The Sun Was Purple And I’m Home

No one wants to hear about anyone else’s dream but last night I fell in love with a man with cerebral palsy. The more surprising thing was that he was barely twenty, and built like a lamp post. His mouth twisted when he spoke and he said funny things and pulled me onto his lap.

I woke up next to an international marketing saleswoman. Orthotic insoles. We were on a plane, flying from San Francisco to Sydney. She was going to Australia for ten days of meetings and also no one wants to hear about the person you sat next to on a plane.

I thought I would have moved back to the U.S. by now but this was just a visit. The saleswoman would be staying in Sydney and I would continue onto Perth. My husband was already there and had asked me what I wanted from the grocery store. Summer fruit, I had texted. Nectarines, peaches, something juicy.

Look, I said to the saleswoman, pointing at the window. She was reading a book called either A Whole New Mind, or Right Brain Rising. Both of these phrases were at the tops of the pages and I couldn’t recall if the title went on the left and the chapter on the right, or vice versa. Look at the sun, I said.

Generally I am not a talker on planes, but occasionally feel the need to point out the fact that we are in the sky and the clouds look like waves or the black specks could be mountains. Sometimes I add something about being in a flying machine built by humans, using words like majestic and illusion.

The sun was bright and round, and, through the shaded window, a veiny violet hue. The sky was dark and the clouds were lavender, a vampire’s bubble bath. Wow, she said, craning her neck, her long French manicured nails resting across the pages of her book. She looked like my brother’s mother-in-law but why would I say that to her.

My children were across the aisle. I tapped one of them with my foot. Look out the window, I said. My daughter put down the iPad because she knows that when her mother becomes a docent, it is easier to look at the thing than make a fuss. She said it looked like a book cover but couldn’t remember which one.

I have done this trip many times now, from one end of the world to the other. I have departed at midnight and landed the same day, hours earlier. Flying west, over the Pacific Ocean, I miss a day. I wish I remembered all the days I have missed. It feels wrong to overlook them, like forgetting the death of an acquaintance. On this trip, somewhere in the middle of the Emma Stone tennis movie, I breezed through the fifteenth of January.

The saleswoman asked me about the movie and I asked her about her book. She said it was called A Whole New Mind and I tried to look surprised, like I hadn’t peeked earlier. She said she likes self-help stuff and tugged lightly on her beige turtleneck sweater. I like to read them during big life changes, she said, clearing her throat. I nodded, and resisted the urge to squeeze her arm.

I shared the first self-helpy thing that came to mind, which is the expression, everything you want in life is on the other side of fear. She said she hoped to remember that, so I ripped out a page of my journal and wrote it down for her. Sorry, I shrugged. I don’t know if I have it right, or who said it. It doesn’t matter, she said. It’s so true.

We looked out the window again, at the big purple sun. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I was thinking about how we’re in a flying machine built by humans.

One For Each Night, They Shed A Sweet Light

It is Hanukkah and the kosher grocery store is out of candles. As he rang up my bagels and chocolate coins, the clerk who looks like Ben Stiller suggested I try the bookshop at the orthodox synagogue.

Later, I emailed the synagogue and promptly received a reply in all caps from Nadine, Shop Manager. YES WE DO. CLOSE AT 3PM.

I scarfed down the rest of my salami and cheese sandwich, wiped the non-kosher evidence from my chin, and jumped in the car.

The synagogue is in a suburb of Perth called Menora. I find this funny.

On the drive, I am listening to Kaskade and thinking of a recent night with friends at the Heath Ledger Memorial Theatre. We saw Let The Right One In, a Swedish story about a child vampire. Our British friend with the bum knee and the color blindness told us his first job was harvesting tomatoes, which, “didn’t work out so well with the color blindness and all.”

He has promised to visit us in San Francisco someday with his wife, a librarian who is unafraid to challenge on-the-fence words in Scrabble. It’s the principle of the thing, she says. You can’t let those go by.

When will you visit, I ask them. Don’t worry, they say. We’ve always wanted to go to Yosemite.

Last week, I bought a small jar of Nutella. My daughters have been using it sparingly and precisely, in the way you hold onto something only when you see the end. But yesterday, after careful consideration, one of them stuck her finger deep in the jar. It’s good this way too, she said.

I arrive at the synagogue bookshop and purchase three boxes of candles. Tonight we will surprise our older daughter with earrings. She has been asking to get her ears pierced but believes her parents will not buy her things like phones and dogs and holes in her ears. She will receive a small present that she will unwind, unwrap and turn over to discover a pair of tiny gold kangaroos. I am nervous to drive to a mall with crop tops and pink neon lights and offer my firstborn to a woman with tattooed eyebrows. I will do this, partially because my own parents protested piercings which ultimately led to the day I turned eighteen and my brother said for the love of god, do what you want, and marched me down to a store on Haight Street that smelled like weed and had silver rings in glass cases. I stared at the ring with the purple stone and my brother squeezed my hand as the earlobe gun went off. This is a good memory but my daughter doesn’t have an older brother.

A Very Happy Woman

A Very Happy Woman lives down the street. I have met her several times but for some reason, her name has not stuck with me. It is something friendly, like Maisie or Daisy. It could be Georgia.  

I don’t think she knows my name either. She just says hello there, or beautiful morning isn’t it. I often see her on my way home, after walking my daughter to school. She might be pulling weeds or squinting at something high up on a branch. Anything good up there, I ask. I love this time of year, she says, or, I thought I saw something.

This morning she was up early. My daughter and I were on our way to school, and spotted her standing on the lawn, in a royal blue tunic, flowy gray pants and strappy sandals. Her white hair was freshly combed and she poked at jacaranda petals with her tortoise shell cane. She looked like a social worker called in to testify on Law & Order. She saw us coming and waved her cane.

You look happy this morning, I said. It’s my birthday, she replied, leaning forward with both hands resting on her cane. Happy birthday, we said. How exciting, I added.

My daughter asked what she was doing for her birthday. Funny you should ask, I am about to walk down to the lake. I suggested she look for the two duck families I saw there yesterday. Perfect, that would be lovely. She told us last week she saw the most magical thing we would not believe it. She leaned down to look my daughter in the eye and, as if she couldn’t believe it herself, whispered, a black swan was dancing on the surface of the water. The woman swayed her arms back and forth as she stood up, mimicking the bird. She said she had never felt luckier in her life, to see a black swan dancing.

I’m eighty-three, she said, answering a question we hadn’t asked. Wonderful, I said, hoping that was the appropriate response. She nodded. It is wonderful. It’s not that old, she said. I used to think it was but it’s not anymore. She dropped a tissue. When I picked it up, I noticed it was folded into a triangle, the edges carefully tucked in.

The Very Happy Woman told us her daughter dropped off the most beautiful plant. She really hadn’t wanted anything for her birthday, but then again this plant is lovely. She doesn’t like fragrance of any kind and this plant is perfect in that it doesn’t smell and it is awfully nice to look at. It was thoughtful of her daughter to come by this morning because she has a very busy job and it is difficult for her to make time. But today she made the time, and someday we must see the plant because it is just lovely.

We said goodbye and continued walking. She’s nice, said my daughter, leaping over a crack. We talked about feelings you get from people, and how amazing it must have been to see a black swan dancing on the lake. We agreed to keep our eyes open.

We All Know It’s Everywhere

The revolting behavior of powerful American men has been in the news a lot in Australia. Even people who had never heard of Harvey Weinstein aren’t shocked, given his position in Hollywood. One friend said, “I was a bit surprised by the rapes, but not really I reckon.”

The women I know in Australia are like women everywhere. We have all experienced inappropriate male behavior ranging from catcalls to assault. I asked a fellow parent what she thought about the #MeToo campaign. Although she saw value in the public discourse, she expressed concern that a rude comment was being put in the same category as rape. Another friend agreed and said, “We all know it’s everywhere. We just deal with it and move on.”

I have only lived in Perth for three years, but everyday feminism feels different here. Australia was the second country in the world, after New Zealand, to give women the right to vote in 1902. They elected a female prime minister, and have twelve months of parental leave and federally funded childcare. Aussies are fiercely self-reliant, and their anti-whingeing values discourage seeing oneself as a victim. The mentality is to fight back or soldier on. Recently I overheard two girls talking about a mean boy in school and their plan to beat him in a sports event.

Obama was President when we moved here. Then the election inspired women’s marches across the United States. I spoke to my daughters about the marches and feminism in general, but found it challenging to address problems my children don’t see in the first place. They had difficulty understanding why women need to fight for equality because inequality is so obviously wrong. My younger daughter is the only girl on her field hockey team. She told me she hadn’t noticed until I pointed it out. You can do anything, I told her. Of course I can, she said.

Recently my husband asked if a coworker or boss had ever sexually harassed me. He assumed I would have mentioned it by now, but had never asked me directly. I’ve worked with bullies and perverts, but thankfully I’ve never been in a position where, if I didn’t go along with some insane demand, I’d lose my job, or worse. But like other women, I’ve learned to navigate the world with the male gaze in mind. It is hard to imagine a future where we’re not objectified and stereotyped.

Yesterday, when hanging the laundry, I watched a redback spider immobilize its prey by repeatedly biting it on the head before dragging it back to the corner of my kitchen window. The redback is one of the most dangerous spiders in the world. Its bite causes fever, nausea, and, if you’re not in the vicinity of an antivenom, death. They don’t need hotel rooms and bathrobes.

74 Minutes

00:00

We were instructed to use the toilet before entering the performance space. The piece will be 74 minutes, the woman in black said. If you have to wee during the show, you will not be allowed back in. Also, the piece will include four minutes of silence.

I am at the Tura New Music Festival to see a friend play in Michael Pisaro’s piece entitled A Wave and Waves. My friend is a professional musician and conductor. He plays numerous instruments including guitar, mandolin, and drums. Tonight, however, he will be playing the pebbles.  

As I waited to enter the Midland Railway Workshop, an enormous warehouse on the outskirts of Perth, I told my friends about the show I saw two nights ago. One musician used a hair comb, some alligator clips and a cello bow to make a variety of sounds on her classical harp. There was also a song called Concerto for Active Frogs where seven people wearing garbage bags croaked along to a recording of North American frog mating calls. On the way home, I asked my husband what he thought about the show and he asked me how much I had paid for tickets.

My feelings about music of this sort are similar to my feelings about deep fried Snickers bars or Michael Moore: unrelenting, but also why not and thank god.

01:00

The audience is interspersed among the 100 percussionists who are positioned in a grid formation. My friend is standing at attention, as if guarding Buckingham Palace. In front of him is a large tray with a sloped square piece of granite and hundreds of white pebbles. Another performer stands with a violin bow and a wooden block. I spot a man with an enormous ream of white paper and a woman with a bass drum. There are at least five other pebble stations, and a large digital timer affixed to the wall.

01:58

The piece started two minutes ago, but only now am I hearing a squeaky bowing sound. When I crane my neck to see where the sound is coming from, my neck cracks loudly. 

03:36

My friend is not yet playing his pebbles. His eyes are closed and he looks like he is meditating. I am concerned he will miss his cue to come in. I remind myself this is not my responsibility.

10:20

The man with the paper begins to tear one of sheets like he is slowly opening a candy bar. I remember that Halloween is on Tuesday.

11:40

My friend takes two handfuls of pebbles and slowly releases them on the higher end of the granite. The sound of cascading stones is pleasant and I close my eyes. In twenty seconds he is done, and returns to his meditative stance.

19:20

I have this plot issue in a story I’m writing. A woman makes a choice and I’m not sure it’s a choice she would make. I wonder how this character would feel about this show and I decide she would have left ten minutes ago. I close my eyes.

23:40

My friend starts with the pebbles again. I try to get his attention and he ignores me. He is taking this very seriously and I am a horrible person.

31:20

I am terrified I might fart. I don’t need to fart, but I know I mustn’t so I’m worried I might.

36:00

Four minutes of silence. I notice a performer in the back who has beautiful long white hair with pink and purple streaks. She looks familiar. Her eyes are closed and she is swaying slightly.

47:40

The music is steadier now and the crescendos feel like pressure points, sending warmth up my spine. My friend is vigorous with his pebbles and they are bouncing off the granite onto the cement floor.

62:20

I remember. Two years ago, I was on a bus in Perth with the woman with the long white hair with the pink and purple streaks. She was severely injured when the door ripped off her big toenail. I wrote a story about this incident and submitted it to two publishers. Now this woman is across from me in a warehouse playing a drum.

74:00

The piece is over but no one is moving or applauding. Someone finally starts clapping and soon the room erupts.

My friend looks tired from all the standing and pebble tossing. We congratulate him and ask to touch the pebbles. This was his second performance today, and now he is free to join us for margaritas. I tell everyone I’ll meet them out front and run to find the woman with the long white hair and the pink and purple streaks.

Holding Pattern

I am stuck in traffic on Thomas Street, thinking about missiles flying over the Pacific Ocean. I turn on the radio. One of the DJs is talking about the ruckus in his neighborhood. He lives near the beach in Scarborough where “there are apartments going up everywhere I reckon.” The construction starts early, and “not to offend the inventor of the circular saw, but the noise is driving me mental.” His co-host plays a clip of Bjork’s Oh So Quiet and they both laugh.

I roll down the window. A man and a woman at a bus shelter are smoking and checking their phones. The man scratches his crotch and looks up. I look away. 

Next to me is a parcel delivery van with a bumper sticker, “Commit your way to the Lord. Trust in him and he will act.” I question God’s role in the postal service, and think about the comedian Eddie Izzard who says he believes in people, not God, because “people show up.”

Recently, my family and I spent three nights on Rottnest Island, a small patch of land off the coast of Perth where cars are prohibited and furry quokkas roam the island looking like F.A.O. Schwartz escapees. We rode bicycles to the western tip and watched humpback whales and sea lions play. After dinner, the four of us changed into pajamas and piled into a hotel bed to watch Australian Survivor. My husband nudged me and showed me his phone. A 64-year-old with a stockpile of machine guns had killed more than fifty people in Las Vegas. I put my head on his shoulder as we watched Locky win his third immunity necklace. I didn’t want to leave this beautiful tiny island off the coast of the most remote city in the world.

The traffic starts moving and soon I am home. I feel something rustling around in my hair. It is a cockroach. Of course. There are hurricanes and dictators and gunmen so why shouldn’t there be a cockroach in my hair? It is half the size of my thumb and the color of grape jelly. I smash it between my fingers and wipe the whole mess on a tissue. As I stand at the kitchen sink washing my hands, I think about how we will soon leave Australia and return to the United States. We don’t know when. We are in a holding pattern. After three years in Perth, I miss my friends and family more than ever. I am worried that back in America, I will miss safety. This is what keeps me up at night.

Downright Un-Australian

Gay marriage is not legal in Australia. It is estimated that at least 70% of Australians support same sex marriage, and most politicians are also in favor. This month, citizens are receiving a one-question survey in the mail: Do you support a change in the law to allow same-sex couples to marry? The survey is voluntary to complete and costs $122 million (in a country of 24 million people). The result of the postal survey is non-binding but a yes result will allow Parliament a “free vote,” where politicians are expected to vote based on personal preference rather than party lines.

A survey on equal rights is demeaning, but as I said to my sneezy daughter last night, sometimes we have to take horrible tasting medicine in order to get better.

I show up at the Yes Campaign Call Center at five past five, which causes me mild panic because Handlers Are Never Late. I couldn’t find the building and was wandering around Parliament House dressed like a strawberry farmer in my overalls and boots.

People who run call centers should be given awards, because their job is to stand in front of two-hour shift volunteers and explain the same thing over and over again. Blond-haired Michael explains he isn’t gay but “can’t imagine a more important issue,” and Susan has an arm brace and introduces herself as “Susan who can’t stop talking.”

My job tonight is to cold call Western Australians and remind them to vote yes on their marriage equality surveys. “Before we jump on the phones, let’s introduce ourselves,” says Susan who can’t stop talking.  

Nicole, sitting next to me, is in her sixties. Her gay son lives in Toronto because “it is more of an open culture and he can be himself.” Her eyes well up. “I wish he could be treated the same as my daughters.”

I say my husband is black and it wasn’t that long ago that he and I wouldn’t have been able to get married in the states. “We tell our children it’s the same thing,” I explain, suddenly feeling emotional.

An Indian-Australian man and his partner of eight years who looks like Hugh Jackman finish each other’s sentences. “We’d like to get married,” Hugh says. His partner squeezes his knee and adds, “He just wants a big party.” Everyone laughs and then becomes quiet.

A pretty woman in a pantsuit speaks calmly as she tucks her hair behind her ear. “My sister is gay. I hate the survey. This is the least I can do.” She crosses her legs, sighs, and apologizes for being so negative.

Australians are positive people who shy away from conflict. In three years, I have heard of only two protests in Perth – one for the treatment of refugees, and another to keep a high school in its current building. More people turned out for the high school. My friend Celena and I attended a rally for marriage equality, which felt more like a family reunion. I was surprised by the low turnout and remembered a couple of years ago when close to a million people flooded the Perth streets to see gigantic French marionettes. “Bring a puppet, and they’ll show up,” Celena said tersely.

It is time to get on the phones. We are handed bottles of water and lollies. Susan who can’t stop talking says she likes to tell people that voting against gay marriage is “downright un-Australian” and Michael suggests we don’t engage with anyone who is voting no. “Just thank them for their time and move on,” he says, passing out scripts.

I make thirty-four calls, twenty of which result in voice messages. Of the remaining fourteen, I log eight yes votes, two no’s, two undecided, one hang up, and one giggly child who tells me his dad is next door and asks if he should get him. “No thanks,” I say. “We’ll call back.”

I speak to one woman for several minutes. She has already mailed in her survey. “I voted yes of course. Who wouldn’t?” I tell her about my phone call with a man who defended a local tennis champion who recently publicly argued against gay marriage and got tossed out of her tennis club leadership role (big news in Perth). He is voting no, I told the woman. “Good on you, mate,” she says. “I would have lost the plot on that one. What difference does it make to him?” I request that she remind her friends to vote yes. “They know to stay away from me if they’re not,” she laughs.

I speak to a man who hasn’t received his survey but is planning on voting yes. “Everyone deserves to be happy. I don’t understand the problem.” Another older man feels similarly and expresses it in a quintessentially Australian way, “I’m not really fussed either way.”

One man takes issue with the word marriage and therefore is voting no. I have a friend who also feels this way but I do not tell him this. I thank him for his time.

Between calls, I tap my foot to the hold music, “Signed, Sealed, Delivered.” Nicole and I agree that Stevie Wonder keeps our spirits up.

One man tells me he hasn’t decided how he’ll vote. I ask him if there’s anything he’d like to discuss. He sounds wistful when he says, “No, not really.” I thank him for his time.

Our shift is over and we take a group photo. Door knocking is this weekend and we are given posters and stickers before heading out into the dark.

Australia’s last nationwide opinion survey was in 1977 when citizens chose the national anthem (It had been “God Save the Queen”). The winning song, the current anthem, is beautiful and reminds me of “Auld Lang Syne.” My favorite line is, “With courage let us all combine to advance Australia fair.” Yes let’s.

Of Course

My favorite thing about our Chinese exchange student is the way she says, “Of course!” in response to many of our questions. Do you like salad? Of course! Did you have a good day at school? Of course! She says it loudly and cheerfully, more like a life motto than an innocent response. It makes me realize how I must sound in French. Bien sur!

Our houseguest is fourteen, and is traveling outside of China for the first time. She is from Chengdu, a city of 14 million people, more than half the population of Australia. Chengdu is famous for many things including its enormous Buddha (“very, very big”) and spicy food. She is an only child, lives on the 36th floor of an apartment building, and plays badminton and a seven-string guqin.  She attends school from 7 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. six days a week and has “much, much homework.” Her usual breakfast is dumplings and green tea, but when asked if scrambled eggs and toast would suffice, she declared, “Of course!”

My daughter and I picked her up in the pouring rain under the awning of a dilapidated motel near Cottesloe Beach. She was wearing baggy jeans, a navy blue sweatshirt that read, “When the clock back, what can I do?” and a sideways facing turquoise baseball cap that read, “Monsters University.” When she learned that her Perth host family is not in fact Australian, she clapped and grinned. “I love America! Taylor Swift!”

I stayed with a French family for a couple of weeks when I was her age. They put me in their guest room, far from the other children in the house, and showed me how to operate the bidet. I learned French reading Tintin and Garfield, and also because I was instructed to pronounce everything on the dinner table before I was allowed to eat. My French vocabulary is limited, but apparently my pronunciation is excellent. This is because I like to eat.

Although I placed English editions of Tintin and Garfield on her dresser, we are trying to make our foreign visitor’s stay as enjoyable as possible. We took her to a wildlife park to pet koalas and kangaroos, and tonight treated her to pizza. Her mastery of English is impressive, but we are relying mostly on sweets, Uno, and pop music for bonding.

I like making our guest laugh. Her cheeks turn pink and she covers her mouth. This happened yesterday when I danced in the kitchen to Bieber’s Sorry.

My husband and I have a mantra from the four months we lived in France: Yes is better than no. It reminds us to remain open to new experiences and helps to prevent middle aged stodginess that can sneak up on us like a bald spot. We love having visitors, and will miss this one when she leaves. Of course.

In Search Of Lost Time

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I did the Proust Questionnaire with my children. “What quality do you most admire in a man?” One said kindness and the other said moustaches. “How would you like to die?” We all agreed. Old age, in bed, dreaming. I play viola in a band. We practice Monday nights in a school music room. Last night, one of my bandmates arrived with very sad news that she wore like a tight vest. A teenager had died tragically. How will the parents make it through, we wondered before we figured out how to play the chorus of Video Killed The Radio Star.

I returned home and smoked a cigarette outside in the dark. It was the fourth anniversary of my father’s death. He smoked cigarettes until he met my mother who hated all forms of smoking. Cigars were the compromise. He called smoking a cigar taking a walk around the block. I just sort of chew on it, he explained after I told him I was scared he might die of cancer. He promised me cigars wouldn’t kill him. He was right.

When I was pregnant, strangers liked to tell me how everything would change. They were wrong. They should have told me having children is more fun than you think, and that someday your father will die and everything will change. But this is not something you say to a stranger in a grocery store.

This morning I woke up abruptly, in the middle of a dream about having to pee inside of a washing machine. After I went to the bathroom, I crawled back into bed, tucked both arms under my pillow, and listened to the kookaburras. A few minutes later, my daughter joined me. Our legs entangled, she told me my hair smelled good and my breath smelled bad. I told her everyone smells funny in the morning. We’ve all just returned from adventures, I explained. Some of us flew to the top of skyscrapers, while others relieved themselves in washing machines.

In 1890, Proust provided an answer to one of his questions, “Where would you like to live?” He said, “In a country where certain things that I should like would come true as though by magic, and where tenderness would always be reciprocated.”

Party Town

It is the Fourth of July and radio station Nova 93.7 in Perth is hosting Independence Day Throwback, playing songs like Party in the U.S.A. and We Speak No Americano. I just dropped off the kids at a week-long theater camp where they are rehearsing Beauty and the Beast. Due to what I’m guessing is a licensing issue, this is not the musical with Cogsworth and Lumière. Instead, this version features a fidget spinner salesman, a painter, and a pack of wolves singing Duran Duran’s Hungry Like the Wolf.

Before I head to the Nedlands Library to park myself in one of their study carrels near the comic books, I drive further down Stirling Highway to make one quick stop.    

Stirling Highway runs through the western suburbs of Perth like a scar on an otherwise lush landscape. A seemingly endless array of mattress stores, pizza restaurants and outdoor furniture warehouses, Stirling is a commercial strip that could be plucked out of any sprawling American suburb. I’m looking for sparklers, and I swear there is a party supply store somewhere around here. I sing along to Empire State of Mind.

I am the first customer of the day at Party Town and the gentleman on his knees tying together red, white and blue balloon arches looks happy to see me. 2Pac’s California Love is blasting and the man stands up and says, “G’day.” He has two silver loop nose rings in his left nostril, and is wearing a navy blue beanie with a white pompom and a wool sweater with pine trees and the New England Patriots logo. I ask if he has any sparklers and he walks me down an aisle past pirate costumes and feathered boas. I select both the regular and long sparklers and then ask if they have anything else for the Fourth of July. He says of course, and I wonder if there’s a party supply store anywhere in the U.S. with a section dedicated to Australia Day. I look at the flag garlands and stars and stripes tablecloths and tell him I’m not feeling that patriotic after all. “I get it,” he says as we walk to the register.

The man in the beanie was in the states last year for vacation with someone he refers to as his “then-girlfriend.” They went all over – New York, Boston, Detroit, New Orleans, and Lake Tyler in East Texas. He tells me this as he rings up my sparklers. “In the north, we met Clinton supporters and in the south we met people who were going to vote for Trump. Quite a diverse lot you have there,” he said. “We were in Texas two days before the open carry law passed. We went to a bar and my then-girlfriend talked to a guy with a rifle slung over his shoulder.” He shakes his head and laughs. “Was a rabbit going to run across the floor?”

“Nice sweater,” I say, as I hand him a twenty. “My husband likes the Patriots.”

“I follow the Patriots and also Oregon State,” he says. “I’ve been a fan of American football ever since I was a kid. Like it way more than the AFL to be honest with you. Went to a Patriots game against Philly last year. Unfortunately they lost but the place was going off. Blokes had those long puffer jackets. They kept buying us beer because we’re Australian.”

The phone at the counter rings and he ignores it. A woman with frizzy hair clutching a mass of gray plastic convict chains runs to the front to pick up the phone. “Party Town,” she says wearily. “Yes. Yes we do.”  

The man leans over the counter and lowers his voice. “I feel more at home in Boston than I do here,” he says. “Americans are the nicest people.” He pauses and looks wistful. “They’ll sort it out,” he says finally.    

I drive to the library, sparklers next to me on the passenger seat. Nova is playing Lady Gaga’s The Edge of Glory, which seems like a stretch but I sing along anyway. It starts to rain and I hope it stops by the time the sun sets tonight. I want to take the kids outside and talk about America as we sign our names in the air.