Nonfiction

Cereal Killer

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When I was around ten, my family went on a trip to Italy. Walking through one of many town squares eating one of many gelatos, my mother pointed toward a fountain, at another family eating gelato. She leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Where do you think they’re from?” Then she said something that has stuck with me. “Look at their shoes.”

My mother was right. You can tell a lot about people from examining their footwear. Russian ladies enjoy bejeweled sandals. The French prefer a simple ballet flat. Chinese men have been wearing the equivalent of Toms Shoes long before they were cool. No one wears a sneaker like an American.

Breakfast cereal, like footwear, is an anthropological marvel. If I ever get fooled into thinking I’m still living in the states, I can walk down the cereal aisle of an Australian grocery store. I always see my friend Uncle Toby and the sadistic pleasure he gets from taking iconic American cereals and coating them with even more sugar. Uncle Toby has a twin brother, Weet-Bix, who lives on a high-security organic farm called Sanitarium, where he manufactures tiny bales of hay and markets them as cereal. Sanitarium is a large Australian food company that is owned by the Seventh-day Adventist Church and therefore does not pay taxes. I am not kidding. Its tagline is “Good nutrition is part of the journey to a happy, healthy life.” The other part of the journey is learning how to properly digest cardboard.

I am more of a peanut butter on toast kind of girl. The whole concept of cold breakfast cereal is odd. Let’s process a whole mess of random grains, add vitamins and sugar, pour it in a bowl and drown it in milk. It seems like a lot of work when you could just rip off the end of a baguette. But I live in Perth, and I am already eating kangaroo salami. I will own you, Australian cereal. YOU ARE MINE.

I have tried several kinds of cereal in Perth. Uncle Toby’s Cheerios taste like Froot Loops – best suited to a late night snack. Last week I bought a cereal called Alpen, a “Swiss style muesli.” The box has a picture of a pretty snow-covered mountain, and the list of ingredients is written in both Malay and Arabic, so I felt fancy popping it in my cart. Apparently the Swiss start their day with a bowl of gray flour with a few oats and stale raisins.

Finally, there’s Weet-Bix, the Shredded Wheat of Down Under. (Uncle Toby also makes a version of Shredded Wheat, which I assume is actually chocolate covered marshmallows.) How can I become an honorary Australian citizen if I don’t like Weet-Bix? Unlike Vegemite, which seems more divisive, I have yet to find an Australian who does not love Weet-Bix. I have tried several varieties in the past couple of months– original, hi-bran, crunchy honey bites – and they all make me feel like I am being held hostage in a barn and my captor forgot to feed me the daily gruel so I am forced to eat wood shavings. Weet-Bix is survival food. Australians are pretty hard-core so it makes perfect sense that their attitude would be, “Crikey mate, stop crappin’ on and hand over the sawdust.” I refuse to try the gluten free version of Weet-Bix because, let’s face it, gluten free versions of normally tasty products tend to leave one questioning the very meaning of human existence. I fear the gluten free demon and what he will do to a box of Weet-Bix.

We Americans have our own types of Weet-Bix. I once caught my mother eating a bowl of Grape-Nuts on Yom Kippur, a day when many Jews fast and repent. With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, she told me her snack didn’t count as breaking the fast. She was right. Grape-Nuts is technically not food.

One Minute in Perth: Dylan

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.

Windy Day

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.”

Nobody puts circumcised baby in a corner.

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.

One Minute in Perth: Helen

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.

The Kids Are All Right

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.

G’day Sandra Bernhard!

And speaking of familiar objects in unfamiliar settings…

The other night, Dave and I went to the small artsy theater up the road from our house in Perth because SANDRA BERNHARD was performing. IN PERTH. And there were all these beautiful gay people in attendance, and she sang Wrecking Ball in her underwear, and I felt like I was back home in San Francisco.

Slightly Off

Before we left San Francisco to move to Perth, I had a few Target Episodes. These moments of panic involved a sudden urge to drive to Colma, wander the aisles with an oversized red shopping cart, and grab things we might need living outside of the United States. Because you never know. I could be stranded on a desert island without laundry baskets, tank tops or chenille throw blankets. A few days before our flight, I called my mother, exasperated after an unsuccessful search for flip-flops. My mother reminded me sweetly, “They probably sell flip-flops in Perth,” when she may have been thinking, “You are moving to a beach town during their summer season. Why are you so dumb?”

Although yes, I am stranded on a desert island, Australia has plenty of laundry baskets and flip-flops. Incidentally, flip-flops are called thongs, which means that if I’m looking to buy sandals for my daughters, I feel like a pervert.

Napkins are serviettes, trashcans are rubbish bins, and life is familiar yet slightly off. Twice a day I walk to and from the girls’ school. The streets in our neighborhood are quiet and tree-lined. I could be in Brookline or San Mateo – but only for a moment. Soon enough I spot majestic gum trees, street signs in Mildly Foreign font, and tan people wearing thongs. Magpies zoom through the air. I open my wallet and find play money. I forget to look to the right when I step off the curb.

YouTube now makes me sit through Australian ads. Yesterday I met an Aussie who is moving to San Francisco in July. She told me she can’t wait for American commercials. “I know it’s silly, but I just love American advertising. It’s so peculiar and seems fake.”

Countries around the world employ two kinds of props departments – the ones that place familiar objects in unfamiliar settings (Coke bottles in a South African township) and the ones that place unfamiliar objects in familiar settings (kookaburras in my swimming pool).

When I started middle school in 1984, things didn’t seem all that different from my old school. Then I discovered powdered hand soap in the bathroom. This soap is like sand. Every time I rubbed that coarse grit between my palms, I was reminded of my new life.

In 2005, I moved to Singapore, where everything looked, smelled and sounded foreign. Sleepwalking in an air-conditioned mall one day with my two-month old baby, I did a double take at a health food store window. There was my favorite peanut butter brand MaraNatha – made in Ashland, Oregon – in the middle of a mall in Southeast Asia. Well done, Singapore Props, well done.

Apparently there is a Target in Perth.

Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose

Back in November, Dave and I attended an expat orientation, organized by Chevron. We learned a few useful tips about Perth, including how expensive cocktails are, and how to choose a medical provider. The agenda was, more or less, What to Expect When You’re Expecting Culture Shock. Thank you Chevron. Next time, please enroll us in family boot camp with a coach named Alastair who can put us on protein smoothie diets, drag our asses up and down San Francisco hills, and yell, “So you wanna live in Australia? SO YOU WANNA LIVE IN AUSTRALIA?”

Welcome to our sporty life. In Perth, small talk is not what do you do, it’s what do you play. Respectable answers seem to include one or more of the following: cricket, tennis, running, swimming, netball, surfing, sailing, basketball, soccer, Aussie Rules Football or field hockey. Within the first few minutes of conversation, Perthians inevitably ask us what sport we’re into. I’ve learned that jokey replies such as “guitar” or “smoking” do not translate well. I’ve also learned that apparently our family needs to step it up a notch.

As soon as my daughters started school here, a mom invited me to meet a group of parents on Tuesday mornings for a “short run.” When I told her I don’t really run, she responded, “Oh, it’s not serious, we only do like 7 or 8K.” We then proceeded to have a back and forth where she thought I was being humble.

Perth will freeze over before I wake up at 5:30am for a “short run,” but some late morning I might be convinced to lace up my sneakers, because right up the street from our house is Kings Park, the Central Park of Perth. The gateway to Kings Park resembles the entrance to Stanford University with palm trees, pretty signage, and a distinct air of grandeur. It is absolutely stunning with both paved and woodsy paths, and has beautiful views of the Swan River.

Someone here told me that sport is mandatory in high school (in Australia, “sport” is singular whereas “maths” is plural. Don’t ask me, I just report it as I see it). I asked this person what all the artsy kids do. I mean really. Really? All kids play a sport? Yes in fact they do, and the sport for artsy kids is weightlifting. Weightlifting.

Australia has six states and two main territories; claiming Australia is fitness-obsessed is like saying all Americans love rodeos. This passion for sports could be specific to Western Australia, because, as many Western Australians have pointed out, if you don’t enjoy the outdoors, why else would you live all the way out here?

We’ve made some progress in the past week. I joined a Masters swim team, Dave went for a run, and Willa registered for netball. Simone, god help us, got outfitted for a mouth guard for field hockey. She is seven years old and weighs 45 pounds. And when we move back to San Francisco, she is going to kick your ass.

So No One Told You Life Was Gonna Be This Way

The loneliness of moving is creeping in. It is neither surprising nor unbearable, but it is distracting nonetheless, like a hole in your sock exposing your little toe that you try to ignore but then you’re talking to someone and you’re like, “I’m sorry I can’t hear you over the sound of the HOLE IN MY SOCK.”

Somewhat predictably, the loneliness is intensified by the business of making new friends. With the relief and gratitude of a budding friendship comes a certain amount of melancholy. A new friend in a new country can be a reminder of old friends and inevitable endings. I remember this feeling from when we moved to Singapore in 2005, and I met Elinor. I knew immediately she was the friend I was searching for, and the friend I would leave behind.

When does someone become a certified, thumb-stamped friend? Bachelorette #1 is a relocated Brit; she is quick and self-assured, but lives 20 minutes away, which, in Perth, is considered a schlep (Perthians have a funny sense of distance. A 10-minute drive is too far, but a nine-hour flight to Japan to ski over a long weekend is no worries mate). Another potential friend has refreshingly strong opinions – an Australian, go figure – and took me for my first real Indian Ocean swim last week where, treading water 70 meters from shore, she remarked nonchalantly, “Something just stung me. Bastard.”

When I was pregnant with Willa and trying to decide whether or not we should have a friend present for the birth, our midwife asked me, “can you be naked and crying in front of her?” In the human-being-coming-out-of-my-vagina scenario, this advice was helpful. However, if I actually abided by these criteria of nudity and hysteria, I’d have two friends. And one of them would be like, “We have to talk about the whole naked and crying thing.”

A college friend of mine kept a stuffed toy rabbit in her dorm room specifically as a test for potential friends. When given this rabbit to hold, do they take a moment and look it in the eye, or do they toss it aside with complete disregard? She swore it was a predictor of character traits like empathy, playfulness, and curiosity.

With little understanding and/or concern for the bigger picture, the kids are the friendship experts. Bored at the beach? Invite someone to dig a hole with you. The boy next door owns a remote control car? Smile and introduce yourself. Friendships come easy and are not overthought.

I’ve got some free time at the moment. I am consciously trying to appear busy enough to be seen as interesting, but not so busy as to appear unavailable. In fact, just this morning I told someone I prefer lunch next Wednesday to next Tuesday when of course both days are wide open. But, you see, this is all part of my sophisticated friendship strategy. And obviously I’ll make friends because I’m a totally relaxed person who never overthinks anything.