perth

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.

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.

My father loved two things: opera and buying in bulk. I did not get the opera-loving gene, but I do enjoy the adrenaline rush of purchasing 50 items for the price of 10. And I absolutely cannot pass up an opportunity to acquire something for nothing. This might explain why I am the owner of 100 plastic red apples, as well as a previously discarded Ziploc storage bag filled with hand-sewn Barbie clothes.

This tendency also explains the bright red table and three blue chairs that are currently on our front porch. Ask me how much I paid for them. Go ahead, ask me. THAT’S RIGHT! NOTHING! NOTHING I TELL YOU!

Yesterday, over a potluck lunch with our friendly neighbors, I learned about a biannual event happening this week in Perth: Put Stuff You No Longer Need Out On The Verge (Curb) And The City Will Discard It For You. I asked our neighbors, “Say I had a friend who, hypothetically, might be interested in rummaging through items on the street before the city comes to collect? Would this be considered culturally acceptable?” Lo and behold, one bloke’s trash is another bloke’s treasure. Hello Perth, land of magical free things.

Walking to school this morning, the girls and I spotted all sorts of potential goodies: a wooden chest, a white leather couch, four lamps, a toaster oven, a broken bookcase, a red toy fire truck, a wooden planter box, two clothes drying racks. It was as if the entire city had conspired to help an American family whose belongings are on a ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Given that my husband does not share this same giddiness for free stuff, and that, if it were up to him, his wife would not come home with a trunk full of plastic apples, I controlled myself and did not return home with bookcases and electric appliances. However, the girls and I agreed that the red table on the corner of Onslow and Rosalie would work nicely for art projects and science experiments. I promised them I’d swing by with the car later on that day. By “later on,” I meant AS SOON AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE. The minute I got home, I went straight to the car, popped down the back seats, and raced over to the Site of the Red Table. As I was opening the trunk, it occurred to me I hadn’t exactly thought through how I was going to single-handedly get a large rectangular table in my car. But, as they say in Perth, where’s there’s a will, there’s a friendly Australian pulling over in his car to help.

Back home, I managed to get the table out of the trunk and up the stairs. I promptly went for a stroll to find some chairs in the wondrous store known as My Neighborhood. Three blue chairs were sitting on the verge further up the street. With a deep cleaning and some patterned IKEA cushions, these chairs will be perfect. And then I will sit in one of those chairs, take a swig, and toast Dad.

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.”

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.

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.