After what has felt like endless weeks of dreary grey skies, icy winds, and rain rain rain, I was woken up yesterday by the moonlight peering into our bedroom. Moonlight? Visible moonlight? By the time my alarm went off, the sky was a beautiful mixture of pink and lavender tones.
Setting off to the bus stop where the Faery catches her school bus, we noticed the the grass was dusted in frost. I made sure to go for a stroll around one of the nearby bays while Miss Pie was at preschool, and I was mesmerised by the frosted, sparkling landscape. This morning was much the same, but with an even thicker frost and white rooftops everywhere.
This isn't the first time I've encountered heavy frost - after all, J and I spent nearly five years in the U.K. - but when you're in your twenties and rushing to catch the next train to work, sometimes nursing a hangover from the previous night's pub shenanigans, frost isn't really a detail that bleeps largely on the radar. It's there, but not that interesting. Just bloody cold. I do remember one time though, stepping over a puddle and realising it was frozen. Naturally, out of curiosity, I stepped back and onto the puddle... and promptly slipped over onto my arse. I then managed to slip on the exact same puddle two more times that week. Alcohol wasn't even involved; I'm just clumsy at the best of times.
But I digress. One of the things about having kids is you get to see the world through their eyes. Frost is very much a new thing for my daughters, and to watch them touch it, step on it, and feel the grass crunch beneath their feet... is a lot of fun. I wonder how long the novelty will last?
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 Customsorthe 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.
At a friend's apartment complex, not mine. Let's make that clear...
Now that winter has truly left us in the dust, poolside play dates are starting to happen with semi-regularity - either at our apartment, or friends' homes. Given that summer is not even here yet, I can't help but be grateful for the warm days that are beginning to stretch into balmy evenings. Last night, I even kept the windows open overnight. It's the simple things, right?
Most days when J and I chat and compare our days, the weather inevitably comes up. The contrast between spring in Southern California and the Pacific Northwest makes me a little nervous.
Me: So today's been warm. We went [insert: to the park/for ice cream/for a swim]. I'm thinking of grabbing a glass of wine to have on the balcony once the girls are in bed.
J: Today's been fricken wet and grey.
Being from Sydney, I'm no stranger to warm winters and stinking hot summers. However, the unrelenting consistency of it in Los Angeles has 'softened' me even more. I'm also well-versed in grey, wet weather (hello London!) but our time in the UK ended nearly a decade ago. My idea of cold is certainly not what a Seattleite would define as cold.
I'm actually excited about a milder summer (for about two months each year in L.A, it is just too damn hot to do much outside in the afternoons - the lack of decent shade everywhere is a bitch), but the adjustment to the colder, wetter months is going to be... interesting. At least there'll be more snow into the bargain.
My spell in the UK had me wondering if I'm one of those unfortunate souls who experiences SAD (seasonal affective disorder). I'm not being dramatic, it's just that lengthy periods of grey, wet, cold weather don't agree with me. At all. Thankfully, I'm a whole lot older than I was in the UK so I like to think I'm better equipped with the skills needed for combatting the blues - or maybe I'm deluded. We'll see.
For now, I'm making the most of the beautiful weather. I have a morning hike date up Runyon Canyon with a girlfriend next week, which I'm unreasonably excited about. If someone had told me even three years ago that I'd be getting excited about such a thing, I'd have thought they were bonkers.
Ever since I was a kid, I've had a love for thunderstorms.
I love the building suspense in the air as a storm approaches. How big is this storm going to be? I love watching the sky change as the the flashes jump between bruised clouds. I love the ear-splitting cracks of thunder when the storm is directly above: as a kid, counting one thousand, two thousand... I love the relief that comes with a storm. There's no better way to finish off a hot day in Sydney than with the storm that's likely to end it.
Years later, as J became familiar with my storm love, he told me it was because I was born in the Year of the Dragon, and the Chinese used to believe that thunder was the sound of dragons clashing in the sky. I loved that idea.
I don't really identify with horoscopes - never viewed myself as a proper Aries - but something about being a dragon appeals to me. For many years, I told myself if I ever got a tattoo, it would be an oriental dragon. Dragon tattoos may be a little clichéd to some, but it's less so if I am a dragon, right? Not everyone else with dragon tattoos are dragons.
(I never did get that tattoo. The publication of a certain bestselling Swedish novel killed that idea swiftly, although I read the trilogy, saw the films... and loved it all.)
This week has brought the Lunar New Year, completing three full cycles in my lifetime under the Chinese horoscope. The last time it was Year of the Dragon, it was 2000 and full of adventure - it was an amazing year.
To all the dragons out there: this is our year and it's going to be great.
My lovely dragon, who has known happier times. Hatched in Bondi Markets in 1997, it has had six homes, lived in three cities, spent nearly five years in a box under my parents' house, been knocked over by cats, lovingly glued back together, and is currently well out of reach of little fingers.
Perhaps I've mentioned I have a lovely new iPhone? And that despite never coveting one before, I am head over heels in love with it.
My latest addiction is to the Instagram app, but more on that in the near future.
With the clock app, I never have to calculate what time it is in Sydney before attempting a Skype call.
(My brain thanks my phone.)
The weather app is also handy.
I never have to pay attention to those weather 'personalities' on the TV again - people with whacky names like Dallas Raines (seriously, I have such a hard time believing he was named that at birth, but apparently he was).
I need never google the forecast again - it's all at my fingertips.
As you can see, we're not doing too badly here. Winter has been mild - this is the coolest it's been in about a month. Blue skies and lots of sun - Seasonal Affective Disorder will not be a problem for me in LA.
However, looking through the many Instagram photos of others, I've realised something that's missing - awesome clouds and temperamental weather can make for great photos.
Not a whole lot of atmospheric wonders happening in these southern Californian skies.
On my weather app, I also have the weather for a couple of other cities. Now and then, I like to know what it's doing in Sydney... because I'm a nerd like that.
Rain, clouds, thunderstorms and sunshine - that sounds about right for a week of summer in Sydney. Even a single day can have all of those.
Here's a photo from a few months back, driving home from Burbank on a wet, twilight-y Sunday:
I like it for a couple of reasons. First, the motion from the car as we drove through the intersection of this street gives it a lovely little trippin' feel. Secondly, because people tend to associate L.A. with palm trees and clear blue skies - those are the images we are bombarded with from TV shows and films. While it's true that the weather here is fabulous a lot of the time, there are definitely grey, drizzly days to balance it out a little.
Today is one those days, which is why I thought of this photo. I got soaked this morning, after taking the Faery to preschool, and Miss Pie to get her vaccinations. Her stroller has a rain cover, so she stayed toasty dry. Whenever the locals see her in her pram with the cover, they freak out: "Oh wow! Look at her, she's in a plastic bubble... oh my god, can she breathe okay in there?" I often wonder what they'd say if I replied that, no, she can't breathe - because obviously, I would put a non ventilated cover over my child. Mothers on foot with strollers are a rare sight (in my neighbourhood; I'm not speaking for all of L.A.). I guess when it rains, we're even rarer. I get the impression that no one around here has ever seen a rain cover for prams.
Anyhow, as I walked home with my head facing down from the rain, I saw a house with... sprinklers on in the garden. Sprinklers in the rain.
Yeah, only in La La Land, huh?
It's not the first time I've seen this. I realise people have their sprinklers on auto-timers, but you'd think if it'd been raining all night and into the morning, at some point it might occur to the owners that they could switch the system off for a day or two and save some water, right?
This kind of waste is something that never fails to leave me gobsmacked. Growing up in a country where droughts are a fact of life, and most areas have heavy water restrictions enforced, I've been conditioned to shudder and think of the hefty fines I'd face if I dared use a sprinkler in Sydney - let alone when it's raining.
Moving to a city that's been built over a desert, I assumed there would be similar restrictions, but so far I've yet to see a single pamphlet, sign or advertisement that promotes water conservation. I've only learned the official water mandate policies (as they call them here) for where we live by going online and digging a little. The information I found listed the specific restrictions, but no mention of fines if the restrictions are breached. It makes me wonder if there are actually any consequences of not following the mandate.
La La Land: the city of contradiction. Smoking is banned in every square inch of public space, but hey, let's look the other way when people use more than their fair share of water. Who needs it anyway?
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.
