Nonfiction

I lived in a village in France in the spring of 2006. The name of my local grocery store was Attac, which, in retrospect, was a bit of a red flag. If you shop at a store called Bully, you shouldn’t be surprised when someone stuffs you in a locker.

The day I arrived in Thomery, I drove to Attac to stock up on essentials and got yelled at by three different people. I was pushing the cart too fast, I should have known to bring my own bags, and I needed to understand things more quickly.

I had been living in France for less than 24 hours and already I had encountered some of its more impassioned citizens.

Other countries take a bit longer to pull down their pouch and show off their joey.

I’d say Australia, or at least Perth, is a very peaceful place. Sure, the spiders and snakes can kill you. But as far as humans go, everyone has been very kind. I chalk it up to the sunshine and good coffee.

But two weeks ago, an old man at Jualbup Lake Park stole my brand new Camelbak water bottle and suddenly you better run, you better take cover.

Who steals a water bottle – from a gazebo, mind you – with “Bek” written on it in Sharpie? I’ll tell you who. An old man with a fedora and a walker in an otherwise deserted park. (Here I am tempted to make a “once a convict, always a convict” joke but I haven’t known my new friends long enough to gauge whether or not this would be appreciated. Non-native Australians can be sensitive about their origins. So I will put parentheses around this point in hopes they skip it.)

My day in the park with Moondyne Joe launched a litany of eccentric characters. A lady with large clip-on earrings and a pink scarf cornered me at the butcher to challenge my order of ground beef and lecture me on the rules of homemade hamburger patties. I walked to the post office and passed a man on the sidewalk who looked me straight in the eye and said, “you’re running the wrong way.” And finally, after six months of living here, I saw someone texting and driving.

It’s like San Francisco knows how much I miss her, and is speaking to me the best way she knows how. Message received. Perth may have the best beaches and coffee, but no one does crazy better than my hometown.

Living in Western Australia, I spend a lot of time thinking about sharks.

I also spend a lot of time hearing about sharks. I haven’t met anyone who’s personally run into a shark, but everyone has a friend who has a surfer friend with an escape story. Big Aussie blokes turn into tiny crayfish at the very mention of a great white. And when my “no worries” mates admit to being scared of something, I pay close attention.

Recently, one of the four Fionas I’ve met used the expression “a sharky day,” as in, “I reckon it’s a bit of a sharky day. I wouldn’t go near the ocean.” From what I understand, a sharky day is similar to earthquake weather: a little cloudy, a little quiet, dogs are pacing.

I started following Surf Life Saving WA on Twitter and now read posts like, “3.5m white shark sighted 100m offshore. Moving west.” I frequent a website that tells me to stay away from schools of fish “behaving erratically.” I have learned that I should be paying more attention to migration patterns of humpback whales, as shark bite frequency is directly correlated to whale populations.

A few days ago, I read an article in the West Australian called, “Sharks Not So Keen on Deterrent Tests.” You already know the story. But let me break it down for you.

In 2012, off the coast of Perth, great white sharks killed five people within ten months. As a result, the University of Western Australia received government funding to evaluate shark deterrents, everything from flashing lights to underwater sound machines. Equipped with candy necklaces and glow sticks, the scientists began staging their subaquatic rave.

The team soon encountered one minor problem; they couldn’t find any sharks. Apparently after their human feast, the greedy bastards were reclining on the ocean floor sipping cuppas and watching footy.

So, the researchers packed up their bubble machines and killer whale noisemakers and hopped over to South Africa where they found 60 sharks waiting patiently, ready to be tested. They discovered the following:

1. Sharks don’t give a shit about blinking lights.

2. When sharks hear artificial sounds of killer whales (their predators), their only thought is, “that’s a machine so there must be a human nearby. Yum.”

3. An electric ankle device serves as nothing more than a crunchy appetizer.

They did find something notable with The Shark Shield, coincidentally the name of my future band. The Shark Shield is a little box that emits a small three-dimensional electronic field, just like the one in that episode of Scooby-Doo. The field causes the approaching shark to experience what the researchers refer to as “mild discomfort” and swims away.

Here’s my thinking on this Shark Shield business. Shark encounters little box sitting in middle of ocean. Shark experiences “mild discomfort” and swims away, angry and sad. Shark spots human. Human loses arm.

I’ve read the stats. I am 30 times more likely to get struck by lightning in Western Australia than I am to get bitten by a shark. And I am aware of an easy way to eliminate the risk completely. But I’m a swimmer, and there’s only so much time I can spend in chlorinated pools.

Dave grew up in a loving but crowded house overflowing with cats, dogs, parakeets, snakes, fish, and gerbils. Early in our relationship, he told me he didn’t want any pets.

Naturally, I brought home a kitten. “How can you hate a kitten?” I asked. “She looks like trouble,” Dave said. He was right. Unagi was a monster. When friends came over, she would zoom in from the other room just to scratch them. She’d fill the house with shredded paper towels, and pry open the door to Dave’s closet so she could rip up his work shirts. “It’s because she knows you don’t want her,” I’d tell him. “She’s right,” he’d say.

When we drove from Boston to San Francisco, Unagi stayed behind with a friend who was going to fly her out later that summer. One day, the friend called in tears. Her father had just died. “Oh,” she sniffed, “and Unagi ran away.”

I had a dream that Dave and I were in line to buy movie tickets when Unagi, walking upright with a pink purse, strolled out of the theater. “Unagi!” I called out. She looked straight at me, dropped her purse, and took off running.

Years later, with Dave’s blessing, we adopted a nine-year-old cat named Bella. She had been declawed, which kept her inside and slightly fearful. She had the personality of a lopsided cupcake and slept on my feet.

Bella got very sick and stopped eating. On a Saturday night, Dave and I drove her to the vet to say goodbye. The doctor wrapped her in a green towel and gave her to me to hold as she administered the medicine. I felt her body end. We couldn’t stop thinking about our parents – Dave’s mother who died way too young, and my father who needed to die but we couldn’t help him.

I explained to Willa and Simone it’s a gift that we get to help animals die peacefully when they are very sick. A few days later, Simone asked if the vet stuck a sword through her belly.

Two years ago, Dave and I snuck off to the SPCA when the girls were at their grandmother’s house. We met a bunch of cats and narrowed it down to Frisbee, a nine-year-old couch potato, and Finn, a handsome two-year-old plaything. We returned later with the kids and, torn between two lovers, chose the younger, hotter one. We brought him home where he promptly curled up in the bathroom sink. From that moment on, Finn was family.

When we decided to move from San Francisco to Perth, we learned that Dave’s employer would cover the costs of moving a pet, thus triggering the behavioral economics phenomenon known as, The Absurd Shit You’ll Do When Someone Else Is Paying For It.

Australia is very strict about importing animals. Pit bulls are banned entirely, which is curious given the fact that ninety percent of the animals in this country would devour a pit bull for afternoon tea. Hamsters are also prohibited, I’m guessing because quokkas have a monopoly on cute. Over the past few months, Finn’s been pricked, prodded, clipped, and boarded. It has been confirmed multiple times that he is free of rabies, ticks, fleas and worms.

After Finn was vaccinated for rabies, he had to remain in the U.S. for six months. Our friends Nicole and Cho graciously agreed to house him, and they were kind enough to not roll their eyes when I dropped him off with three pages of printed instructions and his anal shaving clippers.

On Monday, after spending ten days in quarantine in Sydney, Finn boarded a plane with six dogs and flew across the country to Perth. The girls and I picked him up at Qantas Freight, a glum warehouse near the airport. I showed my passport to a guy with big arms who promptly disappeared into the back room. Seconds later, he reappeared with a crate covered in smiley face stickers labeled, “Finn Handler.”

Back home, we crowded in the bathroom to let Finn out of his box. Six months, Finn! We’ve missed you! Completely ignoring us, he walked straight over to his new litter box and released the longest pee I have ever witnessed. Then he rolled around in his urine and stumbled over to his food. Within the hour, he was asleep on the couch. Our little frat boy is finally here.

Last year, Willa invited a friend to play after school. In the car ride to our house, two third graders talked about an upcoming birthday party. Referring to the birthday girl, Willa’s friend asked, “How much do you think she weighs?” Before Willa could respond, the friend continued, “I weigh 52 pounds. I bet she weighs 58 pounds.” Simone, who was six at the time, chimed in from her booster seat, “I weigh 40 pounds.” “You’re lucky,” Willa’s friend said. “You’re skinny.”

Later that evening, I told my daughters I did not like what I had overheard. I reminded them it’s not polite to talk about how much people weigh, and, oh by the way, weight doesn’t matter because bodies are beautiful and they are all different sizes and let’s all be healthy and kind, ok now go brush your teeth.

I don’t know if I handled this well. When the Looks Monster pops up, I want to play Whack-a-Mole with a sledgehammer. Sometimes I think talking about not talking about it as bad as talking about it. It’s like books titled, “They Say I’m Weird but Weird is Normal,” the very existence of which contradicts their main point.

 

I imagine girls in Australia think about the same stuff that American girls do. The media machine is alive and well in Perth, and glossy magazines seem even glossier. There are articles in the newspaper about how to apply eye makeup. Parents express social media concerns and talk about how children don’t need phones as they’re buying their children phones. It’s not all that different.

What is different, however, is the apparent absence of discussion around “raising strong girls,” a common theme in the U.S. I haven’t seen “girls kick butt” t-shirts, yet everywhere you look, girls are kicking major butt. They are running, swimming, dribbling, and scoring. They are being loud and opinionated, their bodies are all banged up, and their hair’s a mess. Simone plays on a co-ed field hockey team where the only apparent difference between the genders is that some of the girls wear skirts. Helping out in Willa’s class the other day, I noticed that girls were raising their hands high and yelling out answers. And then I noticed I was noticing.

Willa left for camp today. It’s a three-night trip with her schoolmates, but from the way the whole family is feeling, you’d think she just left for college. Simone, Dave and I keep reviewing the schedule. “I wonder what she’s doing now?” “It says tree planting. Do you think she’s wearing her boots?” I just realized I forgot to pack her sunblock, which, in Australia, is like not having gloves on Everest. We’re already planning a dinner for when she returns – three days from now – and can’t decide between pesto and puttanesca.

We moved to Perth in January, and we’ve had more family bonding than all seven seasons of Growing Pains. Today we’re Three’s Company missing our pal Larry who’s at The Regal Beagle. My wise friend Ruth said it’s natural; of course we’re all feeling a bit anxious. “It’s the first time a member of the team is leaving for awhile.”

When I was a kid, I spent a week at Camp Swig, a Jewish camp in Northern California, where Hannah Schwartz slapped me across the face. We had just returned from a Shabbat service, held in a small, outdoor amphitheater where ancient Jews presumably fought to the death. On the way back to our cabins, Hannah and I stopped by the canteen to buy Mint It’s-Its. We were dressed in white, the required color for Shabbat service, and the perfect option for girls who are five minutes away from getting their first period. I don’t remember what Hannah and I were fighting about, but the chocolate from my It’s-It got all over my Lands-End culottes. My face stung and things were never the same. The next morning, I ate breakfast with Sarah, the girl who was allergic to grass, and watched Hannah at the next table, laughing with her new friends.

When I was thirteen, I went to a French immersion camp in Minnesota. I wasn’t wearing white but I did get my period. I put the maxi-pad on upside down, and buried my cut-off jean shorts in the forest. Sabrina, my cabin counselor from Cameroon, winked at me that night as we sang Bonne Nuit Mes Amis. Did she know? Did I remember to flush?

In high school, I was a counselor at a summer camp for visually impaired children. I loved this camp, despite being persistently hit on by a twenty-six year old Pakistani counselor who, upon learning of the death of his brother, left camp to return home and marry his brother’s fiancée who was also his cousin.

I also have happy memories from camp. In Minnesota, I got to wade in a lake after dark and watch the reflection of the stars dance all around me. At Camp Swig, I learned the long and glorious prayer, the Birkat Hamazon, and made a dream catcher out of popsicle sticks that hung in my bedroom for years. I just never had that whole camp-changed-my-life thing. My friend Jason swears that his summers at camp were some of the best times of his life. My cousin Emma’s eyes well up at the mere mention of River Way Ranch Camp.

I don’t know what Willa will think of her first camp experience. I just can’t wait until Friday, when I can grab her off that bus and hold her tight.

There are two scenarios that require running: rescuing a loved one and escaping a mad man. So what’s going on?

I blame Elaine. I met her the first day of school in Perth, when her sweet daughter took Willa by the hand and showed her around campus. I introduced myself and said, “Your daughter is lovely.” Elaine replied, “I’ll never remember your name.” Elaine is Scottish (she would correct me here to specify Glaswegian) so it sounded more like, “Ar nevah thrirembah yar nem.”

Elaine bears a resemblance to Julianne Moore and her humor is biting. Whatever you’ve been through, Elaine has been through ten times your shit. Her plate’s been full since the day she was born.

Elaine used to run half-marathons and then life happened. She is determined to lose the weight she’s gained over the past few years. Last month over coffee, she told me about this app she’s wanted to try. “It’s called Couch to 5K and it gets you off your fat arse.” She asked if I wanted to join her. I believe it was my magnetic personality and not the shape of my bottom that inspired her invitation. I was over-caffeinated and over-confident, so I said yes.

Three days a week, Elaine and I meet at a local park for a 30-minute session of Couch to 5K. There are many versions of this app, and they all rely on the same strategy: walk/run/walk less/run more. Elaine uses a British version where a voice named Laura gently bosses us around for half an hour. Imagine Julie Andrews as a personal trainer: “After your warm-up walk, you are going to run for 90 seconds. It is going to hurt, but trust me. The pain you will feel is nothing compared to the joy you will experience upon completion.” Laura is our teacher, our mother, and the woman we long to be. Laura is most likely a hedge fund manager with four children who wear tweed and open doors for old ladies. We love her, and we hate her.

Belle and Lexi, Elaine’s two miniature schnauzers, run with us. They bark at Asian people. They used to live in Malaysia so the whole thing makes no sense. Recently we had to pause our workout because Lexi went ape shit on a woman taking the peaceful, scenic route to work.

So there we are, with two tiny racist dogs, walking and running laps around a grassy oval. Elaine and I try to maintain conversation while running, which is like attempting to meditate with your hand down a garbage disposal. We talk about anything we can think of: family, religion, politics, you name it. “Tell me something, Bek. Anything. Keep talking.”

I am Elaine’s first Jewish friend so I consider it my sacred duty to provide her with as much false information as possible. Between gasps for air, I tell her, “Being kosher means you can only eat pork from Eastern Europe.” “Really?” she says, believing me for a second. Then I snort and she growls, “Fuck off.” I tell her that in the Jewish faith, cursing is pretty much a ticket to hell.

Somewhere around the two-minute mark, one of us inevitably wants to quit. It is at this moment, we repeat our mantra, Run Bitch Run. It is inspired by the book Run Fat Bitch Run by Ruth Field who also wrote Get Your Shit Together. She’s British.

Elaine left yesterday to visit family in the UK. For the next two weeks, I am on my own with Couch to 5K. I couldn’t find Laura on the app store, so I downloaded the American version that replaces Mary Poppins with a process efficiency consultant. There’s no voice at all. Just a timer and a graph. I miss Laura. And Elaine, if you’re reading this, I’m not running until you get back.

Here’s the thing about moving to another country. It involves living in another country.

At first, living in Australia felt like being on a tour organized by a sadistic travel agency. Looking to visit Western Australia? Step out of the guidebook and live like a local! Try to open a bank account! Live with a broken water heater! Enroll your children in school! Learn how to drive on the other side of the road!

Ten weeks into The Ultimate Australia Family Vacation, I began to feel the obnoxiously privileged exhaustion of too much vacation. This has been fun and I’m grateful for the opportunity. Now I want to go home. Then my head spun around exorcist-style when I realized, blimey mate, this is home.

There are clear signs we live in Perth. We get personalized junk mail. The doorbell rings often – friends wanting to play or teenagers selling candy bars. Weeds are sprouting and need to be pulled. My daughter says “G’day,” and it sounds authentic. The butcher knows me. I no longer stare at the coins in my wallet wondering which one is ten cents. I have strong opinions about neighborhood redevelopment plans. I whip in and out of tight parking spaces.

I have started to experience the joy of completely normal days. There is less what am I doing here and more I am here doing things. My brain has finally plopped down in a comfy chair and stopped racing around like an imprisoned Tasmanian Devil at the Perth Zoo.

And Operation Friendship seems to be picking up. We had our first adult dinner party last night, after a day spent marinating chicken and putting books back on shelves. Our guests brought housewarming plants and champagne. They gobbled up guacamole and told stories of pharmacy break-ins, celebrity encounters, and pre-teen angst. At one point, the Aussies at the table were debating whether or not the dingo did in fact eat the baby (verdict = yes it did). We drank too much and ate strawberries with fresh cream. It was ordinary and extraordinary.

I know as much about birds as I do Danish history or couch upholstering. Which is to say, very little.

But here’s what I do know. A bird is not interested in what I think of him. While I’m blathering on about how cute he is or how much noise he makes, he is thinking, “This is me, on a telephone line. Ask me how I got up here. That’s right. I can fly.”

Like many other creatures in this beautiful country, Australian birds ride that fine line between impressive and creepy. Like a handlebar mustache, you want a closer look but you don’t want it to touch you.  

Every morning at the break of dawn, the ravens and kookaburras say to the crickets, “Thanks for holding down the fort, mates. We’ll take it from here.” They then proceed to shout at the top of their lungs for nearly four hours. What on earth has them so emotional day after day? I asked Willa what she thinks the ravens are saying so early in the morning. Her guess? “I’ve got dibs on this house.” I often see ravens gnawing on bloody bones that they either a) dug out of a trash bin or b) received in Easter baskets from Satan.

The kookaburras are the size of possums. They like to perch on the gate around our pool. Their bodies are spotted gray and white, and their beaks are oversized, presumably the result of years of hysterical laughter. Simone named one Ronald, so in our world, there is a single kookaburra named Ronald who visits us every day.

The state bird of Western Australia is the black swan. In every lake, river or pond in Perth, you will find between two and two hundred black swans. They are stunning and fearless, just like Natalie Portman. Someone told me they bite, which was reminiscent of a hot sauce warning. All I can think about is what that bite would feel like. I’m obsessed. OH MY GOD I’M A BALLERINA AND I WANT TO MAKE OUT WITH MYSELF.

There are colorful parrots and parakeets. At the beach, there are seagull-type creatures with red eyeballs, and pelicans with pouches large enough to hold scuba divers. There are graceful egrets, wandering around like lost runway models. And there are the dreaded black and white magpies, or “cow-birds” as Willa calls them. During breeding season, magpies are known to swoop down and go after people, Hitchcock style. So much so that there are signs posted near nests, and notices on the library bulletin board about how to avoid being attacked. Apparently magpies are particularly suspicious of sunglasses. Because, as all magpies know, people who wear sunglasses want to steal your baby.  

When Dave and I were on a safari in South Africa many years ago, an older couple with fancy binoculars said something that stuck with us. “We went on our first safari for the lions and the zebras. We returned for the birds.”