Fear Factor: Live from Perth

Remember that episode of Fear Factor where a family of four had to go for a drive in a car that was filled with mosquitos? Do you recall the part where the children were screaming and the mother was saying that’s what you get for leaving the car door open all night? And remember the end where they were back at home and one of the children got stung by a wasp, and then there were giant cockroaches crawling all over the back patio?

Humans are mere nuisances who are simply getting in the way of Operation Bug Takeover. These guys have a plan, and they are working together to destroy the human race. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy. I just overheard this convo out back:

Mosquito: “Alright, I’d like a status update from each of you. Wilson, why don’t you start.”

Wasp: “Today I stung Human on its back. It screamed like a little girl.”

Mosquito: “Nicely done. Lorraine?”

Beetle: “I made it inside the house with Adam and we hung around by the toilet.”

Mosquito: “Where is Adam?”

Beetle: “He was crushed by Human. But not without a fight.”

Mosquito: “Jerry, stop pacing back and forth and give us your update.”

Cockroach: “Nothing special to report. Just another day of being as creepy as possible.”

Mosquito: “Evelyn?”

Fly: “I am working towards my personal goal of flying in and out of all mouths.”

Ants, in unison: “We can make the letter G on the pavement!”

Mosquito: “That’s irrelevant. Focus, guys, focus.”

My friends, Australia is no place for pussies. I repeat (to myself, in particular): Australia is no place for pussies. I’m not normally that squeamish when it comes to bugs. But this is a large and in charge situation. I am currently checking the bed before crawling under the covers at night. Mind you, I’ve never seen a bug in the bedroom, but I am assuming that’s because they are all inside the mattress (the call is coming from INSIDE THE MATTRESS). I know that once I fall asleep, the cockroaches are slipping into their purple velour jumpsuits, unscrewing their tiny silver flasks, and groovin’ all over my legs. The mosquitos are swinging from the ceiling fans and the ants are spelling out, “Go home Yanks.”

Jews love jam.

Jam on toast is all the rage in Perth. Kids are having jam on toast. Adults are having jam on toast. Right now I am not at all sure 100% sure that there is a wallaby smothering herself in jam and claiming to be toast. So much jam everywhere you look. And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that’s weird because there aren’t very many Jews in Perth.

Andronico’s is a magical grocery store on the corner of Funston and Irving Street in San Francisco. Unlike Whole Foods, Andronico’s sells necessities like Cheetos and Diet Coke, as well as organic, locally-sourced, grass-fed, artisanal artichokes or whatever was featured in the most recent issue of Yoga Journal. It is a beautiful store and if they ever pull up my credit card purchases over the last 15 years, I will keel over and drop dead in their glorious cheese department.

One day about five years ago, I went to Andronico’s to buy some pork chops. I had never eaten a pork chop before then, let alone purchased one. I was raised Jewish and pork wasn’t exactly banned in our house, but it certainly wasn’t promoted. My dad’s feeling on pork was that we won’t cook it ourselves, but if it’s served to you in someone else’s home, you best be swallowing every bite of that honey-baked ham. This philosophy is not unusual for a reformed Jewish household, particularly one featuring a Jew who fled Germany in 1938. It’s almost a subcategory of keeping kosher. “No pork or shellfish in this house, but I don’t ever want to hear about you being a prima donna in someone else’s home. You eat what is put before you. End of story.” So why was I then at the meat counter at Andronico’s asking Bobby the Butcher about bone-on versus boneless? Because I married a handsome shegetz who likes his pork, that’s why. A middle-aged lady with glasses standing next to me at the counter overheard my conversation with Bobby and exclaimed, “What? You’ve never had a pork chop?” I said that no, funnily enough, I had never cooked a pork chop because I’m Jewish, I didn’t have pork growing up, it never occurred to me that pork was a perfectly acceptable type of meat, my husband will be excited, and blah dee blah. I thanked Bobby for the pork and the cooking instructions, and walked off in search of whole-wheat english muffins. Ten minutes later, I was checking out and that same lady from the meat counter ended up behind me in line. At this point, she took a jar of fancy all-fruit-cloth-top blueberry jam out of her cart, showed it to me, and asked, “Excuse me, but do your people like jam?” I assumed I had misheard her, and that she had said something about steeples and lamb. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” She repeated, a bit more slowly and loudly, “Do your people like jam?” Umm, what is happening right now? What on earth is she talking about? Who are my people and why wouldn’t we like jam? Who doesn’t like jam? I smiled at her, “Yes, my people LOVE jam.” She sighed with relief and explained that she was heading over to a Jewish friend’s house for dinner that night, and wanted to bring a little something, and my comment she overheard about pork got her thinking oh no what if Jews don’t eat jam, and she didn’t want to offend someone. God forbid she offend someone. I reiterated that jam is a delightful gift and who doesn’t love jam.

My point is, jam is delicious. And I will be eating a lot of jam over the next couple of years. Which is no surprise, given that my people love jam.

Where has all the homework gone?

Where has all the homework gone, long time passing?

Where has all the homework gone, long time ago?

I have decided that I am not allowed to freak out about the future. Worrying about the future feels like the aliens have landed and are using their invisible alien brain hoses to fill my head with The Unknowable so I’m distracted and don’t notice that they are trying on my high heels and drawing on the walls. So I am TOTALLY NOT FREAKING OUT about the fact that just a few weeks ago, my children were enrolled in a wonderful Chinese Immersion School in San Francisco, spending at least 45 minutes a night on homework, and now they are coming home from their English-speaking school and jumping in the pool. And obviously I AM COMPLETELY FINE WITH THAT, WHY WOULD YOU THINK OTHERWISE?

Yesterday, I attended a presentation given by Simone’s teacher and learned that Simone will not have homework this year, or at least the kind of homework we are used to. Listen to this load of koala dung: “The aim is to inspire children to want to learn.” Huh? She’s seven years old people. Time to man up. Where’s the testing and the homework? What is this about promoting a desire to learn? We are Americans and that means we work hard and then we get stuff. (insert robot arms gesticulation) I. Do. Not. Understand. School. Without. Homework. What. Is. The. Point.

There’s a list of spelling words for the week that come home every Monday but it is “up to parents” how and when we want to review these with our children “because every child learns in his or her own way.” (robot arms) What. Are. You. Talking. About. Need. More. Direction.

I came home from the presentation feeling elated at first. Finally. Kids can be kids. I mean, look at this school. Swim lessons. Hip hop dance classes. Maker classes. People, there are chickens. Clucking, feathery chickens that the kids have to take care of. Willa and Simone will probably have a blast at this school. Their teachers seem to love teaching and greet the kids with huge smiles and bear hugs.

And then I pulled out my laptop and googled “chinese tutors perth.”

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.