Dreaming big

The other day, someone asked me if I was in Sydney for the 2000 Olympics.

Nope. J and I had been living in London for a year and - let me tell you - more than a little homesick as we watched the broadcasts. Friends and colleagues would marvel to us at the beauty of Sydney that was beamed into their homes, and we'd nod our heads with pride.

Twelve years later, here we are... living in Los Angeles, watching the London Olympics. Life can be funny, can't it?

London. A city I had a complicated relationship with, but still called home for a chunk of my twenties. It feels a little like déjà vu, watching the media hype about a city I know so well, from the perspective of outsiders.

Who knows where we'll be living in another twelve years? Back in Sydney? London again? Vancouver? Singapore? Somewhere else in the US? All of these are very real possibilities - but so much of this answer depends on the industry that J works in, and where the jobs are.

Although we're about to visit Sydney, we've already started thinking about where our next big overseas trip will be. We're dreaming big, I think, but there's nothing wrong with putting it out to the universe. You never know.

We haven't been back to London since we left, and there are so many wonderful friends we'd love to see once again. This pretty much places London as high priority on our list. It would have to be in summer, naturally. I don't do British winters well, but London in summer is magic.

Last night, J and I began dreaming about where else in Europe we'd squeeze in a side trip to, once London is organised. It took us - unanimously - all of half a heartbeat to know where else we'd go.

Sweden.

For a number of reasons, we both love Sweden and its people. We've been there. We have friends there. I even have a Swedish aunt who spends every northern summer there - forty years after marrying my uncle in Australia. The postcards I received from her and my cousin, as a child, intrigued me - a place on the other side of the world, that even has a princess with the same name as me (spelled the same way, no less). I knew I had to go there one day.

When J and I hopped over from London to Gothenburg to visit a friend, one northern winter, it was under a blanket of snow but lived up to everything I'd imagined it would be. We stayed in a civilised hostel (such a thing had eluded me in previous backpacking adventures), where families also stayed (Swedish families), and we were struck by how much more doable travelling with kids around those parts would be - and that was long before kids of our own were even a twinkle in the universe.

We decided two things on that trip. The first was that we had to return and experience Sweden one summer. The second was that when we had kids, we'd have to travel with them around a country like Sweden, Germany, or the Netherlands - as they all have family-friendly hostels.

That was ten years ago. We now have kids, and we want to offer them the chance to see other parts of the world (besides the US). The Faery's name is straight from Norse mythology, and hell, she even looks Scandinavian. We have to go back. Besides, hostel breakfasts - Swedish style - are the shiz. True.

So. When our pennies are saved, that's where we'll head... because I will simply die if I never get to experience summer in a country with scenery like this:

(Photo source)

(Photo source)

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(Photo source)

...and now that you've heard this, oh universe? Let's make it happen. Svenska is calling.

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.

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

Flying high

Since our little nature outing the other day, and seeing a hawk, there's a song I've had stuck in my head.

I loved it the very first time I heard it, and why wouldn't I? Jim Morrison's vocals were sampled, and an irresistible beat added.

Without fail, this song takes me back to my clubbing days in London - where I first heard it. It was the golden era of Fatboy Slim, and I managed to take in a number of his gigs. He was always happy, and grinning from ear to ear. The best gig I saw was when he played the night after his son was born, and people were passing cigars over to him. A very happy place, and I was there!

So, without further ado, I present - Sunset (Bird of Prey) by Fatboy Slim. The fact that the song has a great anti-war video is a bonus. Or... you could just close your eyes and let the song wash over you.

Bird of prey

Bird of prey

In the summer sky

Flying high

Ten years ago

I confess. I watched The Wedding. Who doesn't want to see some real life fairy tale action?

Despite my earlier pondering over the media coverage of it, my curiosity got the better of me. I had to see The Dress. A mild bout of cough-induced insomnia saw me still awake at midnight, and I briefly toyed with the idea of watching the live broadcast - which I believe saw the ceremony airing at 4am West Coast time - but I quickly realised that would result in one zombiefied mumma for the rest of the day.

Instead, I set the DVR to record it, and in the morning I informed the Faery that rather than Sesame Street, our breakfast viewing would be The Wedding. And that's what we did - with my finger on fast forward for the more boring parts.

I surprised myself, and enjoyed the pomp and pageantry far more than expected. I may have even had a tear or two spring up. As for The Dress? I approve. Elegance personified.

I also had another reason for feeling sentimental over The Wedding.

You see, in two days' time (May 1st), J and I will be celebrating the fact that we got hitched ten years ago. In London, long before the world had heard of Kate Middleton.

Watching the London scenery on TV brought back memories of our own spring wedding in Cool Britannia. Of course, ours was a much simpler affair with just a handful of friends and family, at the local town hall, against the backdrop of the London May Day riots. It was practically an elopement, followed by a merry dinner of tapas and too much sangria - fourteen jugs between eleven of us. A fabulous night in Covent Garden, and then an equally fabulous week in Barcelona.

As spectacular as The Wedding was to watch, I am so glad that mine was such a simple day. Although, I imagine the roar of hundreds of thousands of spectators outside the abbey, cheering for you and your love, would be more than impressive. An everlasting memory, I'm sure.

However, I love the memories of our special day. My red dress. Impossibly green gardens. Grey skies. Tulips. Relaxed. Sweetness in the air. Black cabs. Laughter. Sangria. Love.

Lots of love.

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

Be-twitched

A beautifully warm winter's day today saw me drag the Faery away from the television, insisting we should go for a walk. She wasn't convinced, but the final stretch home paid off and she was glad we got outside. Why?

Because we saw this little fellow:

Hello there!

The feeling probably isn't mutual, but I really love squirrels. Really. There are no squirrels in Australia, so I always become a child when I see one, which can be quite often some days. Sure, in Australia there are koalas and possums - all kinds of furry cuteness - but they lack the obsessive craziness that squirrels possess. Not to mention the spectacular twitchy tails and movement.

You'd think that after living in the UK for quite a few years, the novelty would have worn off by now, but no. Going back to Australia for five years kind of reset the button. Sort of like with Ben & Jerry's.

I guess this is because the first time I saw a squirrel, I was 23. An entire childhood, squirrel-free. There has been lost time to make up for.

I still remember my first (or really, J's) encounter with squirrels like it was yesterday. It was the day after we'd arrived in London. We went for a stroll around Regent's Park and saw our first squirrel on a tree right by the entrance. We took about a dozen blurry photos (and this was back in the days when film was still used), not realising there would be hundreds more, frolicking within the park... and it gets better.

Half-way through the park, a squirrel crossed our path. Awesome, time for some close-up shots of the little critter. The squirrel came closer. And closer. And closer. Suddenly, it was climbing up J's legs. Now, J is an animal lover, and very little freaks him out when it comes to nature. But his response? He froze. I think he was pretty sure he was going to receive a nasty nip in his nether regions. He pleaded for me to help.

And my response? Doubled over in laughter, while trying to capture the moment on film. That is how much I love him. 

As for the squirrel, he disappeared as suddenly as he'd come. J's tackle was safe.

This first encounter didn't put us off squirrels - it endeared them to us all the more, cheeky buggers that they are. From then on, whenever we paid a visit to one of the many Royal Parks of London, we made sure we always had a bag of nuts to share with our squirrel friends. We loved sitting quietly on a park bench as a group of squirrels approached slowly - at first, eating the nuts we'd scattered on the ground, then eventually sitting on our laps and eating out of our hands. 

Most parks have a resident-loon, who dumps bags of bread crumbs for their pigeon friends. Us? We preferred the squirrels. And now that we're living again in a country where squirrels are aplenty, we can't help feeling a little thrill to see the Faery get excited when she spies a squirrel. Bring it on!

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.