Priceless

This is the treasure I found a few days ago. I was relieved, because I'd been thinking about this card and wondering where exactly I'd put it for safe-keeping. I've even mentioned it once, in an earlier post.

This yellowing card means the world to me. It belonged to my paternal grandmother, who died when my father was just a boy himself. With the exception of my father's brother and sister, broken relationships took away any ties I might have had with that side of the family - my grandfather remarried, and I never knew him.

My grandmother was a woman ahead of her time. She travelled overseas, extensively, and worked her way around as a nurse on ships and in the UK. She visited impoverished countries and got off the beaten track, decades before the term 'backpacker' had been coined.

This is all I know about her, and that breast cancer took her far too early. A handful of faded black and white photos gives me an idea of what she looked like, and that's it. She is a quarter of who I am, and I would have loved to have known her.

This card came into my possession when I was in my mid-twenties, and visiting home from the UK for a decent hit of sunshine. The other day, looking at my grandmother's address on this card, it bugged me. Why hadn't I been to see this address? The building? The neighbourhood? I'd lived in London long enough - why didn't I do those things? Then I remembered - by the time I'd been given this card, J and I were no longer living in London. We'd moved to Brighton and I only went back to London for the occasional weekend to visit friends. In general, though, I'd distanced myself from London. When I returned for my final year in the UK, it simply didn't occur to me to make the journey from Brighton to see where my grandmother had lived.

A quick view on Google Maps shows me that it was an area of London I'd actually spent a decent amount of time walking around, as I'd taught in a nearby community centre. It was an area very near to where we spent our first few nights in London. I love that.

I also love the conditions of membership, inside the card - back in the days when Youth Hostel membership really was intended for those who wanted to roam the English countryside. Do not disturb cattle or sheep. Do not rob birds' nests. Be specially careful never to foul pools or streams. That last one, in particular, makes me smile. I can't for the life of me remember the conditions when I joined - nearly fifty years later - but I have a feeling they didn't include these.

This card is my very own piece of time travel.

Priceless.

Zombies and crushes

First of all, let me start by stating that I don't 'do' zombie films (with the exception of the very funny Shaun of the Dead - but being a comedy, it's entirely different). I don't do any horror films. It's just not my thing, and I don't enjoy films or TV shows when I'm watching them with from between the fingers of my hands over my eyes, and jumping out of my skin. Plus, gore is gross. I simply don't have the stomach for it.

I've recently had to review my stance, though, and this is my reason why. Andrew Lincoln. He falls under the category of British Actors I'd Run Away With. Ahem. Clive Owen is also on the list.

(Photo source)

I've had a thing for Andrew Lincoln for, oh, well over a decade? He may have lovely blue eyes and a puppy-dog face, but mostly, it's his voice. There's a hypnotic drowsiness to it like no other actor's, and I could just close my eyes and listen to him forever. Yeah, I know. That sounds scarily stalkerish.

I was first drawn to him during my student days, when my housemates and I became hooked on a British  TV drama called This Life. A few years later, when J and I moved to London, the very first film we saw at the cinema was Human Traffic. He only had a small role in it, but it was a film that I identified with at the time. We were young whippersnappers and lost the odd weekend here and there to clubbing. 

I bought Human Traffic's soundtrack, which is mixed with soundbites from the film, including a line by Andrew Lincoln's character. Here's the sad thing: when bored while travelling on the tube, inside the private cocoon of my Discman, I used to replay that line - just to hear his voice. One more time. 

(You'll be relieved to know I wouldn't able to pinpoint which track number it's on anymore. I've since moved on, just a little...)

Anyhow, over the years that we lived in the UK, I saw him in various films and TV shows. To people living outside Britain,  you may know him from the sickeningly saccharine Love Actually. His character was the best man, in love with his mate's bride (played by Keira Knightley). It doesn't matter how many times it's been on TV now. If I flip over the channels and catch one of the scenes with him? I'm swooning all over again. It makes up for the insufferable Hugh Grant.

It's been a while since I've seen anything with Andrew Lincoln, as I suppose less of his work has been aired in Australia. So I put him out of my mind, quite a few years ago.

Until recently, when J mentioned that he wanted to see an American series called The Walking Dead. I'd heard about it, and knew it was about zombies. Ugh. I also knew Andrew Lincoln was in it. My 'boyfriend', as J teases me.

So I acquiesced, and Netflix sent us the first disc from the series yesterday.

The character that Andrew Lincoln plays is an American policeman, in the South (Georgia). I knew that his voice would sound different from what I'm used to, but I wasn't prepared for how much it distracted me, at first. I'm so used to his British voice that I was surprised at how different he sounds in The Walking Dead. Not just his accent, but his pitch is slightly higher. Perhaps that makes it easier to do such a different accent? I know, I know, it's called acting.

It bothered me at first, but then I remembered - I like Southern accents. I love Southern accents. 

Andrew Lincoln's voice, Southern-style? I could get used to that. I'll have to listen again, I think. One more time.

But the gore? Oh my, the gore. It is full on, and I have a whole series of that to get through. I may just have to close my eyes and listen...

The West End Girl

Lately, I seem to have my head stuck in the past. Not in a bad way, I hope. Not in the sad sense of reliving moments of glory, and yearning for the 'good old days'.

For a start, I don't think I've ever had proper moments of real glory. Not in the true sense of the word.

Instead, I've just been having little moments of nostalgia, and appreciating those memories, the small gems in my life so far, because I know there are plenty more to come.

In the last week, I've heard "West End Girls" by the Pet Shop Boys, twice. I hadn't heard it for years, and it brought back quite a few memories. Hearing it twice, when out and about, was a sign for me to give in, and let some of these memories wash over me.

I remember being a little obsessed with the song as a 16-year-old, when I bought Discography: The Complete Singles Collection. It was back when CDs hadn't been around for long, and was the second or third CD I bought with my part-time earnings. 

I used to plug the head phones from my old walkman into my gleaming, boxy CD player at night, when the house was quiet. I would sit in an old armchair in my room, listening to this album. I would replay "West End Girls" at the end of the album, several times, before being content enough to climb into bed and sleep. This was before Discmans were around, and the idea of something like an iPod would have been unthinkable. I think I eventually copied it onto a tape, so I could listen to it in bed with my Walkman.

By the time my CD collection had expanded considerably, I was living in London.

Strangely - given I lived in London for nearly four years - I don't have a great deal of photos of London in my albums. I'm sure I have plenty of rejected pics tucked away in a shoe box, but those are in storage on the other side of the world right now. The photos which made it into my albums tend to be of people and friends - as we hung out at many a smoke-filled London pub, or holidays and foreign places. I guess London didn't feel foreign enough for me to get snap happy and document it - who knows?

I had a complicated relationship with that city.

I loved it in the beginning and have amazing memories of my first summer there, discovering the nooks and crevices, the history... but once summer came to an end, London slowly lost its shine for me.

Day to day life pulled me down. Earning a meagre wage, trying to make ends meet - and also save for more travel - in a city with a hefty cost of living. The cold. The grey skies. The darkness at 4pm. The grit in the air. The passive aggressive behaviour on the London Tube. The slightly too polite veneers of people. The way that nobody said what they really meant, directly - just in roundabout ways. For an Australian, there is nothing more frustrating.

I read a quote once, of London being one big toilet bowl. For a while, that's how it felt to me.

I functioned, but wasn't happy. I functioned, but didn't feel like I was really living. Although I never saw a doctor, or spoke to anyone about it, I'm pretty sure that I was depressed. Not to the extent that so many people I know have suffered it, but I think it was there, nonetheless. I was just very good at hiding it.

Time and distance eventually helped. Moving south to Brighton, I began to mostly see good in London when I caught the train up, for weekends with friends. I fell in love with the city again, but it was a long distance relationship. I knew I couldn't be there full time.

This is why hearing the Pet Shop Boys this week has brought back such vivid memories of that time in my life. Just hearing those two words: west end... it all comes rushing back. Colours, sounds, smells.

Throughout those years of living in London, no matter what kind of crappy day, week, month I'd been having, an afternoon or evening in the West End was a guaranteed good time.

It was only a twenty-minute Tube ride into the West End, and I loved the anticipation of what might unfold. I loved walking around, soaking up the atmosphere as it changed from one area to the next. Alone, with J, or with friends, there was always something to see or do. 

Window shopping in Covent Garden. Coffee in Soho. Bookshops in Bloomsbury. Jumping on the back of a red double decker bus on Oxford Street, just like the intro to Man About the House. Huge galleries near Trafalgar Square. Stalking squirrels in Hyde Park. Theatre in Covent Garden. Cocktails in Covent Garden. Clubbing and boat restaurants near Embankment. Bright lights and greasy take-away at 3am in Piccadilly Circus. 

Something for everyone.

It's been more than seven years since we left the UK, and the memories have shifted in a way I never imagined they would. When we first left, I believed that was it. Finished. Never going back. 

Over time, though, a rose-tinted glow has formed and I find myself entertaining the idea of going back. Not to live, but to visit. Catch up with friends. I'm curious to see what's new, what has changed - apart from me. I don't know if it'll ever happen, but the fact that I'm even considering it one day is a big turnaround.

Globetrotting and physical links

My parents have only recently acquired passports, and having grandkids living overseas was a big factor for them. They've never had any real yearn to visit foreign places.

For as long as I can remember, I've had a list - a mile long - of places to see. Some of which are the standard destinations most people dream about, and others a little more exotic.

During my university years, I never doubted that I would head overseas as soon as possible, and a year after graduating, I had enough airfare saved up for a trip to the UK. It wasn't my original destination that I'd begun saving for, but J was keen to try and gain more experience in his chosen field. The UK had the best opportunities for him, so with working holiday visas under our belt, we said our goodbyes to Sydney on a wintery day - and a day later - stepped into a summer heat wave in London.

We had no idea how long we'd stay for. Maybe six months. Maybe a couple of years.

It ended up being nearly five years. In that time, J had managed to get work visa sponsorship, and we got hitched on a wet spring day in London. I worked - briefly - in catering at London Zoo, followed by a lengthy stint in a pub, before doing a little more study and finally moving into English language teaching.

In those five years, I managed to also visit more than twenty countries. Some were amazing, some were not so impressive. Many of these places I visited together with J, but quite a few I travelled around, solo. None were particularly exotic, but I always made sure to get off the beaten track when I could.

Package tours have never appealed to me, so the only time I ever used a travel agent was to purchase my very first flight to London. The rest of my travels were pretty much based on word of mouth and the contents from my beloved Lonely Planets and Rough Guides. While I haven't exactly been trekking through the Himalayas, I never needed anyone to hold my hand either.

I love travel. I love - literally - losing myself in another place. One of my fondest memories is of arriving in Venice, without a map, and deciding to wander around for a few hours before buying one. Hearing old church bells chime as I crossed small bridges, peeked around old cracked corners, gazed down dark green canals and inhaled the smells in the air. Not having a clue where I was. Hearing the hustle and bustle fade within just a few streets off the main tourist drags, and encountering nothing but the sound of trickling water from a fountain in a small, deserted piazza. Did I mention that I love Italy?

I may only have thirty-six hours in San Francisco coming up, but I cannot wait. I want to lose myself again.

For a long time, I wondered where I got my love of travel from. It certainly wasn't anything from my childhood. Then on a visit back to Australia, after I'd been overseas for three or four years, I learned that my grandmother had travelled extensively when she was younger.

I never knew her. Sadly, she died of breast cancer, many years before I was born, and I've only ever seen a handful of black and white photos of her. To learn that she had a love of travel was a wonderful thing to hear.

She worked her way as a nurse around the world, back in the late 1940s and early 1950s, when single women rarely travelled. Australia, Papua New Guinea, Sri Lanka... winding up in England for a while. I now have her stamped, card membership for Hostelling International in the UK - so different from my own plastic card membership.

This yellowing piece of card is precious to me. It's the physical link to a woman I never knew.

I wonder what conversations she and I would have, if she were still alive today. What stories would we exchange and share?

I wonder just how much of her is in me.

Grand Canal, Venice - 2000

Ozzy! Ozzy! Ozzy!

It feels as though Americans love Australians. In the time that we've been living here, I don't think I've received a single negative comment about my nationality. They don't always guess where I'm from correctly, and it's not uncommon to be mistaken for a Brit, but there's always curiosity.

Maybe their excitement at meeting an "Ossy" is because Americans like to be so externally positive about  everything. Maybe it is or isn't genuine.... I don't care. I choose to feel the love. And not point out that actually, we say Aussie like "Ozzy". As in Ozzy Osbourne.

It's refreshing to have strangers go all gushy when they learn I'm Australian.

You see, a good chunk of my twenties was spent living in England - mostly London. Over there, Australians really are a dime a dozen. We are everywhere. You only need to spend one trip on the London Underground to hear a nasal, uprising intonation cut through the carriage's air. Over there, we're not special.

The pub I worked at, many moons ago

For a while, I was the ultimate cliché: an Aussie bar maid. I enjoyed meeting such interesting - albeit drunken - characters. It was fun. The only downside was when the more arrogant/classist barflies made ignorant references to my background and sneered such gems as "You Australians are all from convict stock." and "Australians 'ave such 'orrible accents." Quite charming.

Eventually, pulling pints lost its shine, and I decided it was time to find a line of work which would challenge me more. Teach English to foreigners? Why not?

Well. The comments I heard about that. "Oh, you fink you're gonna teach English proper, eh?" and "You can't teach them foreigners English - they'll all end up with Australian accents, innit!" Sometimes I wondered who would really benefit from language lessons.

It doesn't sound like it, but I actually had a great time in England. Made some great friends, met some amazing people, saw some incredible places (did I mention how I loved being so close to Europe?). For the most part, people were lovely... but rarely excited about meeting yet another Australian.

Here in L.A? Sure, there are plenty of Australians around but I guess people aren't living as densely as in London. You have to listen a little harder, a little longer, in crowded places to hear our accent. Just the other day, a woman exclaimed, "Wow! You're from Australia? Wow! I've always wanted to go there. I just love your accent - it's adorable!" ...I could get used to that.

Wonky Reflections

It's the time of year where everybody talks about the year they've had. A good year, an eventful year, an awful year. One to remember always, or a year we'd rather forget. The sort of year that's best forgotten? Well, J and I have had a few of those in recent years. Thankfully, 2010 wasn't one of those. I don't want to bore readers, so the only recaps I'll make is: giving birth to my second gorgeous little girl, and moving to L.A. only months later. Epic!

For some reason, rather than dwelling on the year we've had, I've been thinking back much further. A good decade or so. The other night, I found myself going through my photo albums from 1999-2003. This was the first period of time that J & I lived overseas - in the UK - but I hadn't looked at the photos in quite a while.

Leiden, the Netherlands - 2002

The most obvious thing that struck me was how much younger I looked, but... duh! Ten years will do that. The difference between being twenty-something, and thirty-something is noticeable. Kids will age a person, too.

What else was different? Well, I used to bother wearing a bit of make-up. I used to make an effort. These days, concealer under my eyes - and some mascara with a slick of lipgloss - are about as complex as it gets.

From those photos, I can see that my hair also used to get a bit of attention. Not a lot (I've always been a fairly low-maintenance girl) but the photos indicate a variety of haircuts in that period of time, and some thought appears to have gone into the styling of it before leaving the house. These days, it's all about pony tails... and that's it. My hair is a pretty sad affair.

The differences between now and then aren't just physical.

I used to spend entire afternoons and evenings at pubs.

I used to go clubbing.

I used to go to underground dance parties.

I used to be able to just walk out the door without a thought as to what time I'd be returning.

I used to be able to disappear and lose myself, for a week or two at a time, in various European destinations.

I used to choose to function on only three hours sleep. For me, that's probably the craziest difference, right there. The fact that there were times when I crawled into bed at 4 or 5am, even on days where I might have to get up and go to work. And on the flipside, I used to rarely emerge from bed before 10am on the weekends.

Ah, youth... you were such fun! And so was I.

It's been a nostalgic Christmas for me as I remember those years. As 2011 is just around the corner and people talk of New Year's resolutions, I just listen. I don't do resolutions. I don't see the point in waiting until January to change something I'm not happy with.

I know my NYE won't involve any pubs, clubs, underground dance parties, wine, or cigarettes (amongst other things), but it will probably involve a decent amount of sleep. Broken - yes, I'm sure - but it won't be a late night for me, so I don't care.

Anyhow, expect the odd flash-back travel story here from time to time... and have a great New Year!