Journey into the Past - Part I

Our latest adventure brought us to our homeland for a whirlwind 3-week tour.  We stayed in a total of 5 locations and didn’t stop moving and grooving the entire trip.

As we geared up for our trip stateside I felt daunted by the quest - so many people to see, and so much shopping to do – but really, just the bountiful baggage and logistics were overwhelming enough, not to mention the physicality of getting our bodies to the land of the free and home of the brave, cause this chick ain’t so brave.  I detest, hate, despise flying!  This is a challenge for a girl who thirsts for travel.  I’ve learned to deal with this irrational fear in my own way, with the use of drugs and alcohol.  Now I’m not taking shots and popping copious amounts of pills mind you, but I do partake just enough to remove the edge of utter fear.  While on my magic plane pills and bubbles I find my reasoning ability goes something like this, (said like Crush, the turtle from Finding Nemo, or Cheech and Chong), “well man, if it’s our time, so be it.  At least we’re all together.”  Thus how this girl travels.

Not only do I find flying terrifying, but also such a strange reality.  I do NOT understand the physics of how in the hell a huge steel machine weighing 1,200,000 lbs. (that’s the max takeoff weight of an A380 – no shit!) flies through the air, it’s just weird!  Also, it’s eerily odd that hundreds of people with all their crap, board said steel contraption and share their intimate space and fake air, all while trying not to talk, touch, or bother each other, and then arrive in a totally different location.  Again, it’s just weird!  If you told someone 200 years ago that they would be able to journey through the sky in a steel fuselage they would have burned you at the stake for being a witch.  Humans aren’t meant to fly!  But I’m glad we can cause I love to travel; however I prefer to be on soil.

So, putting aside the weirdness, the flights across the Pacific were, not surprisingly, long, but thankfully pleasant.  We’ve upgraded our travel carrier to Qantas and were thrilled to have our own TV’s!  We didn’t hear a peep from the boys as they were transformed into zombie-like creatures while gazing at their personalized TV.  I want to make-out with the brainiac who came up with that brilliant idea – movies, games, tv shows all on a personalized television – pure genius. 

Once on soil it was fantastic.  Over three weeks we saw the people that love us most in the world, and those we love most.

The Abramowitzes and Gram

Our first stop was Phoenix to visit my cherished AZ relatives in the 105-degree dry, desert pleasantness (sarcasm).  It’s obvious that Reid’s blood boils above 85-degrees because apparently in the AZ heat his legs stop working – “Mummy, my legs just won’t move!”  That part wasn’t enjoyable. 

The highlight was spending quality time with my graceful and beloved grandmother Gram.  At 84 she looks tremendous and is sharper than most.  The boys loved her and during the four days we were there I was awoken with, “Let’s go see Gram.  I can’t wait to see her.”  I have warm, fond memories of my great-grandparents and I feel SO fortunate that my boys get to have memories of their mighty and dear great-grandmother.

Parker giving his presentation

More precious time was spent with my bright and beautiful Aunt Polly and Uncle Steve, they both filled our buckets, and made us feel so special.  Parker gave a presentation on Australia to my Aunt Polly’s school!  He rocked it!  

Then we got one prized day with my dear Aunt Mary, my gorgeous cousin Melissa, her fabulous husband Mike, and their two adorable children Max and Mikayla.  It was far too short, but very sweet.

Steph and Melissa (white girl coming out of winter)

The cousins

Parker and Max, instant buds.

Ten thousand memories and thoughts, high and low, rushed through my veins during these four days.  My grandparents have lived at 835 E Fairway for 45 years.  The house where I spent my childhood was the same, but seen over 38 years of maturity, therefore altered. 

The trees where I dangled and climbed for hours were somehow smaller, the fishpond I accidentally splashed in to at age 7 is filled with dirt instead of koi and lily pads, the slatted swinging saloon door that separated the toilet from the bathroom has been removed, but most of all Papa isn’t there.  His absence is like a hole in the childhood home of my dreams, but fortunate memory.  The garage, where Papa could always be found, doesn’t smell like oil and grease anymore, and it’s lifeless without his smile to greet you and buoyant way of saying, “Howya doing there Stephie?!”  It’s hard to say “Gram” without saying “Papa” immediately afterward.  They were two words, two people, that just went together, like peanut butter and jelly.  I miss that man and his crystal blue eyes, always-positive energy, and beautiful bald head.  But Gram is kicking ass!  She’s the definition of an elegant matriarch and we are all her minions.   

I was also able to visit my father’s grave for only the second time in my life.  Heavy, but truly wonderful.  And that’s all I have to say about that. 

Then it was time to move on…Next stop?  San Francisco!

To be continued...

Is this what Sergei envisioned?!

Thirty years ago give or take a few, my three brothers and I sprawled haplessly on a fuzzy, soft-like-kitten-fur rug, while the music of Peter and the Wolf by Sergei Prokofiev danced around us.  Looking like a failed game of Twister - our limbs intertwined, heads resting on each other's backs and tummies - our goal was to be comfortably sandwiched on the circle rug that we were convinced was actual wolf fur.  Little movement, other than the rise and fall of our little chests, could be detected once Grandpa gingerly placed the vinyl on the turntable.        

The music of Peter and the Wolf was mesmerizing, hypnotic even.  It created vibrant colors that painted pictures in my mind.  Each character likened to an instrument.  I could envision a bounding, chaste, little boy when hearing the strings, a stealth, murky wolf with the French horn, a fluttery bird as the flute, a cheeky cat as the clarinet, a clumsy duck as the oboe, and an old, ambling grandfather as the bassoon.  The feelings that surfaced with each different sound stunned me; I was moved.  How could I feel fear at the sound of the French horn?  Dread at the sound of the oboe?  I was no stranger to classical music.  I'd been to symphonies at a young age and loved classical music, but this, Peter and the Wolf, was different.

My love for Peter and the Wolf lives on.  As soon as Parker was old enough I introduced him to the composition.  I found myself back on the floor; this time intertwined with my 2 year olds limbs, and sprawled on a circular rug with elephants and balloons.  I might as well have been back on Grandpa's floor though.  The same feelings I had 30 years ago came flowing back, and all I wanted to do was have Parker experience them too, have him moved by the music.  To my delight he loved it, and still does.  To more of my delight Reid loved it and we listen to the composition all the time.  It's a staple in our car cd player.

A few months ago we were alerted to a show at the Sydney Opera House of Peter and the Wolf by the Sydney Youth Orchestra.  The Opera House has amazing shows for children through a program called Kids at the House.  The show was a Saturday matinee in the main concert hall.  Done!  Tickets purchased, we were going!  Upon reflection, I should have done a wee bit more research on the show before subjecting our - how do I say - fainthearted, wimpy, pusillanimous boys!

It was a magnificent Sydney day, the sun was shining and not a cloud to be seen.  The boys dressed in their fine wears were buoyant and energized.

Upon arrival at the Opera House we entered the great landmark with the masses; people seeing the show, and tourists roaming about the great structure.  There were children crowded around a TV in the foyer.  Like a moth to a flame the boys began to watch.  Mark quizzically looked at me and said, "Do we know what's involved in this show?  It looks like there is some claymation type movie that they're going to play, and it looks kinda scary."  I thought, hmmm, well whatever, we're here!  On the TV played a documentary on the making-of the film "Peter & the Wolf," a short model animation film that won an Oscar in 2008 for Best Short Animation Film.  Again, hmmm, never heard of it, but I agreed it looked scary.  Being optimistic, I said, "They'll be fine!"  We proceeded to the great hall, located our seats, and were greeted with this picture on the movie screen...

                    
...oh shit.  How was THIS going to play out?!

Now, as I previously stated, our boys are not brave, far from it.  They hide behind the couch during certain Octonaut episodes.  I'm pretty sure Elmo has terrified them before!  This was going to be interesting.

As the audience quieted I could feel Parker's energy shift.  He gripped the handles of his theater seat like a frightened airplane traveler in a bout of turbulence, and stared wide-eyed at the stage.  Reid, still somewhat clueless, was entertained with his folding seat.  I began pointing out the instruments on stage, drumming his memory about which instruments were which characters.  The lights went out and the narrator appeared.  The narrator was extremely entertaining and engaged the child-filled audience while he introduced the orchestra and instruments.  Then the movie began accompanied by the orchestra.

Within the first 30 seconds both boys were curled in their seats, bodies half-way in my and Mark's laps fearfully whispering, "I'm scared, I want to go!"  I was bound and determined to make them sit through this.  I wanted to summon my inner cheerleader and shout, "Come on boys!  You can do this!"  Instead I just whispered, "It's ok, it's pretend, close your eyes and listen to the music."  At this, Parker curled in the fetal position and turned his back to the screen.  What kind of psychological damage were we doing to our children?!  My blissful childhood experience on the soft fur rug was unraveling before my eyes!

To be fair the movie was dark and creepy.  Even Peter was spooky looking.  Another 30 seconds in, before the wolf had even made an appearance, Reid's incessant cries of, "I want to leave!" sent Mark racing toward the exit.  Parker continued pleading to leave, but I told him we would stay and brave it together.  My body arched in his chair, I wrapped my arms around him like the wings of a mother bird and whispered, "You can do this!"  As the wolf appeared I said, "Look, he's fuzzy and soft looking and has pretty eyes."  Thankfully the composition leaves room for comic relief in the cast of characters, enough comic relief to keep Parker from flying out of the concert hall.  I bellowed with hearty laughter at anything funny to keep the air light.  However, I thought I was doomed when the wolf ate the duck.  As the duck ran to the open arms of his friend Peter the wolf gruesomely caught him, threw him in the air, and with his head in the howling position swallowed the duck whole; I gasped.  Parker's mouth agape and eyes bulging, he was stunned into silence.  Elsewhere in the hall children wailed in sorrow at the gloomy demise of the beloved duck.  At this point, the damage was done, I figured I'd throw $20 in the therapy jar when we got home and call it a failed lesson in bravery.

Mark and Reid, having regained composure, came back for a second attempt.  Fortunately they missed the ghastly duck gobbling.  The boys sensing the tide turn braved the end needing to root for the hero once he caught the wolf by the tail.  And then, it was over, PHEW!  The boys applauded vigorously, clearly because it was over.  The relief was visibly written on their little faces.  Mark and I gazed at each other with one of those, "damn this on-the-job-training" looks.

Regardless of the long-term damage we caused, the boys slept peacefully and haven't spoken about the horror film since.  It was the damn movie and not the music that sparked their utter fear!  Damn artsy films!  Anyway, I rest peacefully with the beautiful music of Peter and the Wolf continuing to dance gracefully in my memory.  I will always hold the sounds and senses of my brothers and me tangled together on the wolf fur rug very close to my heart.  And someday I hope to play the Peter and the Wolf composition for the boys without triggering their post-traumatic stress disorder.          

The Fuzz

The Australian police have a power over their people that is unlike America's police.  I'm sure this is for a myriad of reasons that I don't understand, yet, but I'm assuming it has something to do with the justice system and the powers of a, "constitutional monarchy," which is the technical term for The Commonwealth of Australia's government.  Anyway, blah blah, the fuzz are scary here!

Before stepping foot on Aussie soil we were warned about the seriousness of "drink driving" in Australia.  I'm no hooligan, or dummy for that matter; drinking and driving is bad m'kay.  However, the .08 legal limit in CA always allowed me to have 2 glasses of wine at dinner and drive home with no concern.  Besides, a police officer in America can't pull you over willy nilly - they need a reason, a good one.  Well, not here.  The police can pull you over with no justification and give you a breathalyzer test.  The legal limit is .05 and I was told as a foreigner I would be kicked out of the country without question if caught driving over the legal limit - do not pass go, do not collect $200 - instead I would be put on an airplane and told to get out and never return.  Needless to say, we don't drink a DROP whenever we drive.

The first few times we saw RBT (random breathalyzer test) sites it was 8am on a Sat.  An RBT stop looks something like this, they have 4 to 5 policemen/women standing a car width apart with cones blocking off the site.  They wave cars in to receive an RBT and when the site is full the traffic continues.  Several times we've been the lot to pass the RBT when it's already full.  They also have the same locations where they set up shop on the same day of the week - decreases shock value.


Several months ago I thought my time of avoidance must be coming to an end.  I was ready to take on the RBT!  And I swore when it happened I wouldn't be nervous, because what do I have to be nervous about?  I don't drink drive - especially in the morning, kidding, never!  So one morning about 6 months ago I'm driving Reid to school at 9am and all of a sudden the fuzz was behind me with their lights on!  My heart started pounding and I began to ransack my morning haze to determine if I was at fault for anything.  On the upside, I knew I hadn't been "drink driving."  I pull over and the policewoman comes to my window and unfeelingly says, "License."  I hand her my CA drivers license suddenly aware that I'm foreign, and I don't 100% know that I'm allowed to drive here on my license - ooops, oversight.  She glances at my license, then at me with an irritated look and shoves a little gadget in my face and says, "Count to 10."  I do as I'm told because my fear of police is POWERFUL.  She stares at the gadget for probably 15 seconds after my countdown - although it felt like a minute - before saying, "You can go," and walks away.  OK, hold on!  I was ready for the RBT, but to be randomly pulled over and given a breathalyzer test at 9am?!  I felt like my rights were being violated!  Ah shit, what are my rights here...?

On another occasion I was waved in to an RBT site with both boys in the car and it was kind of exciting, for all of us!  It's like taking a test you know you're going to pass!  Then on another occasion I was old hat at this RBT thing, so I decided to get a little cheeky and sing Sesame Street's The Pinball Song as I sang my counting:

Now you're going to be singing that for the rest of the day :-)

Obviously holidays are busy times for policemen/women and RBT's are everywhere.  So on Australia Day the police were on alert - makes sense I know.  Days before Australia Day I heard a warning broadcasted on the radio that made me feel uneasy.  The emphatic, bold voice with a mix of anger and condescension filled the airways saying, "WE are out there watching.  If you drink drive we WILL find you and you WILL be caught.  If you are speeding, you WILL be caught, we guarantee it."  He channeled George Zimmer at The Men's Wearhouse, but his threat wouldn't adorn you in nice new threads, but a pin stripe prison uniform!  I already felt like I was guilty!  We decided to take the ferry instead...but we weren't safe there either!

We spent Australia Day on a little island in the Harbour, so ferrying to and fro was really our only form of transportation.  As we disembarked the ferry after arriving home in Manly we filed out with the throngs of other passengers and were met with a salmon swimming up stream, but this salmon was a police dog and handler.  The dog made his way through the crowd on alert  - he was on duty.  His nose found something interesting in a woman's purse and the police pulled her aside and began to search her bag.  Mark and I stopped to watch the scene; we were stunned.  At an airport I can understand, but at a ferry terminal, really?!

In a country that outlawed automatic weapons after the Port Arthur massacre, which my liberal views COMPLETELY support, I see a country that appreciates the rights of the greater good rather than the individual.  In theory I believe in this because I feel what is best for everyone is (most-likely) best for me.  I have nothing to hide, and I'm such a rule follower - to a fault - that I'm not threatened by extreme laws, but they do infringe on an individuals rights - although those are just rights I'm used to as an American.  Ah shit, again, what are my rights...?!  To be continued...      

My Beach Boys

 

Wharf Beach on the Harbour side

Summer in Manly, Australia, ahhhh… I’m not sure what image that conjures in your mind, but it’s probably very close to reality.  The temperature doesn’t drop below 70 degrees, ever, and rarely goes above 85.  We’ve had a few days above 100, in fact there was a record-breaking 110-degree day, but that’s what air conditioning is for.    

The boys just started back at school but had 6 weeks off for Christmas and for the summer holidays.  We’ve been at the beach as much as possible.  In fact, this summer we’ve had an addition to our family, a 6^th family member if you will, and that new member is sand.  Sand has embedded its tiny existence, yet large presence, in the fabric (literally) of our lives.  I have done everything in my power to eradicate this miniscule intruder, but have failed.  I’ve thrown up the white flag and now accept that I have fallen to its subsistence.   I might be complaining a wee bit, but really it’s a small price to pay for the true pleasure of this beach wonderland. 

We have our beach necessities down to a science.  All sand toys are in the “sand bag,” that goes inside the “beach bag,” along with whatever food and water we’re toting, and towels.  The trusty Salesforce beach blanket (love the tchotchkes) and beach umbrella are carried over the shoulder.  Parker carries his boogie board, fins, mask, and snorkel, and away we go!  As we’ve perfected our beach outings I’ve been able to toss in a little treasure of my own, my book.  Yes, sometimes the stars align while the boys are digging in the sand, or playing in the surf, and I withdraw my book from its nestled slumber and ease it open with great stealth, so as to not disrupt the aligning stars.  I hear a little angel sing as I lay back under my umbrella and turn the pages of my novel.  Ahhhh…

The Little Beach Boy

The boys can play blissfully on the beach for hours.  Reid prefers to hang with his newest sibling, the 6^th family member, and play in the sand, running down to the surf to fill his elephant watering can and running up to fill the hole he’s dug, only to watch the water disappear.  I’m not sure if he continues to hope that the water will pool, but it keeps him occupied and happy so who am I to wreck his great attempts.  Parker on the other hand has fallen in love with the water.  When we moved here Parker was barely swimming, now he’s snorkeling and boogie boarding, diving into the waves and body surfing to the beach. He comes alive when his toes hit the sand and he sprints to the water with either boogie board in tow, or mask and snorkel, ready to dive in to the watery world.  He’s even boldly jumping off the “pool” wall that partitions an area on Little Manly beach.  I think of it as the shark safe zone, but don’t tell the boys that.  Mark too is loving the water, playing with the boys and reliving childhood experiences of days spend on the beach.  The first time he took Parker snorkeling they saw an octopus!            

Little Manly shark safe zone

Something that has initiated Parker's love for the water is Nippers.  Every Sunday morning Parker joins the rest of Manly’s youth for Nippers at the beach, which is sand and surf-play focusing on fun and surf awareness.  It’s also a grooming program for future Lifesavers, who are different than Lifeguards as they’re volunteers, and Australia’s beaches depend on volunteer Lifesavers to patrol.  When kids who participate in Nippers reach 13 they’re able to complete their Surf Rescue Certificate, which enables them to patrol and participate in Nippers competitions.  It’s a serious program down here.

Unfortunately, autumn is around the corner.  This Friday, 1st of March is the first day of autumn.  Australia's seasons change on the first day of March, June, September, and December.  A bit confusing considering the rest of the world changes its seasons on the 21st day of those months.  My flip flops, or thongs as they are called here, will go to their resting place where they will sadly collect dust, my bikini will be hung up until next summer.  My Uggs and boots will be pulled from their hibernation... Who am I kidding?!  I'm being dramatic!  We still live in a beach town where the beach is down the street and the sun still shines, so I don't think our trips to the beach will wane dramatically, they just might be a little cooler.  But it's been a tremendous summer and we've loved this stay-cation that is our life in Manly; meals outside, all doors and windows open, swim lessons in our pool, hats and sunglasses, sundresses and sandals, a cold beer or glass of bubbly as the sun sets at 8pm.  Ahhhhhh....      

      

Ho Ho Ho-t!

Everyone knows Corona's vivid beach scene commercials, right?  And if you don't curse the television in response to a sincere longing to be drinking beer on the beach every time you see one, then you're not human - or maybe you just don't like beer, or the beach - nah, you're not human.  

In 2000 Corona aired a Corona Christmas commercial that made me sigh in a dramatic way, (not difficult for me), and then I cursed the television.  It was a beach scene at dusk, showing a little hut on the beach surrounded by palm trees.  Someone was whistling a Christmas tune and one of the palm trees lit up with Christmas lights at the close.  Ahhhhhh...  Before this commercial I'd never given thought to a warm Christmas.  How ignorant I was to not realize people in the Southern Hemisphere and near and around the equator actually get to relish in sunshine and warmth when all I knew was a cold Christmas.  

  

Last year we arrived in Australia 12 days after Christmas.  Even though we went from winter to summer in 14 short, purely blissful hours, (insert sarcasm), we didn't get to experience the spirit of Christmas until this year.  Our American friends living here told us it would be weird, in fact, they said, "It's weird, just embrace the weirdness."  Now what did that mean exactly?  I didn't know what they were referring to until Christmas arrived. 

First, Christmas' arrival is normally preceded by Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving is the season kick-off, the first-quarter, the starting line for which you gauge your readiness and start the countdown, (hence Black Friday, which Australians are fascinated by; I had several Aussie friends demand a detailed description of this strange, dark day), but... no Thanksgiving here.  I actually had a friend in the US ask me, "How do they celebrate Thanksgiving in Australia?"  This person shall remain anonymous.  There is no Thanksgiving Down Under, or in any other country for that matter.  It is purely an American holiday - ya know, the Pilgrims, Indians, turkeys etc. - specific to America.  So without Thanksgiving, how could I ready myself for Christmas?  Luckily we had Mark's birthday as an indicator that Christmas was around the corner.  Mark's birthday is always on or around Thanksgiving and this year it was a doozy of a birthday - 40!  We were so focused and consumed by the, "month of Mark," and by our fabulous US visitors Uncle Dave and Aunt Kat, that Christmas' impending arrival seemed an odd idea.   

Second, it's hot and humid.  The beach is beckoning like 5pm after a horrendous day of mothering.  The sun is shining; it's up at 6am and down at 9pm.  I pulled the comforters out of the duvets, we're sleeping with the windows open (to the dismay of Mark's NY sensibility), I've turned on the air conditioning for Pete's sake!  They don't use the word Christmas down here either, they call it Chrissy, as if it's another holiday entirely.  The current weather demands a scantily clad wardrobe instead of sweaters, scarves, and snow boots.  It's champagne and beer instead of eggnog and red wine!  It's ODD people!  It's downright WEIRD!  But as I was reminded by a sweet Irish woman in a grocery store in Ireland circa 99', "Just because things are different girls doesn't make them weird, just different."  So, it's just DIFFERENT!  But ya know what?  It's AWESOME!  

Third, there are very few Chrissy decorations adorning store-fronts and streets, and NO Christmas lights to be found.  The tradition of driving around with bundled-up little ones, ogling at the spectacular light displays created by the Clark W. Griswold's of the world, dies Down Under.  We put up our faux Chrissy tree wearing shorts and tank tops (singlets) all while sweating.  I put the Christmas station on Pandora as we decorated our tree and was struck by how odd it was to hear Frank Sinatra singing, "Let it Snow," when I could hear the waves down at Little Manly beach.  

As unconventional as it seems we LOVED it!  There is a little part of me that yearned for the tamales on Christmas morning that is a tradition in my family, and the French onion soup and clam chowder for Christmas Eve, but our Chrissy menu was deliciously different.  We had prawn salad on Chrissy Eve and shrimp scampi for Chrissy dinner (are you irritated with the Chrissy use yet?).  Also, the pyro in me didn't know what to do with all the Christmas wrapping since there was no blazing fire to stoke.  Nonetheless, the holidays (hols) in Australia have been fabulous.  The culmination was a spectacular fireworks display at Manly Beach that we watched from our front yard all while drinking champagne on a warm summer night.  It felt like the 4th of July!          

I will leave you with the Aussie version of Jingle Bells, and Parker's rendition.  Imagine living here and listening to the traditional lyrics of Christmas songs.  I'd make up my own lyrics too.

Happy Chrissy (as they say) and G'Day mates!!!