Rebecca Handler

This is happening.

I like to swim. I will swim in pretty much any body of water. Cold, warm, wavy, still, foggy, clear. For years, my preferred body of water was the spectacular pool at the Koret Center at USF. I would try and get out there at least twice a week to swim laps until either a) an hour had passed or b) I had to pee. How do I swim back and forth for an hour without getting bored? I don’t know, some people run and no one’s chasing them. Here’s a snapshot of my thoughts over the course of a one-hour swim in the Koret pool:

Goggles working. Is my watch still on? I should really get a lock so I can lock my locker. Did I leave my lipstick in the car? Where did I park? It’s like I can SEE the Spice Girls in my head but I can’t remember all of them. If you wanna be my lover, gotta get with my friends. Scary? Sugar? What the hell is the blond one’s name? Next lap I’ll count my strokes. Ok NEXT lap I’ll count. Muffins. Warm, blueberry muffins. What if Simone gets hit by a car? Muffins. Is Willa sad? Muffins. They’re going to be gone someday. That community school conference. Clinics on campus. $25,000 just to repair the windows? Can’t the board cover that? Graceland, Graceland, Memphis Tennessee, I’m going to Graceland. Kickboard next time. Switch breathing. My ring looks sparkly. Ouch, my ear. He’s a poor boy, empty as a pocket, empty as a pocket with nothing to lose. Risotto, butter, white wine, shallots, mushrooms, salt. But then I can’t talk to them if I’m making risotto. Chicken Marbella? Marinade it overnight. Fuck, isn’t he allergic to basically all fruit? Chicken Marbella without prunes and apricots? Olives. Breathe. ALL fruit? Citrus? Call Lindsy. My eye itches.

One day last February, while swimming in the USF pool, somewhere between the Spice Girls and Saturday night’s dinner menu, a thought occurred to me, “I should swim in the Bay.” Later that day, I emailed my brother, “This Saturday, the Dolphin Club has an Introduction to Bay Swimming class. Wanna go?” He was in. So on February 22nd, Daniel and I attended a class for which the agenda was basically:

1. Welcome to the Dolphin Club

2. Signs of hypothermia

3. Rules and ways around the rules

4. To review, signs of hypothermia

5. No wetsuits in the locker room

6. More signs of hypothermia

7. Have fun!

We changed into our swimsuits and neoprene caps and walked into the Bay. Since then, up until the morning of my flight to Perth, I’d been swimming in the Bay two to three times a week. Here’s a snapshot of my mind over the course of a 30-minute swim in the Bay:

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking fuck, fuckitti fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck. This is happening. This is happening. What the fuck is that? This is happening. Is that a fucking seal? That IS a fucking seal. This is happening. This is happening.

Note the dearth of Paul Simon lyrics, the lack of menu planning, and the absence of concern for my children. In the Bay, my brain only has room for three overarching concepts:

1. It’s cold.

2. What is that?

3. This is happening.

And I love it. I love everything about being freezing in the glorious San Francisco Bay. I love the hurt, and the pushing through, and the feeling of achievement.

This is my life, and Perth is happening. We’ve jumped in the water and are bobbing at the surface, making goofy faces at each other and calling for help when we feel scared. We don’t know where we are but the water is warm and the fish are friendly.

Show your good side.

Willa noticed this sign on the Perth subway train:

Everyone on this train is different, with a different life, a different story. Just like you.

But you’re all here together, sharing the ride. 

That means you need to think about each other for a moment.

Nothing deep and meaningful, just a quick thought about whether or not you’re sharing your music with someone who really doesn’t want to hear it. 

Or if someone needs your seat more than you.

Or maybe you’ve drifted off and put your feet on the seat without thinking about the person who might be too scared to ask you to move them.

That little thought can make a big difference to everyone here, including you.

We’re all on this journey together.

Let’s make it an enjoyable one.

Show your good side.

Second Stage?

Oh hello Frustration, AKA second stage of culture shock. There you are, you scheming, handsome devil. Welcome to our home. Would you like a glass of wine? No? Is that because there’s a COCKROACH THE SIZE OF A FUN-SIZE SNICKERS BAR ON THE EDGE OF YOUR WINE GLASS?

 

There were some tears last night. Little people tears had to do with the fact that we are far away from everyone we love, our house feels like a hotel (BECAUSE OUR BELONGINGS ARE STILL AT THE PORT OF OAKLAND), we miss our Chinese school, where’s our bunk bed, etc. I had to look into a very weepy child’s eyes and answer the question, “Why did we move to Australia?” My response was messy and honest and not at all Afterschool-Special-Perfect-Mom. I mumbled something about choosing to move here because we know it will be wonderful, we are a team, you are safe, you’re already making friends look at you already making friends you extraordinary creatures. And that at this moment in our lives, our book is called Moving to Perth and we are in the first chapter called This is Hard. And the next chapter is called This is Not as Hard. And we will get to the next chapter I promise.

And then I cried because I was reminded of how the last time I used a book analogy was when my father died. I was crying and my children were staring at me, scared and confused. I sniffed, “It’s like a book. The first chapter is called Mommy’s Crying. But the second chapter is called Mommy Feels a Little Better.”

As it turns out, when you’re having a sad moment and you are reminded of your father’s death, lo and behold, it does NOT make you feel better. Note to self for next crying moment: do not think of Dad’s death. Baby chicks. Baby chicks.  

I told the girls that they can trust me in that it will get better. And the reason they can trust me is that Daddy and I have done this before. We moved to Singapore when Willa was a baby. And Willa asked, “When did it start feeling better?” and I said it was when I had a day where I felt like I had a great time. An honest-to-goodness, genuinely easy, great time. (It also helped when we moved to France, but I felt like that particular piece of information was best left for another day.)

It is now the day after Frustration came a knockin’, and as I write this, Willa and Simone are in the pool with two school friends, jumping and splashing and carrying on. I don’t know whether or not this is an honest-to-goodness, genuinely easy, great time, but it is heartwarming.

Nigel the Piano Man

Last Friday morning, I called Nigel, the man in Perth who will rent you a piano and deliver it to your house the same day. We had a piano by 2:30 that afternoon. It is difficult for me to say this, and probably even more difficult for Dave to hear it, but here it goes. I am in love with Nigel the Piano Man. Ok, not “in smootchie love,” as Simone would say. But all I’m saying is that at 10:30am I called Nigel to talk pianos, and four hours later, a beautifully tuned, upright Kawai was in my livingroom. BAM. That’s how you get it done, Port of Oakland.

Apparently, when you move pianos for a living, you care a lot about stairs. How many stairs, how high are the stairs, do the stairs curve around, is there sand on the stairs, any gravel or bumpy bits of concrete on the stairs? Doorways? No problem. Long hallway? Breezy. But tell me more about the stairs, said Nigel over the phone Friday morning. Please go outside and count them again.

Once we established that there are exactly four stairs, and that they are concrete, a bit bumpy, straight up, and not curved, Nigel said he’d be there that afternoon. He arrived in the 102-degree heat with a trailer hooked up to the back of his sedan. The trailer held some rope, a collapsible metal ramp, a dolly, and the piano wrapped in a blue moving blanket. Nigel looked like Gerard Depardieu in Green Card, if Gerard Depardieu had grown up on an Australian farm (as Nigel had) and could kick Green Card Gerard Depardieu’s ass. I showed him the corner of the living room where we’d like the piano, and, of course, the four stairs. He asked if I had a broom because he’d like to sweep the stairs even though I told him I had just swept them. “Just to be sure,” he said. Then he unfolded the ramp and laid it across the stairs. It was at this point I realized I was expected to help, and felt like a doofus in my dorky and impractical denim sundress. Nigel moved the piano to the base of the ramp and told me to stand at the top of the stairs. “How were you at Tug of War in school?” he asked, as he tied a rope around the length of the piano. I quickly responded, “Not bad,” even though I don’t recall ever playing Tug of War but I was already an asshole for being in a sundress so I’m not going to be the double-asshole-loser who’s never played Tug of War. Once the piano was secure, he tossed me the end of the rope. “When I say pull, pull. Got it?” At this point, I was all fired up thinking, “For the rest of his life, Nigel is going to be sitting at the pub with his mates and they’re gonna be like, ‘Nigel, tell us again about the American lady in the denim sundress who turned out to be the strongest person you’ll ever meet!’ And he’ll be like, ‘Guys, I swear, she looked like a weak sun-damaged peanut but MAN, could she pull?!’” Well, it didn’t really go down like that, but nothing horrible happened either. The piano did not tip over as I feared it might, and together, the Dream Team of Nigel and Bek got the piano up the stairs and into place (you and I both know that Nigel could have done it on his own but this is my dream and I am living it). Dave returned from picking up the girls at school to see Nigel at our dining table writing up our invoice and telling me if I want the freshest green grapes, go to the Swan Valley and pick them directly off the vines. Every time Nigel went back to his invoice pad, I kept mouthing to Dave, “I love this man” and Dave was smiling at me like, there she goes again.

The Break down of the Breakdown

So I had a bit of a breakdown last night.

After a dinner of pesto, salad with Simone’s Famous Dressing, and Tim Tams, the girls went to bed around 7:30pm and Dave and I plopped down on our TEMPORARY couch to begin working towards our goal of watching all three seasons of Veronica Mars. Two episodes in, I started drifting off to sleep. It might have been the Tim Tams and chamomile tea, the utter exhaustion of beginning life in a new country, or some combination of both. I pulled myself up off the couch, filled my water bottle, and stumbled into our bedroom… where all I could see were piles of clothes all over the bed and the floor. Clothes with no home. A big pile of cold weather kids’ clothes that we won’t need for at least three more months, and a massive pile of my dresses and blouses that have nowhere to go because the TEMPORARY furniture and housewares guys only brought 20 hangers, and our PERMANENT hangers are being shipped here and all of our belongings are still sitting at the Port of Oakland even though we moved out of our house on January 2nd in the hopes that our belongings would be shipped immediately so we could have them upon arrival. And yes I know I can just buy some hangers, BUT IT’S THE PRINCIPLE OF IT DON’T YOU SEE and it’s a waste of hangers if I buy them now and then my real hangers come in April. And then there’s our furniture. And our laundry baskets. And our adorable welcome mat I bought at the Target across from Lucky Penny, thinking, “Oh this will be adorable. When we get to Perth and receive all of our belongings, I can adorably pull out this adorable welcome mat from an adorable box and lay it in an adorable fashion on the front porch of our adorable new house.”

So Dave tried to distract me by asking, “Have you noticed that the ceilings in this house are really beautiful?” And when that made me cry even more, he told me how much he loved me, and how beautiful I looked tonight when I was making my tea. And then I started sobbing because I am only going to be beautiful for a few more days, because, no matter how much sunblock I apply and reapply, I can feel myself getting PERMANENT sun damage and I will look like a wrinkled old Italian lady in a matter of minutes. And then Dave will be this incredibly dark, gorgeous, wrinkle-free gentleman hanging out with this creepy, old, white-haired, sun-damaged, washed-up old bag.

That’s pretty much the break down of the breakdown. Eventually Dave made me laugh by telling me that crying is not an effective means of cooling down the body. And then I read some of Helen Macdonald’s incredible book H is for Hawk which turns out to be one of those books I am reading at the exact moment I need it.

And today’s a new day and life is good. We left the house bright and early to go to Caversham Wildlife Park to pet some kangaroos and see some wombats in, ahem, compromising positions. And now the girls are reminding me I said I’d go in the pool with them so here I go.

Signs that we are in an Australian public school

  • Uniforms.
  • Sunblock and uniform hats are required for recess. “No hat,
    no play.”
  • Swim lessons are part of the curriculum. Simone has a swim
    lesson every day for two weeks. Willa will have her swim lessons next month.
  • The after school program is sailing.
  • No homework for the first two weeks of school.
  • 45-minute lunch outside on the grass.
  • We are invited to the “Faction Swimming Carnival” where the
    school factions (think Hogwart Houses minus the dormitories) compete in swim races. The notice reads, “Dress: faction colours, bathers, towels, hat. While we encourage students to wear school bathers, they are optional.”

FAQ: What is Perth like?

I have been here just over a week so keep in mind anything I say or feel falls under the first stage of culture shock, which, according to Wikipedia, is the “Honeymoon Stage,” or rather, the tendency to see things in a romantic light.

First of all, it is hot. Really hot. If this is my honeymoon mouth talking, then it’s actually 50 degrees hotter than how it feels. It is summer in Perth, and apparently it is an especially hot summer, so the heat is somewhat excusable. It is not humid, so it doesn’t feel like Singapore. It just feels like the oven’s on, and you’re inside the oven, and the door is closed, and your thighs are sticky. I am trying to do any necessary body movements (walking, lifting up my arms, moving my head from side to side) in the morning when the sun is still calm. Today, after walking the kids to school, I raked some leaves until it was too hot to be outside (9:30am). I am now sitting on the floor of our bedroom under the ceiling fan. This sort of heat makes a short mundane errand (post office) feel like a massive accomplishment. There have been thunder and lightening storms almost every night, which I love and makes everything smell like Maui.

Perthians, as my dear friend Alex has coined them, are friendly folks. In eight days, there has been one grumpy taxi driver and one silent furniture delivery man. Everyone else, from the wine shop guy to Bruno the school crossing guard has greeted us with enormous smiles, almost as if they’ve been anticipating our arrival. “Yippee, they’re here! Look! It’s a person! Hi Person! May I help you? Well you just let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all!” This sparkling and down-to-earth attitude has made our first week feel less isolating. Again, this is the honeymoon stage of culture shock. Australians are probably a bunch of assholes.

The Perth landscape is diverse. It is all at once woodsy, barren, Serramonte-like (for you San Franciscans) and tropical. There seems to be approximately one playground for every child in Perth, and one park per family. There are football (soccer) and cricket fields everywhere, and every variety of eucalyptus tree. There are new housing developments with Ice Storm type mansions, and more housing developments under construction. I hear there is a river in Perth (with dolphins wtf) but I have not seen it yet.

We moved from temporary housing into our house yesterday, so… pause for massive sigh of relief… we are HOME. We chose to live in an area called Shenton Park, which I was told by the gal at the art supply store is a suburb of Subiaco, which is a suburb of Perth. Like Boston, few people seem to live IN Perth. There are the Brooklines, the Newtons, the Dorchesters, the Cambridges, the Somervilles, and everything’s close by and everyone says they live in Perth but, when you dig deeper, there’s an alliance and a pride that comes with your district. Keeping with the Boston comparison, Shenton Park is perhaps Cambridge, somewhat in looks (particularly the tree-lined streets between Harvard and Central Squares), and its proximity to Boston proper. Houses are generally smaller than what you might see in Cambridge, and the majority are single-family homes. Our home was built in 1905, and, like many houses in this area, it has a name. Our house is named Henston. Given that we’re in Australia, it needs a nickname (Henny?). The house is absolutely lovely and feels very us. Lots of windows, high ceilings, beautiful wooden floors, a built-in chalkboard in the girls’ room, and… are you ready for it… a pool. Yes you heard me correctly. There is a moth**fu**ing pool in our backyard. Not big enough to swim in if you’re over three feet tall and like to get some exercise, but still, there is a moth**fu**ing pool in our backyard and it is ALL OURS, MOOOO-HAHAHAHAHA (but you can swim in it anytime. But it’s ours. Just sayin.). Our actual street is very Leave it to Beaver. It’s flat with little traffic. Lots of trees, and lots of good smells. We think we smelled citronella on the way to school, and something else related to jasmine. We are a 15-minute walk from cafes and bookshops, and Dave will have an easy 15-minute bus commute to work downtown (the CBD = Central Business District). So again, I know, I’m wearing honeymoon glasses, but come on people, a house named Henston and a pool? Even when the second stage of culture shock (Frustration) kicks in, and this housing situation might turn out to be way shittier than I thought, at least I can drown my sorrows in my own moth**fu**ing pool.

Symptoms of Jet Lag

  • Middle of the night steak cravings
  • Curse-muttering to oneself
  • Staring at the wall
  • Bananas are tasty
  • Inability to read more than three consecutive sentences
  • Ability to watch more than three consecutive YouTube clips of The Ellen Show
  • Thinking about bananas

FAQ: Why did you move to Perth?

1 Comment /

Why are we in Perth? What is happening? What is this Perth business? As you may know, Dave works for Chevron. He went to work there soon after Simone was born. Part of what led to Dave joining Chevron was the
opportunity for all of us to live abroad at some point. It’s the same reason
Dave chose to go to INSEAD. Hey, here’s a convenient excuse to leave our
beloved home for a dedicated amount of time and explore another country (and of course, INSEAD is the best school ever and this post is sponsored by INSEAD go INSEAD). But after Dave joined Chevron, we settled into life in San Francisco, both in incredibly positive ways (my career, the girls’ school, family & friends) and in difficult ways (my dad had Alzheimer’s and we couldn’t imagine leaving). In 2013, my dad passed away, and soon after that, we started having conversations that went something like this: “Maybe we should move somewhere. No way, no one’s going anywhere. Where would we go? No one’s going anywhere. No I
know no one’s going anywhere but you know, what if we just did it? But you love your job and I love my job and the girls are so happy and they’re learning freakin’ Chinese for god’s sake and we have a cat and we love our house and we have amazing friends and oh my god my mom and our east coast family.”

Like having a baby, or eating a hot pepper, there is never a
good time to move abroad. It makes no sense and is irrational in every way. But if you want to eat a hot pepper, goddammit you’re going to eat that hot pepper and that’s just what’s going to happen.

And then Perth fell in our laps. Perth. It was not unlike when Dave learned he got into the Singapore campus of INSEAD and we were like, “Singapore! Awesome! Um, where exactly is, Singapore?” Perth, Australia. All I knew of Perth was that at some point, roughly 50 years ago, everyone in Perth turned on their lights when Americans were orbiting Earth and Perth became known as the city that can be seen from space.**  We started researching Perth, and talking to people there, and discovered that Perth seems to have quite the solid reputation. Its classmates Sydney and Melbourne get all the attention for being hip, pretty and smart. And Brisbane and Adelaide are sitting on the side of class being all, “we’re best friends and wear our hair in perfect braids and don’t have anything to prove and don’t need anyone.” And Cairns is smoking in the corner looking super hot, drawing really impressive but sort of filthy cartoons on the back of his notebook. And then there’s Perth. Perth is a bit shy, but beautiful. She’s happy being alone. She knows she’s not necessarily the first thing outsiders think of when they think of Australia, but she’s fine with that. She knows she’s got it.

So Dave accepted the job on a Tuesday, on Wednesday we asked
the girls, “you want to move to Australia?,“ on Thursday and Friday we told our friends and family, and on the following Tuesday, I gave notice at my job I love. It was a done deal. We were moving to Perth.

That was October. The girls saved their Halloween candy “to eat on the plane,” and on January 25th, the stale candy, along with eight suitcases, and four exhausted but excited humans boarded a plane (two planes)
to Perth, Australia.

**this is totally accurate factual information but you may wish to double check it.

Uncle Toby

1 Comment /

Uncle Toby hadn’t been seen in years. Turns out he’s been in his basement taking Cheerios, smothering them in sugar, repackaging them, and shipping them to Perth. Well played Uncle Toby, well played.