Off the Beaten Track
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Leaving home and homeward bound
I have been home in Sydney for the past week to finalize a work visa for my new job in Seattle. The trip, while being ‘immigrationally necessary’, has been the greatest gift.
When I landed the position at Groundspeak two months ago, I was thrilled – and then a little sad. I realized that it meant I would not see Australia, my home, for at least a year and a half.
Hence, the reason I have treated this week as a gift. The work visa was approved on Monday morning, and while I awaited the return of my passport, I enjoyed every moment of being home.
I have hugged old friends and chatted excitedly on the phone to others. I have swapped stories, gossip, concerns and triumphs, catching up on nearly a year of absense. I have talked at length with my dad, and spent an evening of laughter and tears at my aunt and uncle’s dining table.
I have indulged in many cups of coffee made by top-notch baristas, and stocked up on Jaffas and BONDS undies. I have taken dozens of photos of the most beautiful coastline in the world, filled a ziplock bag with sand from Bronte beach, and raided my storage boxes for much-loved books I want to take back to Seattle. I brought one suitcase, and I am taking two back. I have a tan.
And after just a week on Aussie soil, and my accent is as thick as ever (Ben calls it my Aussie accent ‘reboot’).
In a few hours I will be jetting across the Pacific Ocean on my way home. When I get there it will be one hour after I left, which I love, because it feels like ‘time travel’. I lost a Thursday on the way over, but am happily swapping it for two Saturdays.
On arrival, after hugs and kisses, and unpacking and showering (is there anything that feels better after a long-haul flight?), Ben and I will head over to our friend’s place for their housewarming party.
I will get to hug my new friends, and swap stories about our escapades over the past week, and plans for our upcoming holiday season. I will spend the rest of the weekend trying to get on Seattle time as quickly as possible, for on Monday morning I (finally) start my new job. I cannot wait.
So, I leave home to fly home, just as I did a week ago. When you have two places you call home, you are prone to twinges of homesickness, you will always miss loved ones, and you will sometimes slip into the annoying habit of comparing the two places – even if only to yourself.
But you will also have more love in your life, more joy, more nostalgia, and more hope for the future than you can possibly imagine.
I do. And I am very grateful. For all of it.
Settling in Seattle
I am a little hesitant to use the word ‘settling’, because of its connotations about settling down and settling for less – neither of which describes my move here. I am however, settling in.
After a fruitful trip to IKEA, I now have drawers, and having lived out of a suitcase for two months, drawers are more exciting to this girl than a sale on shoes AND bags. I could have kissed Ben when he put my bedside table together – in fact I did. I won’t say what he got for putting together my dresser.
Tahoe and Maui get settled in Seattle
My boxes – all four of them – arrived bang on schedule. We actually picked them up after Ben picked me up from the airport. Over the subsequent days they exploded all over the living room as I pulled things out and exclaimed, “Oh cool, I forgot I packed this.” Then the contents made their way into drawers, closets and various nooks and crannies. I have had to nudge my way into some of the nooks – and the crannies – as I sweetly ask, “Honey? Do you think we can find somewhere to put this?” Once or twice I have suggested that something of his could be, um, ‘recycled’ (removed from our universe).
Piles of recycling and rubbish post unpacking
Ben, through all of this, has shown incredible patience. I think perhaps because we are making a home together here, which is a joy to us both.
Over the past week and a bit we have traipsed around furniture stores and sat on dozens of couches and dining chairs. Finally we have narrowed our selections and have ordered something to sit on and eat at. These items arrive in three weeks or less. Meanwhile we are making do with the recliner rocker, the Love Sack – a giant cube of a beanbag – and Ben’s desk. (I have to say that Ben’s desk set up is a little more than ‘making do’, as it is quite impressive. It just doesn’t make the greatest dining table.)
So, as I caught the bus to Social Security today and then walked home in the rain via the bank, the grocery store and the post office, I felt happy. Seattle is home now – for us both. But we won’t be settling down in the traditional sense. No, no. This weekend I am off to Las Vegas to see family and catch a show, and while I am away Ben is going skiing with friends. We will still be us – only with furniture.
Chaise Lounge
This is my living room sans couch, dining suite, and pictures on the wall. Ironically, it now shares common traits with the Seattle apartment, where we have yet to buy a couch, a dining suite and to put things on the wall.
Ben and I started looking at couches, dining suites and things to put on the wall while I was there a few weeks ago. I think we share a common vision. I say this, of course, with the understanding that we may be seeing that common vision from completely different perspectives.
We have agreed, as a start, that the entertainment system is all him, and the kitchen is all me. While that division in domesticity may reek of 1950s ideologies, it is a fair call on our part. I love to cook, and have very specific ideas of how I want ‘my’ kitchen. And Ben knows more about electronic components and how to make them ‘talk’ to each other than I thought was possible. So, in this arrangement, we are playing to our strengths.
We have other differences too. Last weekend my boyfriend admitted that he has added to his collection of plastic 2:1 scale musical instruments (Rock Band, Guitar Hero), while I confessed that I have bought 4 pairs of new shoes in the past two weeks. He loves video games, I love shoes. We’ll make room for both, somewhere.
In the meantime, we get to choose a couch that says, “Ben and Sandy live here.” Likely it will NOT have one of those fabric contraptions with pockets that hangs over the arm and holds the remote controls.
We did find one we both sorta liked. Mostly what we liked about it was that it had a chaise lounge on one end. That says to me, “stylish, yet perfect for snuggling.” To Ben it says, “I can watch TV horizontally.” The point is, we both like that style of couch.
I had to be honest with my soon to be ‘domestic partner’ when he mentioned that ‘La-Z-boy’ had couches on sale that recline on both ends.
If we get a couch like that, I worry that we will become a couple who have ‘his and hers’ end tables, mine littered with empty tea cups and books yet to read, and his piled high with remotes and back issues of ‘Fortune’. We’ll head to our respective ends, recline and get comfortable. Comfortable, we three feet of leather between us. Yes, the couple with one of these is a couple that no longer enjoys a passionate relationship.
His response to my impassioned argument was to laugh, and say, “Well, it IS true that we are defined by our furniture.” He is teasing me, but I think we’ll be getting a couch with the bit that sticks out.
These are the details that will be a welcome relief from paperwork and red tape, packing, giving away, storing, and sorting, and from the endless lists that govern my life at the moment.
Today my home looked like this:
and this:
and this:
as I packed, sorted, sold, and gave things away.
So, I am looking forward to working through a new list, a list for the next chapter in my life. So far it looks like this:
Buy a couch
Get a job
Make some friends
Join a gym
Learn new running routes
Yes, all that to look forward to, but notice that the couch is number one on the list.
When Ben and I stayed at the B and B in Yosemite, I was bust nesting – unpacking and looking in cupboards – and I heard a call out from the living room, “Honey, come in here.” When I got there, Ben was sitting on a big, lumpy, seen better days couch with his arms outstretched. “Look, Honey, we have a couch. Come sit with me.” And I did, and we sat for quite some time on that big, lumpy, see better days couch, enjoying the simple pleasure of snuggling up on it together.
That is why it is first.
Third Date
I have been very candid about my month-long love affair with Seattle dating back to January of this year. We had a rocky start, though. It was a Seattle rain storm that took from me a favourite hat and an umbrella, but we soon made up and I embarked on a whirlwind romance with the city. I loved its restaurants and vistas, its culture and its people. I was smitten.
We had a brief fling in April – 6 days of five-star luxury while Ben attended a conference. We flirted, Seattle and I. I dressed pretty, I let the sunny days kiss my nose, and we drank each other in. Brief, yet passionate.
Now I am back, and this visit is a little like a third date. Now I know I am moving here, Seattle is starting to let its guard down, and I am seeing sides of it I haven’t seen before. Some are delicious, like the nooks and crannies of the Pike Place markets, where Ben and I bought aromatic oils and spices the other day, and some a little too revealing this early into our relationship.
I went for a run yesterday, and waited patiently for the pedestrian signal to change from red to green. The roads are wide thoroughfares – 6 lanes – so this took a while. I didn’t mind. It was a sunny day and I was in Seattle, working out new running routes for when I move here. I eventually crossed and started running at a warm-up pace. I got about two blocks before signs indicated that the ‘sidewalk’ (I read American) was closed and I would have to cross to the other side. SIGH. I hit the signal button, then waited, and waited, and waited. The light did inevitably turn green, and a couple dozen cars waited impatiently – or patiently – I couldn’t really tell as I jogged across the street. Of course, now I was back on the wrong side. And I was in ‘Butt-crack America’.
This is my affectionate term for those parts of the states – here in Seattle, or anywhere – that do not exactly show the country off at its best. That stretch of road, just three blocks from home, with its cracked pavements and warehouses, its homeless wanderers and youthful loiterers, is almost certainly the butt-crack of Seattle. I kept looking ahead to see where the pedestrian bridge Ben had promised was.
Like a beacon in the distance it stood proud and beautifully constructed, unaware that it was in the midst of decay and mess. I hit my third little round button of the day, and waited, and waited, and waited. “Oh, come the F@*k on!” I was losing patience. So far my run had consisted of two sprints and a lot of waiting. FINALLY the light turned. I headed up and over the bridge which traverses the railroad tracks, and started my ‘run proper’.
It is hard to marry the waterfront parkland with the street parallel, because they couldn’t be more different. On the other side of the bridge are tracks for pedestrians and cyclists, lush green grass, and park benches. On clear days you can see across Puget Sound to the Olympic mountain range in the west. The frightfully large seagulls of the northwest, duck and weave along the shoreline, and fishermen lazily dangle their lines in the water.
Once I actually started running along the waterfront, my tetchiness eased and I hit my rhythm. The air was salty and clean, and the sun hot on my shoulders. I glanced at the scattered few who were lying on the grass and soaking up the late-season sun. They had the distinctive look of ‘locals’ – comfortable enough in their environs to casually lounge around in public. I wondered when I will start to feel like that, but this being only my third date with Seattle, that is a little way off yet.
I hit a natural ‘turn-around’ point, and started running back towards the footbridge. I had already decided to overshoot it and find another way home. I knew that if I kept running and passed the apartment, I would get to another crossover closer to downtown.
Running back towards the city lends a spectacular view. The skyline has its distinctive icons, but there is so much I have yet to explore I wandered with my eyes, taking in as much as possible. I am starting to place myself within this city. I am learning street names, shortcuts and landmarks.
Just before the crossover to the other side of the tracks, there is an outdoor sculpture gallery. It is a favourite spot in Seattle, because it is a junction of sorts. The waterfront, downtown and our neighbourhood converge there. It is 5 minutes from the apartment, 5 minutes from Ben’s work, and right on the waterfront, where cafes and storefronts jut out over the water. Oh, and the sculptures are kind of cool too.
Not long afterwards, I made it back to the apartment with the sense of satisfaction I have after a long run, but also with something else. I am getting to know this city, much in the same way I got to know Sydney when I first moved there and discovered its many delights and frustrations.
At the moment I straddle two cities. I curse the Sydney traffic as I crawl along each afternoon, and think about living in a city where traffic is much lighter, and ostensibly we will likely live without a car. However, I know I will miss the coastal walk between Coogee and Bondi beaches, because there are few views in the world more beautiful. I will enjoy living in a city where there are literally 100 restaurants serving the cuisines of the world, but am mindful that the minor frustrations will reveal themselves soon enough.
No place is perfect to live in, but there is always more to learn about, more to appreciate and more to love. I think I am ready to ‘go all the way’ with Seattle.
P.S. Check out Ben’s FLICKR page for some more recent shots, including views from our roof.
Window seat
I am not a window seat kind of a girl.
I say this metaphorically, and literally.
In life, I do not like to sit by the window and watch. I like to get out there in it, and invariably I end up a bit mucky for my efforts. But this is my preference. I actually feel for the ‘watchers’, those people who say stuff like, “I wish I could do that” or “If only I had [insert attribute or asset here], I would be happy”. I much prefer being an active participant in life, and sometimes I get injured or have a set back, but I often feel great joy.
I am not a window seat kind of a girl on a plane either. I prefer the aisle – the aisle affords me freedom.
Two days ago, I flew from east to west to visit my family and friends. Still at the terminal, I sat in my aisle seat patiently waiting for those who would be seated next to me. They didn’t come. As the plane pulled back, I realised I had three airline seats to myself, a rare pleasure.
I stayed in the aisle seat for about as long as it took for the young family across the aisle to make more noise than young families should in a confined space. I moved to the window seat, and stretched my legs across the other two. I had appropriated 2 pillows from the overhead locker above my head, so I was as comfortable as a person can be in coach.
My ‘special meal’ came 30 minutes before the meal service started, and I watched a film I had wanted to see for some time. Does airline travel get any better than this? (Well, yes, if you’re Ben who gets upgraded every time he flies, just for showing up.)
I even had a nap. For forty-five minutes!
When we started to make our descent, I lifted the window shade I had lowered for my movie viewing. The sun streamed in, as although it would be raining on landing, we were above the cloud line. We descended through the clouds and I watched as the earth emerged through the wisps of white.
I rarely see this type of view, because I almost always sit on the aisle.
The topography changed several times in as many minutes. It was beautiful, and the best part of a really good flight.
I felt a twinge, because I knew how many times I had missed this exact feeling.
I took shot after shot. The earth was drenched, and the colours vibrant – every shade of green. Then there were scars, great gashes of red earth ripped through the bush. Farms presented a patchwork of neat borders and varying shades and textures. Vineyards appeared, with their perfect rows of vines pointing the way to grand houses and wineries. And then the outskirts of Perth itself, where trees pepper an urban landscape in dark green tufts.
It is my home.
I love Sydney, which is why I have lived there nearly eight years. I love other places around the world, and I am sure I will love living in Seattle next year. Western Australia, however, is home. I will always come back here to see it, and my loved ones who live here.
It is so easy to take the familiar for granted, but on Saturday I got to see my homeland through fresh, somewhat misty eyes. I felt pride mostly, because it truly is incredibly beautiful and I cannot wait to show it off to Ben.
And I had this small, but significant joy all because I took a window seat.
Going Home
This weekend I fly to Perth on the west coast, and will drive 5 hours to the southwest coast to see my dad for his 60th birthday. I am going ‘home’.
‘Home’ is a word laden with connotations that make me feel a plethora of emotions. Coming ‘home’ after a long trip brings mixed emotions – from relief to sadness, and many shades in between. From necessity in conducting a long-distance relationship, Ben and I have come to know our ‘home’ as ‘wherever we are together’. Home in the context of my up-coming weekend, is my hometown, and even more than that, it is where my parents are.
Ironically I have never lived in the house where my dad and step-mum currently live. They sold up the house that was my home – and home base – for 15 years and moved from Perth to the south coast. They did this a couple of years ago, and the last time I saw them at that house, in the hills outside of Perth, I drove away in tears. I had lived there, moved away, lived there again, and then moved away again; it was my home base, my longest permanent address ever. I still had boxes of stuff there long after I had moved to Sydney. It wasn’t until my dad called and said, “Darling, come and get your boxes,” that I knew he and Gail were serious about selling up and moving elsewhere.
Now they are building a new home that my clever dad designed, and while they do that, they live in a rental property in the tiny, extremely beautiful, town of Denmark. This is where I will be heading to this weekend. But even though I have never lived there, and this is only my third visit to the house in two years, it feels like home. As I have said before, ‘home truly is where the heart is’.
I will sit at the breakfast bench in my pyjamas, with messy bed-hair, and as a 38-year-old woman, let my dad squeeze me fresh orange juice. When he places it before me, I will say, “thank you, Daddy,” as I have done for decades and he will say, “You’re welcome, Darling,” as he has said for just as long. It is a ritual that is a small, but integral part of the whole. And in no other context do I drink orange juice; it is just what we do, one of the things that makes their home my home too.
In addition to the trip south, I will spend a fast and furious Friday seeing as many people as I possibly can, all of whom are ‘family’. Like ‘home’, ‘family’ means so much more than its dictionary definition, as I am fortunate to have long-time friends who are as precious to me as my relatives. I will be seeing three of these friends tomorrow.
First will be Thomas, who I met in the first week of university many years ago. We get to see each other so rarely, but it is always a homecoming when we do. Tom has been my partner in crime so many times, that just a single word, or a look can set us both off on a nostalgic fit of giggles. He understands my love-hate affair with my hair, as he has his own, he is unfailingly supportive and compassionate, and our mutual love of the dance floor has made us an impromptu floorshow dozens of times. Even though we can only squeeze in a quick coffee tomorrow morning, it is worth it just to see him.
I will then hit the road and arrive at Jules’ house for lunch, and Stace will join us. Both women have known me since I was 14; both are my sisters. They have known me through bad 80s hair, and bad 90s hair, come to think of it. In those 24 years we’ve all gained weight, lost weight, gained it back and lost it again. We have seen each other through every relationship we have had, including three marriages (not mine), and the heartbreak we all endured in our 20s. We have seen each other at our best and our very worst. There are three children (again, not mine), so I have happily adopted the moniker ‘Aunty Sand’, and I am an awesome aunty. Tomorrow I meet my newest niece, who arrived only a few months ago.
Tonight I will be collected from the airport by my dad’s sister and her husband, and we will catch up over a bottle of red, as is our ritual. I am, at once, a friend and their ‘young’ niece. I have travelled and worked and lived enough to have wonderful, worldly, lively conversations with them, but at the end of the evening when they hug and kiss me goodnight, I am their ‘Sand’, who still loves to be showered with affection and called ‘Darling’ before she climbs into bed.
Going home to Perth is often these whirlwind trips where I cram in as much love and laughter and, as many ‘catch ups’ as I can, but I do not come back to Sydney depleted. Just the opposite. Even though I love to go far and wide, a trip ‘home’ to Perth feels like an oasis. With ease I strip off the roles I play in my working and grown up world, and just be me, the woman-child. A dose of family and old friends, a visit home, where I am just ‘Sand’, becomes a sliver of heaven in my busy world.
I will not get to see everyone this trip over west; it is too short. I will miss my mum and her sisters and their families. I will miss many old friends. I will not be able to take Ben with me this time, maybe the next.
But these are not thoughts to dwell on, as I am looking forward to my glass of orange juice, and to wishing my dad a very happy 60th birthday.
Happy Birthday Daddy.
Excess packaging
February 3, 2010 at 3:33 am · Filed under Autobiography, Commentary, home and tagged: cleaning, clutter, home, organizing, packaging
I have a somewhat minor frustration that comes up on a daily basis. Packaging.
I realized the other day when I was unsuccessfully trying to open a cheese stick, that U.S. manufacturers do not seem to discriminate between things that can poison us if ingested, and actual food.
Trying to extrapolate the highly delicious and somewhat nutritious cheese stick from its extremely excessive packaging (a tough plastic bag that won’t open without scissors, and a shrunk-wrapped plastic ‘easy-to-peel’ tomb) resulted in so much contortion, a co-worker thought I was trying on a girdle.
My eye cream comes in an even more ridiculous array of packaging: inside a jar, inside a plastic shell, inside a box, inside shrunk-wrapped plastic. By the time I get the eye-cream out of its packaging, I have three more frown lines on which to put it.
My favorite example of excess packaging is anything that comes in a plastic bottle. From vitamins to ketchup, I must first contend with the shrunk-wrapped hard plastic seal that surrounds the lid. It has perforations so that I can do this easily, but for some reason (perhaps because they suck), these perforations do nothing. I have to get out the scissors.
At this point I can twist off the lid, but underneath the lid will be a foil covering stuck so tightly to the neck of the bottle, I have to dig under its edge with a fingernail. Even the ones with the handy pull tab cannot be pulled off. I invariably resort again to the scissors, which I wield with an agitated stabbing motion. I have missed a few times and stabbed myself, but this only provides another reason for expletives to pour from my mouth.
Once the foil lid is removed, I can usually access what is inside the bottle. If it is vitamins, I have one more gauntlet task: a wad of uncooperative cotton wool. Imagine the clown car at the circus. Pulling the wad of cotton wool out of a 5cm vitamin bottle is like watching the clowns get out of the car in a never-ending stream.
When I can finally reach the vitamins, I check the ‘use by” date to ensure that they haven’t expired while I was trying to open the bottle.
All of this may seem exaggerated, and as I tend towards the hyperbole, you will be forgiven for thinking so. However, long-suffering boyfriend can attest that these exact enactments are real.
This brings me (the very long way) to our giant clean out a few weeks back.
Our home is spacious for a one bedroom apartment, but it does have its spacial limitations and we were not optimizing the space that we do have.
It did not look like this
but it felt like it did.
I felt tightly bound by too much stuff, too much clutter, too much useless junk, too much excess packaging. I was starting to feel claustrophobic in my own home. I was freaking out.
I mentioned in passing to Ben that we should have a big clean out. He looked a little less than enthused. I tried talking it up.
“Yeah, it’ll be great. We’ll go through the whole house and open everything up, pull everything out and then throw away what we don’t need. Then we can organize all the cupboards and drawers!” The Virgo that rose in my Taurean chart when I was born was rising to the challenge. The Scorpio I live with was not.
I tried a different tack. “I hate my closet! I hate it. I hate that I can’t find anything and everything falls all over me and I hate it!” This tantrum went on for another 45 seconds until strong arms went around me, and I calmed down. I looked up at the owner of the arms (Ben). “I want to clean out our place and make it feel like home again.”
He responded in the only way a man can when he is faced with big hazel puppy dog eyes, “Okay, Babe.”
And that is how it came to pass that one Saturday we opened every cupboard, drawer and box in our apartment. We pulled out everything and only put back what we wanted and needed. The crap was thrown out, recycled, donated and given away. (It is only crap to those who don’t want it). I bought tubs and baskets to organize all our stuff.
We took a trip to the tip and visited Goodwill. We filled 8 bags for the garbage and recycling. It took 6 hours, including the time to thoroughly clean our apartment.
We stripped bare and reconstructed our home, ridding our selves of all the excess packaging. At the end of a long day, we sat sipping a much-deserved glass of wine and admired our handiwork.
Devoid of clutter, our apartment felt like home again I no longer felt suffocated.
I still have my daily battle with actual excess packaging, but I am slowly becoming more skilled with my scissors.
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