o n e w o m a n p a r t y
Dylan lives up the block from us in Perth. He and sister sometimes drop by our house in the morning before school. Dylan is very sweet, and has impressive eye contact for a ten-year-old. He likes soccer. A lot.
Thanks for chatting, Dylan.
My husband possesses a unique quality that his close friends refer to as present nostalgia. He is able to be wistful for a moment that is currently in progress. It is not unusual that Dave and I are doing something incredibly ordinary like cleaning up after dinner or reading in bed, when he’ll catch my eye and say, “Life is good.” It’s different from gratitude. It’s more like his future self is visiting his present self and reminiscing about this particular moment in time. He does it with friends too. Our friend Sarah is particularly adept at recognizing when Dave is about to fall into one of his ephemeral trances. In the middle of a round of Cards Against Humanity, she’ll smile knowingly and ask, “Dave, are you having one of your moments?”
It is one of the qualities I love most about my husband. It is right up there with his dedication to paying bills on time and his willingness to crack my back on demand. I will miss all of this when he is killed by a giant Perth wave.
My special quality is a unique ability to sense danger regardless of whether or not danger is present. Of course motherhood has thrown this quality into overdrive, because obviously, any minute now, my children will be killed in a car crash. It is exhausting, constantly rescuing my family members from imagined accidents.
Last Sunday, my family and I went to Swanbourne Beach in Perth.
[The beaches in Western Australia are so magnificent that not mentioning that seems deliberate. I once shook Nicole Kidman’s hand at a work event in New York. I was supposed to tell her something about my job, but who cared about my job when the only thing that mattered at that moment was NICOLE KIDMAN IS VERY TALL AND PRETTY. Perth beaches are Nicole Kidman in Far and Away.]
Swanbourne Beach was, like all the parks and beaches in Perth, conspicuously uncrowded. Sunday was blustery and the surf was rough. The conditions were perfect for burying your feet in the wet sand and laughing hysterically while running away from the crashing waves. No one was in the water, with the exception of a few twenty-something surfers who were getting tossed around like tortellini in a pot of boiling water.
After a power nap in the sun, Dave popped on his goggles and announced he was going for a swim. To me, it was as if he declared he was going to cartwheel across the Mass Pike. As he sought out the perfect spot to embark on his dubious adventure, I tentatively called out “Be careful!” while mentally planning his funeral. What will I do with his body? We’re in the middle of nowhere, for god’s sake.
I watched my husband like a hawk as he made his way out beyond the break. I lost sight of his head once, as he dove into an oncoming wave. But then it appeared, popping up on the surface like a piece of fuzzy seaweed. I have to hand it to him. Once he made it out past the tsunami, he seemed to have a nice leisurely swim. He even stopped to smile and wave at me a few times. I took careful notice, as that was the last I’d ever see of him. I continued to track him as he bodysurfed his way back onto shore.
Dave looked a little hunky as he walked out of the sea – Poseidon in Lands End evergreen swim trunks. It could have been his brush with death. He was probably thinking, “Life is good.”
Imagine you wake up and there’s no Christmas. You still celebrate the birth of Jesus, but no one else has heard of this funny holiday with its jolly bearded man, piles of presents, and songs about sleigh bells. You have one week to find a suitable pine tree, chop it down, and drag it back to your house. You try to explain mistletoe and you sound like a crazy person.
Welcome to being a Jew in Perth. Jews might be the chosen people, but apparently they were not chosen to live in Western Australia. Where are they hiding? Is hiding the wrong word? WHERE ARE MY PEOPLE AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH THEM?
Passover is fast approaching and I am up for the challenge. There will be a Seder in my house if we have to substitute a Tim Tam for a shank bone. Unlike the Safeway on Taraval Street in San Francisco, our grocery store does not have an ethnic section. I regret my decision to not swallow a condom full of matzah ball soup mix before I boarded the plane to move here.
Last week, a waitress in Perth told me I don’t “look Jewish.” I have been hearing that my whole life. Yes, all you sweet goofballs out there, I know. It’s very complicated. I don’t “look” Jewish. My husband doesn’t “look” black. Our children don’t “look” like sisters. That’s because we are aliens who have come to Earth to enjoy your Woody Allen movies and smoke all of your salmon.
At my daughter’s swim meet last week, I met a Hungarian Jew and we high-fived. She politely inquired if I’m the American who just moved to town. Then she leaned over and asked cautiously, “Aren’t you Jewish too?” I stood up, hooted, and then held up my palm so we could exchange our ancient tribal greeting. A bit much perhaps, but meeting her felt like waving your hand around in the dark and finally locating the light switch.
Evidently there is a sizable community of Jews in Perth. They’re just not in my neighborhood. They live in a suburb called Menora. Swear to god.
Helen is gorgeous, which in Australian means awesome (although she’s gorgeous in American as well). She spent her childhood in Papua New Guinea and now lives with her family in Perth. In this one-minute chat, I tell her I love her feisty attitude and she responds, “It’s a bit of a worry, I’m trying to subdue it for this.”
Helen refers to “swimming at Cottesloe,” which is a reference to Cottesloe Beach. It has ridiculous turquoise water, tropical fish, and white sand.
Thanks for chatting, Helen.
Willa was in the middle of fourth grade when we left San Francisco to move to Perth two months ago. Due to strict age requirements in Western Australia public schools, Willa is now the youngest child in fifth grade. Year Five, Mom. Room 14 is a mixed fifth/sixth grade class. When I learned my stuffed-animal-loving daughter would now be hanging out with sixth graders, I assumed she’d be smoking and stealing cars within the month.
Ten and eleven-year olds in Perth carry their own money, and ride their bikes to the IGA after school to buy Samboy Chips and Tim Tams. Thankfully, they look like kids. They’re delightfully awkward and messy, they’re complaining about their heavy backpacks, and they’re buying the most disgusting looking candy. Did you know that Nerds come in rope form? Empty six boxes of Nerds, stuff them through a giant straw, and wait for them to harden.
When I was in fifth grade, every Wednesday after school I had Hebrew School, a.k.a. Bat Mitzvah Boot Camp. I’d walk down to the corner of 19th and Eucalyptus and take the 28 Bus to Geary and Park Presidio. Hebrew School was conveniently located around the corner from a 7-Eleven. Before class, I’d use my allowance to buy Lemonheads, Alexander the Grapes, and Fun Dip. I’d wash it all down with a Cherry Slurpee. It’s really hideous when you think about it. It would have been healthier for me at that age to pick up a pack of Marlboro Lights.
Needless to say, my sugar rush and subsequent crash caused me to doze off quite a bit between Torah readings. After class, I’d run up to House of Bagels to wait for the owner to tie his day-old onion flats and bagels in large plastic bags and toss them through the window where they’d land in the dumpster. Yes, after Hebrew School I’d go dumpster diving. But they were rescue bagels and they needed me. I loved coming home and proudly flinging down four bags of bagels on the kitchen counter. My family would shake their heads in disbelief but I knew they were delighted. Free bagels. Best. Jew. Ever.
Today, Willa participated in her first swim meet, mandatory for all kids her age. I wasn’t sure she knew what a swim meet was. My advice to her was, “when you hear a buzzer, dive in and swim as fast as you can.” When I showed up this morning to watch her race in the outdoor Olympic-sized pool, she was huddled with her friends, giggling. And eating candy. She did great.
