of Dallas. The smell of Soto Ayam will immediately take me back to Yanti standing in the kitchen with a mortar and pestle giggling away at the first little traveler and I playing a game of hide and seek. Soto Ayam had been a staple of my second pregnancy, I couldn't imagine not having it through my third. Ridiculous, I know.
From Libya we moved on to Calgary, two weeks on from our arrival we decided to go on a food hunt. The first stop was Chinatown - no luck. We then headed to the South East and found a strip mall with an Asian Grocer. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that when I found the box of Indofood there were tears. I stood looking at the packet and all of the familiar names that surrounded it. Nasi Goreng, Beef Rendang, Gado Gado - little flashes of familiar faces, dinners and friends flickered through my memory.
Last week as I wandered through Chinatown, I found myself searching through the boxes of Indofood. I wasn't having any luck and when the assistant walked by he was able to tell me they were out of Soto Ayam.
"Are you sure?" I was desperate, we're on our last packet in Doha.
A woman standing at the cash register took at look at my pitiful display and yelled across the supermarket "look in the box on the floor". There it was, at our feet, a entire box of Soto Ayam. The little travelers raced off to find clear noodles and fried onion, I said thank you to the woman at the cash register a few extra times more than were comfortable. I know this because the first little traveler told me to stop being so embarrassing.
One day I'll learn how to make a proper Soto Ayam without the help of Indofood, but in the meantime finding that yellow packet in supermarkets around the world is just enough to take me back. That familiar yellow packet can have me in a kitchen in Jakarta, a house in Malaysia, and standing with tears in my eyes in a supermarket in Calgary. Sometimes it has nothing to do with the actual food. It's about a time, a place and something you're just not ready to give up.
Do you have a dish or a type of food that you're not willing to let go? Something that triggers a memory of a time gone by?
It was almost a rite of passage where I grew up. Each summer as the school year ended we'd watch the fruit ripening and talk about where we'd be "cutting cots". The boys picked, the girls cut - unless your parents owned the property, then you just did whatever you were told to do (and prayed for a bit of tractor time).
The temperatures were usually in the high 30's, early 40's. We stood on a concrete floor under a tin shed, which often had a sprinkler sitting on its roof in a futile attempt to cool things down. It didn't work.
We dressed in shorts and sleeveless shirts and arrived carrying coolers of icy cold cordial and sandwiches packed in our lunch boxes. The only tool required was a knife. The trays were a heavy splintered wood. You'd begin by placing your first tray at a low level, and as each tray was completed you'd stack another on top, again and again until you couldn't reach any further.
My sister and I would stand across from each other trying to look like we weren't in a race, but we were. Cut the apricot in half, flick the stone in the bin at your feet, place the two halves down on the tray. Repeat. Cut the apricot in the half, flick the stone in the bin at your feet, place the two halves down on the tray. Repeat. Cut the apricot in half...
There were so many rituals within the ritual. How many trays did you cut before you stopped for a break. How many trays did you stack before you moved them and began again. We'd listen to bad radio and giggle at the "cash classifieds". "What have you got for us today?" the announcer would ask "Well Tim, I've got three beautiful crocheted toilet roll holders I'd like to sell" The shed would erupt into giggles.
I remember the day that the "Fresh Food People" began selling the Turkish Apricots. I remember the look of dismay on my father's face when he told us we'd soon be seeing dried apricots shipped from Turkey in our local supermarket. The Turkish apricots were cheaper to produce, they weren't cut in half, they were just pressed flat and thrown into a packet. I imagined the person who made the decision, sitting in their corporate office doing the numbers. Making a choice that cheaper was better. Better for the bottom line.
Slowly over time, the apricot trees disappeared. As did the rituals. I remember years later scouring the supermarkets in the city looking for an old style dried apricot, they were nowhere to be found.
On the weekend I was wandering through the farmers market and literally squealed at my discovery. Hand cut, dried and packed into little ziplock bags, there they were. I think I may have scared the woman at the stall with my excitement "it's so good to find REAL apricots" she smiled, nodded and quickly made eye contact with someone else.
I took my new discovery home and placed them on a tray, face up and neatly in line, until I realized what I was doing and quickly jumbled them all up.
Old habits die hard.
Did you have a summer job? Have you seen a ritual from your childhood disappear?
I remember reading about SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) in the 80's, at the time I wasn't entirely convinced that you could become depressed by not having enough sunlight in your life.
And then I moved in to our compound.
We have plenty of sunlight in Doha. Scorching sunlight to be precise. Unfortunately though, often Middle Eastern design means that many of us are relatively windowless at the front of our homes. While this is highly conducive to privacy, it can make for very dark rooms at certain times of the day.
I find that if the room is dark and gloomy, my mood will soon match it. I'm a person who needs bright and light, this became apparent to my parents when as a child, I requested that my room be painted bright yellow. I can still picture my mother's face "Are you sure dear? Bright yellow?" I love open windows, sheer curtains, white linen, and lots of bright colour interspersed amongst it.
The children refer to the beach house as our inside/outside house. On warmer days we slide both the back and front glass doors open and pretend we're camping, only we have polished concrete floors and electrical appliances. On cooler days the doors are closed but the blinds are always up, I need to be able to look outside. We're lucky that our street is a quiet one, I probably wave to four or five people a day as they wander past with their dogs.
I often stand here at the kitchen sink staring out at the trees - because I can.
This morning when the rain stopped, the second little traveler said "look at the rain drops glistening in the trees". And I did, because I can.
I had about an hour of child free time this afternoon where I sat here and pretended to write. While I pretended to write I had a cup of coffee, wiped down a few surfaces, put some music on, and folded some washing. That took me about an hour. Oops.
And then the view changed.
This weekend we'll be filling this table with family and friends, there will be more dinners, more wine, more endless morning coffees, newspaper sharing and trips to the bakery - because we can.
Doha has an annual rainfall of roughly 75 mm per year. You can count the number of times it rains on one hand, possibly two if its been a big year. When it does rain, it doesn't last for long, but it's always a BIG event. If you've ever watched a movie that included a scene about when the drought broke, you'll be familiar with the moment where everyone stands outside in the rain rejoicing, children jump through puddles while adults embrace.
It looks a little like that on our compound in Qatar a few times a year.
It began raining here last night and now, roughly fifteen hours later, it's still going. The little travelers have been outside with umbrellas and gum boots with their faces pointing to the sky while they catch rain drops on their tongue. The novelty is bound to wear off by tomorrow, but at the moment it's a pretty funny thing to watch. The excitement of rain.
Everything is a novelty when you return home. The accents, the food, the familiar restaurants, the ease of asking someone where something is and having them point you in the right direction to find it. Yesterday I sat in wonder as I watched people at the doctors surgery. Doctors came out to the reception area calling people's names clearly while they made small talk on their way back to their rooms. My own doctor sat and told me about her own UTI problems, the school concert and her future holiday. I actually started to get tears in my eyes at the beautiful normality of life in Australia.
Don't get me wrong, health care in Qatar is adequate, but everything is done with a small form of interpretation required on my part. Nurses chat and giggle while speaking a different language, which is fine while you're standing in the reception area. Although, it can be a little uncomfortable thirty minutes later in the in the doctors room, when you've been asked to remove your pants. Not being able to understand what's being said or giggled at when you're the only one in the room with their bum on display, can leave you feeling a little self conscious.
When your doctor begins a conversation with "Do you speak French?" it's possible you may find yourself googling the contents of your prescription when you get home. When his next question is "Do you speak Arabic?" you will be forced to admit that you are a complete dullard when it comes to linguistics, whatever illness you have, you surely deserve it for being so uneducated.
So while the novelty continues I will remember to appreciate it and respect it, until I eventually take it for granted and ignore it.
Until then, just excuse me while I head outside to stand in the rain.
My mother rang me the other morning, after two or three minutes of talking she asked in a very motherly way "do you have a cold? You sound like you have a cold?" I told her no I was just a bit croaky. I felt fine. Later that night I realized I had been struck down with a head cold from hell. How do mothers do that?
Over the weekend my neighbour mentioned she'd been struggling with a UTI. I said with just a little too much pride that I was the queen of UTI's but hadn't had one for a year. Today as I sat watching the little travelers take part in swimming lessons a familiar feeling took hold. Six sachets of ural, two litres of water and a scheduled doctors appointment for tomorrow, and it's safe to say I'm back wearing my UTI crown.
I'm really hoping I don't meet anyone in the near future with hemorrhoids.
G has been a superstar this evening while I've sat in bed nursing a big glass of cranberry juice. The second little traveler, who is a BIG fan of chocolate cake arrived breathless at my beside asking for my phone to take a picture because "Dads made a cake that he thinks is definitely blog worthy!" The first little traveler took this shot (it's important that I tell you this).
Without a word of exaggeration. This was the best piece of chocolate cake I have EVER had in my life.
I love the way that it's explained as "the little black dress of chocolate cakes" in the clip below.
Do you have a little black dress recipe? Or a cure for UTI's?
At the second little travelers end of year choir concert, the big finale came in the form of a Disney medley. With a grin from ear to ear, the second little traveler "Zip-a-dee-doo dah'd and supercalifragilisticexpialidocious'd before she ended with a big hearty hakuna matata. It was a whole new world. Literally.
At the end of the concert the principal asked for a show of hands on who was feeling nostalgic for Disneyland. Anyone who'd lived in North America and had been to the happiest place on earth shot up their hand. He went on to ask who was heading to Disneyland this summer and a mixture of hands rose through the crowd. I watched the second little traveler take notes on the numbers, this was information she was going to be using in the future when trying her luck at negotiating our next family holiday.
When the principal wished us all a happy and wonderful summer, full of ice-creams, sunshine and summer fun, a few of us realized he'd forgotten that a number of us were heading south. Our "summer" wasn't going to be a summer at all. Our summer break from June - August, is what we technically refer to in Australia as, winter.
I've been asked many times why we choose to come to Australia. It's a long flight, it's expensive, we need to pack accordingly and apart from a brief two weeks, all of the other children here are at school. I am often reminded that we could fly to Greece, Italy, France or the UK in under eight hours and that we need to be making the most of these opportunities while we have them at hand. There's only one small problem.
None of those places are home.
As I type, the little travelers are just returning from the beach. In an eclectic ensemble of their canadian toques (beanies if you're an Aussie), board shorts, fleeces and gum boots, they will spend hours jumping through the waves, collecting shells and making literary statements with sticks in the sand. Today's big excitement came in the form of a whale spotted from the shore.
As we drove through the vineyards today stopping here and there for wine tastings mixed in with chocolate and cheese discoveries, I had a quick glimpse through my email. The Qatar meteorology department had sent out a warning that Doha would be facing a week of a daily 49 degrees, they were reminding me to keep hydrated.
I'm not sure if my current methods of hydration were what they had in mind.
At this point in time though, I couldn't think of a better place to be right now.
And I think they're pretty happy here too (even if it's not Disneyland).
Henry Hotdog continues to be blown away by every piece of Australiana he sees.
"Hey look! That building has an Australian flag on it".
"Hey look! That man has an Australian flag on his uniform."
"Hey look! That sign had a picture of a kangaroo on it - look out for kangaroos everyone."
The third little traveler had finally had enough this morning and said "you get it that we're in Australia don't you?"
It hasn't curbed his enthusiasm.
At times I feel like I'm driving a tour bus.
"Hey look at all the grass. Have you ever seen so much grass?" We were driving on a major highway and he was pointing to a median strip.
"What'ya call that tree Mum? Is that a gum tree? Do you think it's got koala's in it?"
He was pointing to a Jacaranda tree.
Australia in Henry's eyes is the land of wondrous noises, places and food.
"What's that noise?"
"Birds" the third traveler announces in a monotone.
"Are they always so loud? They're booootiful"
The third traveler looks at me and shakes his head in a where did you find this guy manner.
At about 1am this morning I woke up to hear him calling out to his brother, he was jet lagged and confused about the time, he thought it was time to get up. "Fred, Fred, are you awake? Fred, Fred, its morning. Fred, Fred, Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed".
I went into his room to find Fred with a pillow over his head, I carried Henry Hotdog to my bed.
"What's that noise?" he looked alarmed.
"It's rain, big fat heavy drops of rain. There's nothing better than the sound of rain on the roof when you're snuggled up in bed" I tell him.
He looks confused.
"I don't get it? Why did you and Dad ever leave this place? I mean, they make the best donuts here!"
I was watching David Beckham on a chat show a few years ago, someone asked how he felt about all of the derogatory Beckham jokes that seemed to be on high rotation. Did it worry him that everyone assumed he was as thick as the proverbial brick? His response was to tell a few of his favourites. He told the story of how he supposedly went to the hairdressers and refused to take his head phones off. When the hairdresser asked if he could remove them just for a moment to cut around his ears, David Beckham gave a definite "no" explaining that his headphones were a matter of life and death. The hairdresser couldn't bear it, he had to listen. He bent down to Beckahm's ear and lifted the ear piece only to hear a voice giving instructions - "breathe in, breath out, breathe in, breathe out".
In my last week in Doha, I needed some headphones. I forgot to breathe.
The horror of the fire at Villagio meant that I lost perspective. I watched friends support others while quietly falling apart themselves, and struggled to understand how or why something so unthinkable could have happened. We'd all been to that nursery, we could all see ourselves there, picture our children in exactly the same position. The world felt a little surreal to say the least. How do you go to the Grade six band concert or the class party when others are organizing funerals and saying their goodbyes? I watched a lot of things happen in that week in Doha that made my stomach turn, self promotion and grief porn made me angry, while the stories of those who were quietly mourning broke my heart. There are so many sad and torturous stories that came from that day, so many people have been affected.
The flight over was consumed by a sick little traveler who went through four or five vomit bags before passing out. Our overnight experience in Melbourne was a blur of electronic hotel cards that didn't work and internet access that never happened. I changed flight times over the phone and then crawled into bed with the boys. And then something happened. I woke up a few hours later, it was still dark but I could see the flicker of an Australian flag billowing outside my window while the tails of Qantas planes shimmered in the distance. I realized I'd made it. I was a long way away from where I'd been, in more ways than one.
I'm on the other side. I've entered a different world. On morning television people talk about Billy Connolly movies, football games and storms that are causing damage across the country. The normality is heaven. I listen and watch familiar faces with familiar voices while I sip my morning coffee. I continually look at my watch, which is still set at Doha time. I think about the girls constantly. Did the orthodontist appointment get changed? Did G buy white bread for the fairy bread she needs for her class party? They have one and half days left. When they get here, I'll adjust my watch and my thinking, my thoughts will all be in the same time zone.
Our beach house is about forty five minutes out of Adelaide, there's a familiar conversation that happens here, it's about the road that leads to our little piece of heaven, the road that automatically makes your shoulders drop and your blood pressure decrease.
At the end of the road is this
I don't need the headphones anymore. I sit at the beach with my boys and a cup of coffee each morning, and I breathe and I breath and I breathe.
I'm packed and I still have thirty minutes before we have to leave for the airport. This fact deserves a blog post of it's own.
It's about 40 degrees outside, the air-conditioning is getting a work out after days, possibly weeks of 40 plus temperatures - and I'm sitting here on my bed dressed in wooly tights, knee high boots and two layers of clothing. I look and feel ridiculous.
I'm in the transition stage. This is the part where the two universes collide. One minute you're standing at an immigration desk in one country saying "shukrun" to a man in a thobe, the next you're grinning from ear to ear with a "thanks mate" to an aussie with an accent so strong, you could lean over the customs desk and give him a big kiss.
We're doing things a little differently this year, tonight it's just the boys and I. G will be following with the girls in a few days when they've got through their last week at school. The idea behind me leaving early is that I can go ahead and get the house set up and the boring stuff out of the way before we begin our holiday together. There are beds to be made, groceries to be bought and hire cars to be collected and doctors appointments to be had.
The girls have given me very important instructions. "Make sure you get nutrigrain" and "Can you go to the Farmers Market and get a venison pie?" They've also had instructions for the boys "don't even THINK about sleeping in the top bunk or you're dead. DEAD".
Packing for an Australian winter has meant that I've pulled out clothes I haven't seen for months. Fleeces and jackets, tracksuit pants and thick socks. I carefully went through an inventory of children's clothes at the beach house when we left last September, I was sure I was making the packing process faster. I remember proudly telling G that we wouldn't have to bring very much home as I'd kept "things" behind.
I now have no idea what those "things" are.
One day I'll get the hang of this. I will be an expert in leading two lives.
In a world of parallel universes, I'm about to cross over.
For some of you, perhaps those in South Africa and Australia, it's the middle of the year. Winter has arrived and life is moving along at its usual speed, you may even notice that you're settling in and the schedule is beginning to make sense. For others in the Northern Hemisphere it's a whole different story.
My girlfriend Cathy, once described the lead up to summer as being similar to the end of the spin cycle in a washing machine. It gets faster and faster and faster, and just when you think the washing machine is going to lift off the ground, it stops dead. Summer has arrived.
We're at the height of the spin cycle. Last minute assignments are being done for report cards. Projects are being printed with screams of "we've run out of ink!" I have two trips to make to the school today for different presentations. I calmed a twelve year old trombone player this morning while she sat on bed, she is sure that her Trombone will lock and it will all be a disaster. There is fairy bread to be made for class parties. Jobs that I've left on the "to do" list that now REALLY have to be done as I'm about to disappear for twelve weeks. There are the phone calls to Australia for confirmation; the hire car, the doctors appointment, the transit hotel, the hairdresser.
And the suitcase sits in the corner smiling it's big empty smile.
Every now and then I open a drawer and look at something and mutter under my breath "mustn't forget that". The laptop power adapter and the sim card with my Australian number. The invoice for the print I had framed in Adelaide last year and then forgot to pick up before we left. The scratchy instant money ticket that was never claimed at the news agency. I've pulled out the children's library cards and my reward program that I have with the local grocer. As I put them into plastic pockets I can see myself standing in the store using them. I'm at the newsagents on a Saturday morning flicking through a big fat 'Australian' newspaper making sure it has the magazine inside. I'm at the butchers talking about his son, asking if he's been over to Melbourne to visit the grandkids. I'm giggling at the hairdressers, catching up on ten months worth of stories. I can see myself opening my friend Penny's gate, walking along the side of her house, being sad for her when I remember that Bella the labrador is no longer there to slobber over our feet.
I'm so ready to get home. Events in the last week have left us all emotionally exhausted. None of us want to forget, but we all want to escape. I feel a great need to walk along the beach, watch the waves come in, smell the air, and experience the comfort of understanding where I am and how things work. It makes no sense, there is beach here in Qatar, but I want the rolling waves, the kiosk, the cliffs and the jetty. I need to get to Renmark and see the river. I need to see a local policeman, a fire truck and a council office, to be reminded of the order that comes with community and local government. It sounds ridiculous doesn't it? Maybe not if you're currently living in a developing country.
The little travelers are tired. The temperatures are in the high forties now and we've all had colds. The third little traveler has had an ear infection and cannot swim which is just cruel, but his ear needs to be better to be on the plane. I'm constantly filling them all with vitamin c, telling them to hang on. It's getting harder to get them out of bed and they, like me, already have their heads and hearts somewhere else. "What's the first thing you're going to eat?" I heard one of the boys ask the other "a sausage, and then a freddo frog and then a crumpet and then..."
The spin cycle winds up and continues to whir and shudder, but we're so close.
At a seventies party in Jakarta, I found myself in the middle of the dance floor speaking with two afro wearing Brits. Between beverages and outdated dance moves, we had the usual expat speed dating conversation. "Where are you from? How long have you been here? How long are you here for?
To avoid the long winded I'm from a small country town but I went to school in Adelaide and G and I moved here from Perth conversation - I ran with something simpler. "If I tell you where I'm from exactly, you may not have heard of it - it's just easier to say South Australia".
"Oh really?" my new British besties were beginning to get excited. "We're off to South Australia in a couple of months. We're going on a houseboat. We're picking up the boat in a place called Renmark".
It was at this point that I began to hyperventilate. Tears welled in my eyes. I may have been bouncing on the spot. Brimming with home town pride I announced to the entire party "OH MY GOD! THAT'S WHERE I'M FROM!"
At this stage there may have been much hugging, a few tears, and a very embarrassed G who began stepping away slowly from the scene.
The Brits both stood there beaming while I told them how clever they had been with their holiday selection. I relived childhood memories on the water, houseboat trips with friends, and boating adventures with family. In my excitement it's possible I may have gone as far to use the cliche 'Gods Own Country'. There's nothing quite like an Australian out of her natural habitat, I was only a drink or two away from breaking out with I still call Australia home.
I couldn't shut up. "I'm so excited for you. It's the most beautiful country, the river, the wildlife, the creeks and the fruit trees amongst the gums. You've picked a fantastic place to holiday. It's just beautiful. You're going to have an amazing time".
They didn't.
They were bored, they had nothing to do. After seven hours of cruising down the river it occurred to them that this was it. Every gum tree began to morph into the next. There were no restaurants conveniently placed amongst "the outback", nowhere to get a latte, no other children for their children to play with. There were only so many games of scrabble they could play. My idea of "Gods Own Country" had them praying for an end to their holiday.
Is it possible that if there is a "Gods Own Country" it has to be somewhere you have an emotional tie?
My friend Mike swears that his hometown of Swift Current, Saskatchewan is Gods Own Country. This is a town flat enough that if your dog runs away, you can watch it run for days. After suggesting it to backpackers in his travels, they rang him when they arrived with only one question "who is your God?"
Today on twitter I received a new message from a follower who stated his location as "Gods Own Country". Where could that be? I asked the twitterverse, presuming it had to be Queensland or Texas, immediately someone jumped in with Kerala, India. Controversy ensured. Patriotism rose from the inter webs.
The beautiful Eden from Edenland (if you're not reading her blog you're missing out) posted this little gem this morning. For a girl who hasn't been home for ten months and is six sleeps away from her Australian bed, this was enough to have me humming waltzing matilda while spreading my vegemite.
Today I went along to the Grade Three "Culture Fair" at the little travelers school. Each child had to represent a country they had never been to, and knew nothing about. They then put together a "culture box". I was fascinated by the little girl on the Australian table who taught me how to speak Australian. She showed me a hat with corks swinging from its brim "this is what Australians wear to keep the mosquitos away"
"I must get one".
She looked at me blankly for a moment and decided to continue.
"Do you know how Australians ask "What do you think?"
I didn't.
"They say whaddayareckon" we both giggled.
Do you know how they say excuse me when they don't hear you?
Once again I wasn't sure.
"Aye"
"Excuse me?" I pretended not to hear.
She didn't see the irony.
Interestingly if you google "Gods Own Country" you'll find that the earliest recorded use of the phrase was in New Zealand. Yep, they've claimed not only the pavlova, but now they want the phrases as well. What's that? Where's New Zealand? I was lucky enough to find a map when I was at the Grade Three Culture Fair. Here it is!
The normal continues. The dentist, the doctors, the school drop offs, the packing of suitcases for the school holidays. It's the not normal though, the not normal jumps in front of our faces, stopping us in our tracks.
The first little traveler had an orthodontist appointment this morning. They rang us to say we had to go to a different venue. In amongst everything happening I'd forgotten that our orthodontist is located at Villagio. We chose him because his offices had all of the latest equipment and he is possibly the most gentlest, kindest orthodontist you could imagine. He is the father of small children and understands the irrational fear of a dental mould.
I've been having a recurring dream, I'm in the middle of the ocean with the little travelers. We have nothing to hold on to and there is no land in sight. There's a really distinct moment where I realize I cannot hold all four travelers, and I know they will not be able to tread water on their own for much longer. I try to keep a calm voice, I'm telling them that everything is okay. The youngest traveler is getting tired and keeps pulling me down. I have to decide whether to let go, for the sake of the others. Do I wait and be with them while they all drown? Or do I go first trying to hold them all up? The idea of leaving them in the ocean is enough to wake me up, it's a feeling of nausea and fear that greets me. It is truly the worst dream I've ever experienced.
The orthodontist told the first traveler that he'd seen her on the news, she was by my side at the vigil. She didn't smile when he mentioned it. He looked at us both and I could see his eyes were tearing up. He went on to tell his story, the alarms, the evacuation - everyone has a story of where they were when it happened. When we got back in the car the first traveler talked about the cameras at the vigil, about how invasive they were. One cameraman from Al Jazeera locked in on our faces, he was maybe a metre away and just sat there for about five minutes or more focussing in. "Why didn't we push him away Mummy". I didn't have an answer. "I think we were all just in shock, it wasn't about us - we didn't really understand why they were filming us".
If I had my time again, I'd ask that cameraman where he was the day before. The day when the fire was happening and we didn't have any answers. Aren't news crews usually the first on the scene? Why wasn't he outside filming then? Not one local news crew?
I kept asking on twitter "does anyone know if the children are out?" I got different responses and all of them were bad, until finally someone who I knew would have known, told me "it's not good".
The normal continues. After the orthodontist the first little traveler and I stopped for a hot chocolate. We talked about the holidays, swimming lessons and math tests. We giggled about Daddy and his terrible "Dad's jokes", about sleepovers and something funny the social studies teacher had said. And then she told me "I was crying at the vigil because of the Mummy - she was so sad".
I explained that this is why we worry so much. This is why we talk about running across the road and learning how to swim and being careful on your bike, because we can't imagine a life without you or the pain that we would be in if we had to say goodbye.
The normal continues, but it remains to be interrupted by the not normal. The conversations, the reminders, the nightmares and the stories. One foot in front of each other - the normal continues.
