Vancouver

Over the Easter weekend - I wish I could say holiday or break, but America doesn't do that [insert eye roll] - we took a little road trip to Vancouver. Finally. It's something we've wanted to do since moving to Seattle, but had to wait until our updated US visas were sorted... and then we were in the throes of winter. I've already been to Vancouver a number of times, but it was always winter so I was hoping to see some spring glory there for a change.

As it happens, spring in Vancouver involves a lot of rain. Weather-wise, nothing different to Seattle. Grey skies, rain, and a total of about ten-minutes diluted sunshine over the two days we were in town. Oh well! Lucky for that city, it's such a stunning beauty that we didn't really mind.

The trip itself was straightforward, without too long a wait at the US/Canada border crossing. We giggled at the sign to remind American visitors of the change to metric on the roadsigns, but our giggles turned to face-palming when our phones buzzed with a welcome message, notifying us of changes to the data roaming charges. Faaaark. We'd packed our passports but we'd completely overlooked the fact that - being in a different country, of course our usual phone plan rates wouldn't apply. Something about driving into foreign territory, as opposed to flying, made it feel, well, not so foreign. And having been here in the Pacific Northwest for almost a year, nothing stuck out as that different. So, having been stung (badly!) by data roaming charges on our first trip back to Australia, we decided we'd just have to switch that option off on our phones, and limit our online time to the free wi-fi in our hotel.

We had no road maps on us - taking Siri and Google Maps for granted when we left home - but fortunately I'd looked at the route online before we set off, and the road we were on at the US/Canada border crossing took us directly to the city. Handy, right? As for finding our hotel, we had to wing it but we had two things going in our favour. Firstly, even though it was more than ten years since we were last there, we'd been a few times and spent significant chunks of time in downtown Vancouver - where our hotel was - because J's sister lived there for seven years. How much could it have changed? Secondly, I have an excellent sense of direction. I was confident we'd find the hotel - a distinct building we'd walked past many times on prior visits - without drama, and we did.

We chose the Fairmont Hotel because the old building alone is a-freaking-mazing. We used to walk past it and admire everything about it. When I called to potentially book a room, and learned we could use J's Microsoft very generous employee discount, the deal was sealed. When I showed pictures to the girls, there were gasps because they thought it looked like a palace. Win.

Anyhow, Vancouver was every bit as wonderful as I remembered it to be. Smaller than Seattle, shinier, cleaner, with a mountainous backdrop (pending those rain clouds) that is BAM-in-your-face. The mix of old and new architecture is very similar to Sydney's, and despite the cold climate, it feels more like home to me than any other foreign city has. We knew exactly which spots we wanted to take the girls to, and Vancouver Aquarium was one of them. Located in Stanley Park (the equivalent of Central Park in NYC but much more untamed and on the edge of wilderness), J and I first went in 2000, and we were so impressed that we vowed then and there that we'd return with our future, hypothetical kids one day. Lucky for us, the girls were equally enamoured, and it felt sweet to fulfil that particular little dream of ours.

We spent the two days on foot only, revisiting old hangouts. We got pretty soaked at one point, but the fancy hotel digs and indoor pool compensated for that. The Easter Bunny paid a visit to our hotel room and that cemented how awesome Vancouver is to the girls. Our beds were possibly the plushest, most comfortable ever, and when it was time to leave and head back to Seattle, the girls were very much in a state of end-of-holiday blues. A week later, they're both hatching plans to return and I have to admit, it'd be great to see even more of Canada. Hopefully we will some day. With the metric system, the British Royal Family gracing their magazine covers, and Queen Elizabeth on their money, it's like J said - being in Canada is a little like being in America, but the familiar Commonwealth elements soften the American edges.

I did pack the good camera, but with all the rain we were walking in, it never left our hotel room. I'm still happy with the photos I was able to get, though:

Mementos from visits to Vancouver over the years. Douglas Coupland is one of my favourite writers (to the point where I've gone to several book signings and met him), so I snapped this book up after my first trip to Vancouver.

The older building with the green roof was our hotel.

Gargoyle from our room.

This 'Digital Orca' creation was by none other than Douglas Coupland.
Do you know how much I geeked out when I discovered that?

This city - swoon! But may I see you again with blue skies some day...

Hanami

There are a couple of flower-related activities on my bucket list. One is to do with tulips - more specifically, to stand in a field of tulips, and be surrounded by them as far as the eye can see. I've managed to visit the Netherlands three times, and yet none of those trips were the right time of year. Not to despair though, because I've heard a rumour that there is a region in northern Washington, famous for its tulip festival every April. You can be sure where we'll be headed one weekend soon.

The other fantasy of mine is connected to my love of all things Japanese, and that is to partake in hanami - the viewing of cherry blossoms. All the images I've seen over the years of spring in Japan have me wishing I could jump on the next plane there, and follow the sakura (cherry blossom) trail from south to north as they bloom.

Van Gogh's Almond Blossoms (source: Wikipedia)

In a strange little hybrid twist, I even bought myself a print of Van Gogh's Almond Blossoms, after being captivated by it in the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, way back in 1999. Wanting to save it until I had the spare cash to splash on getting it framed properly, I carried that damn print (along with another Van Gogh print) - rolled up in its special box for travellers - from home to home. London to Brighton, to Melbourne, then to Sydney, when I was finally feeling both settled and flush enough to give those prints the frames and wall space they deserved... only five years later. I'm not kidding when I say I procrastinate. This print followed us to the US, and has a special place on our bedroom wall.

I don't know when I'll get to Japan, so yesterday we did the next best thing and visited the University of Washington campus to see the cherry blossoms in their Quad. Of course, we didn't realise at the time, but arborists had declared that weekend to be the best time to see the cherry blossoms, in bloom at 100%. I think every second person in Seattle had the same idea as us - it was insanely busy.

It was also insanely beautiful.

Sorry Orlando, some other time

About a week ago, we gave in to the cold and got the gas fireplace cranking. J and I felt somewhat pathetic, as though we were being 'soft' and wimpy about the colder temperatures, but damn - that heat felt so good. A few days later, in the space of only 24 hours, at least three people - all locals who are used to the Northwest - told me that this weather was not normal for this time of year. There I was, thinking the endless heavy rain (not drizzle), storms, and icy winds were just par for the course after summer, but apparently not. Good to know.

It seems that autumn decided to do a runner. She raced past us, ensured that the trees would all turn spectacular colours... but as for a gradual transition with the temperatures, nope. In the space of less than three weeks, I've gone from wearing singlet tops and T-shirts to multiple layers, boots and rain jackets. Miss Pie even wore her new puffy down jacket today, which I hoped wouldn't be needed until around Thanksgiving at the earliest.

A screenshot of my Instagram feed, from this week.
I really am sinking into new lazily low territory.

Fortunately, we'll soon be getting a respite from this cold. It snuck up on us, but our little trip back to Australia is almost here - as in, we leave in eight days.

Last year, our visit home was preceded by counting the months, weeks, and days until we went. It had been two and a half years since we'd last seen everyone, so our excitement was at an all time high.

This year, it really was a case of J and I looking at each other last week, and exclaiming Oh fuck! We're going to Australia in a few weeks. Fuuuuck!

It's not that we felt no joy at the idea, but that we've had a tonne of things to organise lately, thrown in with small kids settling in to new routines of a new school and preschool. J is swamped under at work, and getting our visa renewal paperwork sorted for the trip has been fraught with stress and complications that has put us in fowl moods. On top of that, this trip is only two weeks long - with a family wedding in Canberra in the middle - so fielding queries about our itinerary from well-meaning family and friends has been tricky (partly to do with the visa renewal process making it uncertain if or when I'd need to go to the US Consulate in Sydney, and the only time slots available were two days before the wedding... in Canberra).

In terms of personal relationships, I've also been more than a little anxious about having to see someone who - the last time I spent days on end with, a few years ago - did not end on a good note. I won't lie, my stomach is in knots at the thought of the potential drama she'll create. We just never know with her. When she's happy in life, she's a wonderful person to be around and in the past, I've held tremendous respect for her but in recent years, things have disintegrated and it can be like walking on eggshells. Seeing her is unavoidable though, and I just need to put on my big girl pants.

But then last night, the cloud lifted. The visa renewal process turned a corner and we also discovered I don't need to front up in person at the US Consulate (assuming there are no problems with our paperwork), so I guess I'm not likely to meet Orlando Bloom there this time. Yay about the US Consulate, but bummer about Orlando, dude.

Other things began to fall into place, and despite our concerns about how on earth we'll find the time to catch up properly with everyone we want to, we began to feel the first tingles of excitement about the trip. Our first twenty-four hours in Sydney will be a blank canvas, so we are keeping it that way, to just hang out as our own little family of four. A night in a nice hotel in the heart of the city, a ferry ride to Manly (a place which is special to me, and I was unable to get to last year), and deep breaths to prepare for the following two weeks of madness.

I'm trying not to think about the fact that we can't fly directly from Seattle, so what is already a long flight now has another three hours plus layover time at LAX added. Calming me is the knowledge that Miss Pie is now the age that the Faery was when we very first flew from Sydney to Los Angeles. Three and a half is a much more manageable age for long-haul flights. With any luck, we won't have half the dramas we had last time - either with Customs or the luggage mix up. Big learning curves there. BIG.

And there you have it. Things will be even quieter on this blog front - for a while, I suspect - but it's all good. I will be in sunshine, making the most of a brief top-up of sweet spring air, and time with our most-loved ones south of the Equator.

Map-a-licious

Downtown Seattle, as seen from Bainbridge Island, circa 2000

Back in the day, I had quite a collection of Lonely Planet travel guide books. I love reading up on places I'm planning to visit. Notice I use the word planning - I never actually made it to South America or Thailand (unless you count changing planes at Bangkok Airport). I carried these books around from home to home for many years, and only recently parted with most of them when I accepted that the information - being over a decade old - was largely out of date. I had to let go.

My copies were well-thumbed. I may have mentioned in the past that I have a 'thing' for maps. I really do - no map will fall into my hands without being submitted to intense scrutiny. I am a map nerd. Lately, I've been relying on Google Maps for much of my information and navigation, and I think my neck and shoulders are beginning to rebel against my use of my iPhone and laptop and so last night, for the first time in far too long, I dug out my Times Atlas of the World. I'd forgotten how satisfying it is to sit with that large, heavy book on my lap and flip through the detailed pages. I'd forgotten how good those pages smell, too.

Technology has been great in terms of instant information at our fingertips, but sadly (for me) it's meant that I'm not taking the time out to pick up actual, physical books any more. You know, those things with paper pages?

So, the other day I decided to treat myself and order a real book, which just arrived today. It's NFT - Not For Tourists Guide to Seattle. It looks like we'll be spending some time there at some stage this year, so I figured, what the hell. Let's order a proper book and give my neck and shoulders a break from reading up about Seattle on the laptop and phone.

I chose this book because a few weeks before we moved to Los Angeles, some good (clever) friends gave us a copy of NFT Los Angeles as a farewell gift. It wasn't long before it became an invaluable resource. It's brilliant because the first (main) section of the book divides the city and surrounding areas into sectional maps, and repeats each map twice. One version has a key for 'sundries/entertainment', such as restaurants, bars, gyms. The second version has a key for 'essentials' - supermarkets, coffee shops, petrol stations, schools and landmarks. The second half of the book is devoted to the standard travel guide fare: parks, hotels, shopping centres, tourist attractions, hospitals, public transport and more.

Who needs the internet, right? This is the kind of book you can have in your bag, and not go into panic mode if your phone's batteries start to run low. When we first moved to LA, I didn't have an iPhone that I could pick up at any given moment while on the go. It was strictly wi-fi in our hotel room with our laptop, or NFT when we were out and about. It was also my bed time reading.

I'm looking forward to reading up on Seattle, and seeing how things compare with my memories from my very brief visit back in 2000... then, organising our next adventure. Bring it on.

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My bum got the kicking it needed to write motivation for this post was brought to you by MamaKat'sLosin'It. The first prompt for this week's writer's workshop is: "What are you reading?"

(Click here for more prompts)

Hotel hunger

San Francisco

Recently, a friend was asking around about hotel recommendations for the area where she was going for a short getaway. One of her specifications - "Must be luxury" - got me thinking.

I love staying in hotels, and I'm not picky about the star ratings. Sure, luxury is nice (although where luxury is concerned, I speak from very limited experience) but for me, there is so much more to the hotel experience than how fancy it is.

Our most recent little jaunt up the Californian coast confirmed this. We stayed at a Best Western with two queen-sized beds for the four of us - in other words, modest quarters - but the shower was the best one I'd had in years. The circumference of the shower spray was wide and enveloped my whole body with the perfect water pressure. Never underestimate the simple joy of a great shower.

And hotel beds. I love hotel beds. Sliding into crisp sheets, pillows that always seem to be fluffed up perfectly, and surrendering to sleep on a firm mattress (I prefer firm to soft). If only my own bed could live up to these standards, night after night... but I'm far too lazy to be changing sheets every day.

Over the years, I've stayed in wide range of hotels, but most of them have been of the average garden variety. Comfortable enough, not too frilly, not too posh. The fanciest hotel I've ever stayed at was in Barcelona, on our honeymoon - when we could justify that sort of cost - and it was dizzyingly wonderful. It was a stark contrast to my previous accommodation experiences around Europe. The bulk of my travel back then was done solo and on a shoe-string budget, so backpacker hostels were essential. I had some great times in those cities but I can honestly say I'm happy that I no longer have to consider sleeping in a mixed dorm with twenty other people - especially like the time I was in Munich, and most my 'room mates' had been downing steins of lager all night long at the Hofbräuhaus. You can imagine what that does for one's snoring.

I suppose that kind of accommodation is one I won't be embracing anymore, but generally I'm more than okay with basic hotels, even hostels. When J and I visited Gothenburg, we stayed in a hostel but it was the most civilised hostel ever, with young families also staying there. It inspired us so much that we hope to go back - kids in tow - to that corner of the world one day, knowing that we won't need to spend a fortune on accommodation for the four of us when such nice hostels are the norm. Our trip to Encinitas, two summers ago, was spent in a three-star hotel on a main road, and we had a brilliant little holiday. Okay, so we only really used our room as a base for sleeping, while we went out all day, but nonetheless I got a kick out of watching the Faery's excitement as she explored the room.

Hotels, to me, represent freedom and possibilities. Adventure.

Sometimes the adventure is food-related. Should we splurge on room service? Gorge ourselves silly on the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet? Pocket more 'snacks' to keep in our bag for later? Or head out and eat at one of the local places?

Mostly though, it's the unknown of a new city, especially if it was a night-time arrival. Waking up in the morning, blinking in sunshine from a different angle, and knowing there's a whole new bunch of spaces waiting for you to see. Virgin exploration. I love it.

First impressions, too. I remember stepping out of our hostel in Vancouver and inhaling lungfuls of cold, pine-scented mountain air. Before that first morning, I'd had no idea that a city could smell so damn good. Like Vancouver, Los Angeles was also an evening arrival. When we stepped out from the hotel the next morning, and my head swivelled north, I was immediately in awe of the nearby Verdugo Mountains - they seemed so close! Another city, another feature I'd had no idea about.

If it's an afternoon check-in, once we've seen our room and dumped our bags, it's just a question of how long until we head outside and start walking, exploring. J has usually wants to relax for a bit before venturing out - especially if our journey there has been epic - but I tend to receive a hit of adrenaline that won't settle for hotel-chilling until I've been for a walk and acquainted myself with the surroundings. New sights, new smells, new sounds, new food... this is what I hunger for.

Some friends from Australia recently moved to Seattle, and we've been tossing about the idea of a trip up north this year. It's extra tempting because Portland - home to some other close friends - is only three hours south of Seattle. Although I'm generally not a fan of cold weather, I do love the Pacific Northwest. It's the pine-scented air. We've been to Seattle before but that was over ten years ago and I'm keen to revisit. If we go, we'll be staying in a completely different area and you know what that means: more exploring. Nothing is planned, and the trip may not happen, but if I allow myself to think about the new places to discover (not to mention the prospect of decent coffee), a tingle of anticipation begins to build.

Luxury accommodation definitely won't be an option but that would be wasted on small kids anyway. Besides, I happen to love the little travel companions we have now. With them, new places are still an adventure - just in a slightly different sense.

*  *  *

This post was a combination of what's been in my head lately, and the writing prompt "Explore", from MamaKatsLosinIt.

Click here for more prompts

Homecoming, Part 2

This story picks up from my last post. The one where we were exhausted after a long-haul flight to Sydney, got delayed going through Immigration, had trouble finding our luggage, made it through the line to Customs, only to realise one of our suitcases had been left behind - on the floor next to the luggage carousel.


Trying to keep as calm as possible, I explained the situation to the Customs officer, gesturing to the lone suitcase in the distance, on the other side of the secure barrier. He enlisted another officer to escort me back to collect the suitcase. After being ushered past what felt like several hundred people, and pushing through the crowd waiting to line up for Customs, I dashed over to the suitcase. At that moment, an airport employee was doing the rounds in one of those motorised buggies. He reached down and began to pick up the suitcase and I had to shout out to get his attention. I couldn't believe the timing of it - if I'd been escorted over only another five seconds later, that suitcase would have vanished and been in need of further tracking down.

So, suitcase in hand, I was escorted back to the Customs section, where J had been waiting with the girls. All the other bags had been let through without a search, but because I'd declared the beef jerky (bought for a friend who'd asked for it), I had to pull it out to show the officer.

He immediately reached over and said, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to take that. No meat products of any kind are allowed into the country."

"What, not even cured, prepackaged stuff?" His withering look was all I needed to know it was not the time to put up a fight. I kissed goodbye the twenty-odd dollars I'd spent on that jerky, and moments later, we stepped outside into the cool Sydney air.

We found a taxi van that could fit all our things, and made the short journey to our friends' place. It was a little surreal, because they'd moved to a new house only a month earlier, in an unfamiliar area. Instead of whizzing through streets I knew, I found myself staring at neighbourhoods and shops that I didn't recognise. I know Sydney pretty well, but not the pocket they'd moved to.

Ringing their doorbell led to the first of many excited reunions for the trip. Squishy hugs and kisses all round, kids squealing up and down the hallway, and relieved looks exchanged between J and I. We were finally in Sydney, with friends, and we could relax a little - at last. There was no need to start the three-hour drive south to my parents until after lunch. It was only 9am.

My friend needed to leave for work in about half an hour, and her husband was all set to play daddy day care with their son, the Faery and Miss Pie, while J and I hopped on a train to fetch our rental car.

I realised with a sense of urgency that it had been far too long since I'd last brushed my teeth (long-haul travel sans kids is so much easier), so I went to the purple suitcase to retrieve the bathroom bag. There was a padlock on it, so I called out to Justin in the next room for the combo.

He called back that he didn't know as he'd never used the padlock before. I stood there, wondering what kind of fucking idiot puts a padlock on something when they don't know the combo.

Can you guess where this is going?

Not wanting to entertain the growing panicked thoughts in my head, I unzipped the side pocket of the bag, holding my breath, hoping to see the girls' underwear as I'd packed it.

Calvin Klein G-strings... definitely not our luggage. Identical, though.

What were the odds? The owner must have picked up our bag first, because this had been the only purple bag on the floor next to the luggage carousel.

I dropped to the floor and curled into the foetal position. I may or may not have resembled Basil Fawlty at that moment.

Thankfully, my wonderful friend sprang into action. She immediately pulled up some Qantas phone numbers online, and began calling to enquire what needed to be done with mistaken luggage.

We decided that the best plan of action was for us to head straight into town for the rental car, and bring the purple case along, then drop it off at the airport once we had the car, on our way back to their place (if you're wondering why we didn't just book a car rental from the airport, the reason was a good $1,000 difference over the three-week period we'd be needing it).

Lugging a complete stranger's suitcase on Sydney trains? While massively sleep-deprived? Not something I thought I'd be doing on my first morning in Sydney.

My lovely friend had to catch the same train to work so we set off with J, and before getting on the train, she treated us to a round of much-needed coffee. Riding the train with her and J, coffees in hand,  minus kids - it was a mindfuck. It was just like old times, twenty-something again.

If emerging from the underground station into broad daylight at Kings Cross is not enough to pull you back to earth and shake the last rattles of long distance travel out of your bones, then nothing else will. I pulled my phone out to discover some choppy voicemail from Qantas staff, asking about the mistaken bag and wanting to know how far away we were from the airport. Phew. My biggest fear was that the person with our purple bag had left Sydney and was long out of town before realising she had the wrong bag. (I'm going to assume 'she', judging from the Calvin Klein G-strings.)

With our rental car sorted out, we drove back to the airport (baptism by fire for poor J - we've been driving on the other side of the road since first moving to L.A.). We found the office we'd been described, and a quick exchange of the purple bags ensued. Thank fuck, because ours had 95% of the girls' belongings in it. There would have been tears and meltdowns if we'd had to go without.

An hour later, we were packed up and back on the road, heading down to the NSW south coast to see my parents. We were in a daze and still unsure whether to laugh or cry about the morning we'd just experienced.

It's funny though - things could have been so much worse. So many ifs.

If I hadn't bought beef jerky back at a friend's request, we may not have even noticed we were one suitcase short as we were going through customs. At what point would we have realised? I hate to think. Or perhaps if I'd packed the beef jerky into the purple bag, we'd have discovered much sooner that we had the wrong purple suitcase. (I should be thanking Paul for his random requests.)

If I hadn't gone to brush my teeth at my friend's house, I may not have discovered we had the wrong purple suitcase until we'd arrived at my parent's house... nearly 200km away. Three hours away. How much more of an inconvenience would that have been?

So... what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, right? Or something like that. The intensity of that morning seemed to wipe out most the jet lag and reset my body clock. I had no choice but to get with the programme, but that night? I slept like the proverbial baby. Don't even remember my head hitting the pillow.

My only real concession to jet lag the following day was that I woke up at 6am, and that was it. I was tempted to try and sleep some more, but then I caught a glimpse of the golden light bouncing off the walls. I grabbed both my camera and iPhone (sad, yes, I know), threw on an old dressing gown, and crept outside.

I'm glad I did. Possibly the most beautiful sunrise - ever - was waiting for me, and the stresses of the day before just melted away.

I was home.

Homecoming, Part 1

If our arrival in Sydney was to be any indicator, our visit there was destined to be one big ol' stinky pile of poo. From the time we checked in at LAX, until we'd been on Australian soil for a good five hours, one unlucky turn of events evolved into another, and another. That old adage - what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger - was one that ran through my head many times that morning.

The first piece of bad luck we had was the downgrading of the plane for our flight. It was supposed to be an Airbus 380, and J had already pre-booked our seats online so that we could all sit together in the same row of four seats. Upon check-in, we were told that the aircraft was no longer an Airbus 380, but a 747 - smaller plane, obviously, so our pre-booked seats were no longer valid. We were assigned new seats.

When it was time to finally board, we walked down the aisle, searching for our row... and kept walking... and walking. Turned out that our row was the very last one at the back. Cramped and squishy? Understatement.

Lucky for me, the girls were in top form for the flight and gave us the least amount of grief possible, so I was willing to forgive Qantas.... until the final hour before landing. This is normally when the landing cards are handed out, but it was announced that the crew had been given the wrong pile of landing cards before departing LAX. Most of the cards were in Spanish only. There weren't enough English landing cards for everyone on the flight, and passengers at the back of the plane would be handed cards in Sydney, after getting off the plane. Translation: anyone sitting towards the back of the plane were royally fucked if they had hopes of a speedy getaway.

Being in the back row, naturally, we were last off the plane. After stepping off, I was handed four landing cards, and we walked along numerous corridors and travelators until finding an available seat where I could fill out all four cards while J helped the girls burn off some steam running around.

I don't know how long it took, but bear in mind it was 6am local time and I'd just stepped off a fourteen-hour flight - with a grand total of maybe fifteen minutes' sleep (I don't sleep well on long-haul flights under the best of circumstances, let alone dealing with a bored toddler). Each landing card required names, birth dates, passport numbers, flight numbers, reasons for visit, citizen status, customs declarations - it was excruciating to do. Four times. This is why they normally give out landing cards during the flight, when there isn't a sense of immediacy to join the queues through Immigration, before they get even longer... and one's brain hasn't completely farted from exhaustion.

Our plan was - once out of the airport - to grab a taxi and head to our friends' place. They didn't live far from the airport and we were going to refresh/recharge, leave the girls with them, jump on a train to Kings Cross (where we were to collect out rental car), drive back, pack up the car, then begin the three-hour drive south to my parents' house.

A long day, already somewhat complicated, and not in need of any further drama.

Despite it being only 7am at this point, the queues through Immigration were already insane. By the time we made it through and over to the luggage carousel, it looked empty of all luggage from our flight.

Fuck.

We needed to collect three suitcases: one black, one purple, and one grey. Then from oversized luggage, we needed to collect an infant car seat, a booster seat, and a stroller. I went ahead and retrieved our oversized luggage while J waited with the girls at the carousel. And waited. And waited.

After about another ten minutes, we realised our bags weren't going to be found there anymore, so we asked around and staff radioed one another to see where our luggage could be. In the end, they'd been pulled off and put on the floor next to the carousel - but right down the other end, where the crowds were milling to join the queues for Customs. People had been standing around our bags on the floor, which is why we didn't see them.

Heaving big sighs of relief, J loaded up the bags onto a trolley, while I attempted to stop Miss Pie from running off, out of sight. Then we reconvened into the queue for Customs... another long line, of course.

Eventually, it was our turn to declare whatever goods needed to be declared. I informed them that I had some American beef jerky (as requested by a friend). The Customs official asked me which bag, I looked at our trolley, and saw that the bag in question wasn't there. J - as sleep deprived as I was - had only put two of our suitcases on the trolley. With all the oversized luggage needing to be rearranged, it was an easy oversight.

I frantically glanced through the glass wall, past the long queues through Customs, and saw our grey suitcase, standing alone on the floor by the carousel.

I wanted to cry...


(to be continued)

Wordless Wednesday - Leaving LA

I have a gazillion musings and pics from our wonderful time in Australia, but am still in a jet lag fog from yesterday's mammoth journey back. For now, here are a few shots from the very beginning, when we first headed out of LA.

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.

Money Money Money

Have I mentioned how much I love money?

I don't mean in the sense of money being a tool to obtain food, shelter, clothing, and - if you're lucky - pretty things to admire.

What I am referring to is the weight of coins; the crinkle of notes. Germophobes will disagree with me, but instead of worrying about the dirt on money, I tend to wonder about the other lives that have been touched briefly by the same coins or notes that pass into my possession.

People sometimes say, if these walls could talk. Well, I'm pretty sure that the average piece of currency must have witnessed a great story or three... or at least overheard some - through their owners' purses, wallets, and pockets.

My one burst of doing something useful today was strictly reserved for packing. Today's target was a large bookcase, and the first thing I pulled down was a wooden box. It was a gift from a friend when J and I got married in London. Needless to say - as with our cat and dragon - this box has been around.

I opened it slowly - like the treasure box it is - and was a little sad to realise that the contents were still safely wrapped in butcher's paper from when we moved to LA, more than two years ago. Somehow, I'd happily put the box on the display, but never gotten around to freeing the contents inside.

The treasure inside consisted mostly of money that I'd collected during my globetrotting days - leftover coins and notes, most of them too pretty to let go of. I never really bought souvenirs. My mementos are basically photos; coins and notes; and used ticket stubs from various foreign public transport systems (okay, that last collection makes me sound like a hoarder, but to this day I use them as bookmarks and have even - in a crafty fit - made a collaged canvas with them).

Today, I had fun letting the coins trickle through my fingers, pirate-style. I tried to straighten some of the more crumpled notes, and admired their colours. I showed the money to the Faery, and talked about which countries they came from. She was immediately drawn to a Swedish hundred kronor note - an observation that wasn't lost on me, given the Scandinavian name she has.

What I love most about foreign notes are the different colours. I have to say (a couple of years into using it) that American money is dull. I miss being able to tell - at a glance - exactly what denominations are in my purse. If I'm distracted, it is too easy to hand over the wrong note. Maybe it's just me being a ditz, though.

Best of all, I found an extra special treasure in the box that I'd been thinking of lately, and wasn't sure which 'safe' place I'd tucked it into. A treasure which could not be bought for all the colourful money in the world... but it deserves a post of it's own, so I'll save that for another day.

Portrait time

I've posted very few photos of myself on this blog. Initially, it was because I planned on remaining somewhat anonymous, but over time I've included enough tidbits about myself that I'm sure anyone who knows me in real life would figure it out if they stumbled across this blog. Well, that and the fact that my daughters' photos are all over this blog are a bit of a giveaway.

Anyhow, I saw a writing prompt the other day that appealed to me - not so much a writing prompt as a photo prompt, perhaps: Share a photo that was taken of you, that you think really captures who you are. 

Game on.

The funny thing was that I had to dig fairly far back in the old archives to find a picture that said enough about me. That I don't feel as though recent photos capture 'me' enough? A little strange, I know. Maybe they do, and it's just my perception. Maybe it's just that I really love the photo I chose, and it's a favourite.

So without further ado, I present this.

It's an oldie, taken back in the northern summer of 1999, when we'd first started living in London. I was the ripe old age of twenty-three. A baby, really.

I love this photo because it looks so timeless. Apart from my shoes, it could have been taken as far back as the 1960s - an era I have a soft spot for. I used to have quite a thing for head scarves, and the reasoning for that hasn't changed - they're a great way to hide bad hair days (of which I am blessed with many), and even though I can't remember the last time I wore one, I do tend to tie my hair back when I don't want to deal with it. That would be most days.

This photo captures that I'm a fairy casual dresser. I live in jeans and tops. Sneakers/ballet flats in the cooler months, thongs (flip-flops for you non-Aussie readers) and Birkenstocks in the summer. I don't own much in the way of dressier clothing, and can count on one hand the number of dresses I have.

I'm not big on make-up either. At the most, a bit of eye make-up, concealer and lip gloss... when I want to make the effort. That's not often, though. Some might see this as ballsy confidence ("Wow, no make-up? You must be pretty happy with how you look!") but me? I call it simple case of could-not-be-arsed.

Photos of me with various cats, not necessarily my own? There are plenty of those around. I'm a cat person, yes, but I've been smitten with particular dogs too.

The old VW Beetle here is a rather convenient final touch. It was our neighbours' car and we envied them (although not the part about driving one of these during English winters). We'd had one in Sydney, which we sold - sadly - prior to living in the UK.

Enough with the superficial stuff, anyway.

When I look at this photo, I'm not nostalgic for an adventurous spirit that once existed, because I know it's still there. Small kids are in the big picture now... but here I am, thirteen years later, and living in another foreign country.

In some ways I've changed (who doesn't after having kids?) but for the most part, I like the think that the essence of 'me' is still here.

Linking up with Mama Kat's Losin' It

Trains on the brain

No matter where I live, trains seem to follow me. The house that was home for the first seven years of my life was across the road from a commuter railway line. I can remember peering out my bedroom window with my brother, every morning, to watch the trains clackity-clack past.

As a teenager travelling to my weekend/summer job, much of my adolescence was daydreamed away - out through the windows of the silver Sydney trains that carried me from the suburban sprawl and into the city.

Over the years, there have been a number of places I've lived in that were a little too close to the trains. Our flat in west London afforded blurry views from the back windows - of trains which whisked people to Oxford, Bristol and Wales. Those trains were bigger, louder, and faster. Foxes loved to hang around those tracks at night, so the evenings were often punctuated by their call, and if we weren't careful, the contents of of our rubbish bins would be raided and strewn across the garden and street.

Is it any wonder that my dreams are frequently peppered with trains? Not so much these days, but for a long time, the most commonly reccurring theme involved me travelling somewhere - usually on a train. Sometimes I'd be on the wrong train, sometimes I needed to change trains. Train platforms would change around on me, announcements would be muffled and confusing. Getting to the destination was never without drama, and I would always wake with relief... easy fodder for Psychology 101, right?

And now? We don't live so close to a railway line, but there is one that winds through our area. The distant sound of the train horns is now familiar, but for a long time they seemed like a sound effect from any contemporary American film - distinctive and chorus-like. A little surreal for me.

The local line passes near J's work, and on the days that I'm playing taxi driver, there's a good chance we'll be stopped at a railway crossing, waiting for a hulking Amtrak train to pass. This is always to Miss Pie's train-obsessed delight, whereas I brace myself with visions of the train suddenly derailing and hurtling towards us. Sydney has very few railway crossings, so this is one difference in LA that I'm still adjusting to.

Oddly enough, I've yet to set foot on one of these Amtrak giants. Despite the fact that I'm experienced with the train networks of four cities, and have hopped on trains in at least ten countries, I haven't been on any here yet. I think that speaks volumes on how necessary a car is in Los Angeles. If the public transport wasn't so dire, I'd have definitely ventured out sans car, but the logistics of it are of nightmarish proportions. Alone, it would be less of a problem, but remember - I'm usually accompanied by little ones. That always complicates things.

Oh, but I lie - I may not have been on an Amtrak train, but I have been a few smaller trains here. You know, the kind that are intended to give small children a thrill (as seen above)...

Mission Possible

I am now the proud owner of a Californian drivers licence.

Confidence restored, I can return to feeling superior to so many of the idiot drivers in my area who consistently cut me off, don't indicate, don't let me change into their lane, text while they drive, and plough through pedestrian crossings - regardless of people actually crossing. These are incidents that I see on a daily basis (no exaggeration) and I never drive like that, which is why I was so disappointed not to pass the first time.

Anyhow, all good now! I feel lighter, the sun is shining, and I have a hidden stash of the Faery's Halloween chocolates to reward myself with. Even better, I'm going to sleep like the proverbial baby tonight - the stress dreams can fuck right off now. This little glitch is officially behind me.

In other news, we're off to Vegas, baby.

Now when people ask what our plans are for Thanksgiving, I can actually contribute something to the conversation other than it not being culturally relevant for us so, no, I haven't made a gourmet meal plan for the day.

We realised yesterday that it would be the perfect time to go away for a few days, seeing as J will have time off work anyway. Neither of us have been to Las Vegas before, and have been super keen to see the bright lights for a long time. We'll have the girls with us, so it won't be the wild trip it may have been if we'd gone in our twenties, but it's going to be fun nonetheless.

Road tripping through the desert has also been on our list of things to do, and the Mojave Desert is on the way, so I'm excited. If J's lucky, I may even drive for a little stretch of the way.

The hotel has been booked (on 'The Strip'!) and we'll be setting off the day after Thanksgiving - the best excuse ever for not having to slave away in the kitchen.

(Not that I would have slaved away. I've never really mastered roasts - that's J's domain.)

So, Sin City - here we come. If any readers have any tips or recommendations, don't be shy! Leave a comment for me, and I will love you for it.

SF - The scenic shots