sandybarker

Blown Away by Oregon

April 25, 2008April 29, 2008sandybarker

I forgot to mention the spider. As we climbed into bed at the Requa Inn, there was a spider – in the bed – on my side. Ben did the manly thing and squished it with a tissue. I concentrated on the BEST PIE EVER and the brilliant day we’d had rather than the spider and the creepy dead lady in the hall, which is why my dreams were sweet that night.

We awoke to twittering birds and the sound of huge pickup trucks intermittently roaring past the inn – folks on their way to work we imagined. We suited up for a walk to the coast – about 2 miles up a winding road. The air was clean and smelled of wood stoves and damp earth. The road was steep, but we were working off the pie – and the burger – and the fries – oh, and the onion rings.

We huffed our way up the hill to be rewarded with a different view from the afternoon before. The blue sky had gone, now replaced with a brooding canopy of grey. It heightened the beauty of waves crashing against rocks in the distance.

Back at the inn we settled in to a breakfast of eggs and oatmeal. We then cleaned up, packed up and loaded up, ready for a day of natural beauty.

Our first stop was to drive north to Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park. We were not certain what to expect, except that we could park and hike the well marked trails. The park blew any preconceptions out of the water.

We entered the park on a dirt track, and the sky started to emerge from the clouds. Sunlight pushed through the dense leaves and tall trunks to speckle the forest floor with light. We opened the sunroof of our car to look up as we drove, giant trees peering down at us.

The driving was slow as the track wove its way through the thick, straight trunks. We could tell that as few trees were felled to make this road, as was possible.

“Luke Skywalker’s been in these woods,” said Ben. “Oh that’s right. They filmed those scenes from Empire here.” We both imagined Luke and Leia flying through the forest at breakneck speed – somewhat faster than we were driving.

We came to a clearing, a marked trail led off into the woods. Here was as good a place as any. We grabbed cameras, and followed the path. How breathtaking. The path was clearly marked, and even though it curled up hill slightly, this walk would be less than strenuous, and more about taking it all in.

It was nearly silent. We could hear a single – and presumably lost – bee humming above our heads. There were no bird calls, and the air was still, so not even the rustling of leaves contributed to our soundtrack. All we could hear were our gentle treads on the slightly damp earth and our breath.

We moved ever upward, stepping over the occasional tree root, and following the winding trail. “Can you imagine the root system underneath us?” Ben asked. We were stunned by how tightly packed together the Redwoods are. We had also realised the day before that neither of us really knew what to expect from a Redwood. I have envisioned big bushy-topped trees, like Oaks, but these giant thrust straight up from the ground, with tufts of tiny leaves sticking out near their tops.

In tree world, if the Redwoods were not so terrifyingly tall, they would have been bullied for being ‘funny looking’. They were all out of balance, and not unlike very tall, solid people with tiny heads. But I did not dare laugh for fear that one would lift a root from the forest floor and step on me. I observed the reverent silence exemplified by the rest of the forest, mindful that these trees had been on the earth longer than I could conceive.

“Have you ever scene those pictures where they take the cross section of one of these trunks and show all the significant dates in human history?” asks Ben, pondering the history all around us. I had, and later I would buy him a postcard showing this.

We reached an arbitrary place on the trail, marked only by the half hour we had walked, and a giant orgy of 6 trees all growing together. “Would you like a kiss amongst giant trees,” asked my tall, handsome man. The trees politely turned away, and then we headed back down the trail. The sun was really breaking through the canopy now, stream of light bringing to life the damp forest. It was a beautiful chaos, with every colour of imaginable green, and every texture I knew. Bulbous, knobbly tree gnarls next to the satiny petals of a wild flower.

Back in the car we continued to marvel at the world around us. Just before the end of the park, we pulled off to take another trail, hoping to get down to the ever widening river below us.

The trail was more treacherous than the previous one, with stones and tree roots underfoot, but it was short. We descended to the riverbed, having to go ‘off-road’ to see the really good stuff. I climbed a felled log and walked along it up towards a small waterfall. Ben climbed through brush and crossed a stream to see the river up close. We have fulfilled our Nancy Drew/Hardy Boy fantasies for the day and climbed out of the forest, a little out of breath from our childlike endeavours.

We drove into Crescent City, looking for a place to lunch – a proper lunch so as not to be caught out by starvation around dinner time. Subway would do, because it was fast, healthy, and we knew what we’d be getting.

Crescent City was a generic U.S. town of the working class variety. Pickup trucks and old boxy sedans criss-crossed paths, and the town uniform was jeans with a T-shirt or flannel. I saw a store called ‘Bikes and Guitars’. It was that sort of town: straightforward – what you see is what you get without flourish or embellishment. It was a stark contrast from the pristine, manicured towns of the Napa Valley.

The staff at Subway had twangy accents, like you would expect much further south, and they were personable and fun. I would also have to say that it was the best Subway I have had, perhaps because it was created with flourishes and flair that would put a top-notch bar tender to shame.

Full, happy, and looking forward to adding another state to our ‘been there’ lists, Ben and I headed off and into Oregon.

The border came and went without much ado. I did a little car seat dance to mark the occasion. Bill Bryson was still telling his tale, and we still listened, riveted. Hours went by quickly, as his soft, self-deprecating tone filled our car.

Soon after entering Oregon, the sky turned from blue to grey. And then it rained. Thick, fat drops hit the windscreen. “Hang on,” I said looking intensely out the window a few minutes later, “is that hail?” “Yep,” said Ben, as though he had expected it. Rain, then hail: ‘Welcome to Oregon.’

We drove towards the coast, getting small glimpses of a spectacular coastline. “We can pull off at one of these lookouts,” noted Ben. “Here’s one,” he said pointing up ahead. I pulled the car off and onto a heavily pot-holed track.

At the car park, we both got out and the force of the wind nearly pushed me back into the car. I stumbled forward to get a look at the view. “Oh my God,” I said. “Geez,” Ben said. We were so eloquent.

A jagged black pyramid stood just offshore in the surf, battered by constantly breaking waves. The erratic water met grey sand, dotted with oversized pebbles, and rippled by the fierce wind.

I took some shots, and gratefully climbed back into the shelter of the car. Ben was braver than I. He pushed his way down to the shore, walking on a slant against the wind. The coast in northern California had been beautiful – I described it an untamed – but this was something else. I was running out of superlatives.

We drove on. It snowed! The exclamation point is all I can do to convey my surprise. We’d thought the previous day had shown a contrast in weather, but this day had gone from mild and sunny to snowing – all within a 100 miles.

Our next stop was at a similarly spectacular spot, but this one for the human creations placed on precarious cliffs. A starkly white lighthouse, and the keeper’s neat white cottage, with its equally white picket fence, stood proudly on cliff tops. We stretched our legs by climbing the path to the lighthouse. It was a quick visit, though, as the rain started up again. We ran through it back to the car, arriving out of breath and laughing. We dried out as we continued north.

We were driving to Bandon, a small town on the southern Oregon coast. We arrived at 4. For an inexplicable reason we had arrived at our destination for the third day running, at 4pm. We had planned this trip, insomuch as two people can with Google Earth and some emails, but we were fluking our arrivals to coincide with check-in time. With two days to come, could we keep this up?

The Windermere Beach Motel presented us with a tiny attic self-contained unit, with a huge picture window that looked out at the beach. We re-arranged the furniture, after it was clear that we would want to sit on the couch and watch out that window for as long as we could. It was still four hours until sunset.

We had set aside that afternoon for ‘chilling out’, which we did, reading, catching up on emails, sipping some wine we’d brought. All the while we kept an eye on our view, the changeable light revealing more about this stunning coastline.

We dined across the street at Bandon Bill’s Grill. We ordered beers, because the music and the atmosphere called for it. I had the hugest plate of baby back ribs I have ever seen. I made a valiant effort, but as the waitress cleared my plate, she remarked that her dog would be delighted when she got home.

We got back to our ‘home’ in time to watch the sun set. The horizon was peppered with bulky grey clouds, and the sun hid her naked self behind them. It was a burlesque show of peekaboo, and stolen glimpses of her beauty.

After she had disappeared for the day, we walked out onto the windy beach. It was smooth, and grey and vast. Other small groups walked too. Even though it was cold, there was something about this place that called us to come out and play.

The last light finally disappeared, and we headed ‘home’ again.

A Day of Contrasts

April 24, 2008April 24, 2008sandybarker

From Napa Valley to Klamath, on the northern California coast.

Day two of our trip was a day of stark contrasts.

We had dined the night before at Terra in St Helena. Terra appears in the Michelin guide (one star), and combines European and Asian food styles and tastes. The fusion works, and although we didn’t try it, the dessert ‘Angel Farts’ intrigued us. Instead, we completed our meal with a cherry compote and ice cream parfait, which was, ‘Parfait!’

We knew on waking that our host at the B+B had promised a ‘gourmet breakfast’, but I wondered if the culinary delights of St Helena could possibly continue at such a high standard.

We were not disappointed.

We joined another couple for a truly gourmet breakfast, both courses announced with the liberal flourishes of our flamboyant host, Carlos. “Baked pink grapefruit with fresh raspberry coulis and spun honey.” Who would have thought to bake a grapefruit? Apparently, Carlos, and it was both unusual and delicious.

“Wholewheat Belgian waffles, with melted French butter, and organic Maple syrup from Vermont, served with organic chicken and apple sausages.”

Waffles! I thought I would die of excitement, and they were amazing. The kind of waffle that retains its crispy exterior, while pools of butter and syrup meld in the little pockets. Ben remarked later that I had shown great restraint, and he knew that if we were not seated opposite strangers, I would have clapped in delight at the overwhelming deliciousness. I clapped on the inside.

Dinner was a distant memory as we finally moved from the table and finished packing. It was another beautiful day in the Napa Valley and we had quite a drive ahead of us up to the north coast of California, to Klamath. Our breakfast companions had informed us that Klamath is not on the coast (a surprise to us), and that Crater Lake was only about an hour from there (a happy surprise to us). We knew that if we made good time then we could get to Crater Lake before nightfall, a good addition to our itinerary.

Bellies full as we drove off, we decided not to have lunch that day, but to snack in the car and have a ‘proper’ dinner. As we drove north through wine country, enjoying the sun and the landscape, we started an audio book Ben had brought. Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods is his travel biography about walking the Appalachian Trail in the east. Although we were in the west, the changing topography (fewer fields, more forests), and the changing weather (grey clouds and drizzle), allowed us to be transported and enjoy the hilarity of Bryson’s huge endeavour.

We made great time. We arrived at the Requa Inn, just out of Klamath, around 4pm, meaning we could make it out to Crater Lake. The sky in Klamath was clearer than other parts of our journey, a milky blue, and the air was cold. From the start of our day, the temperature had dropped 25° F.

The Requa Inn was opened over 100 years ago, and the eclectic mix of furnishings and knickknacks bore testament to the whole century. A collection of cricket paraphernalia caught my eye, as did their haphazard – yet extensive – library. I did not like, however, the creepy photograph of a long dead woman that hung just across from our bedroom door. I was compelled to look at it every time I went in or out of the room, even though she freaked me out. “It’s just an old photo. You’re only freaked out because you can’t see her face,” said the sceptic. Yes, exactly. It is not normal to have a black splodge where your face should be.

Our host informed us as we checked in, that Crater Lake was a 6 hour return drive from there, and that the roads would be closed anyway, because of snow. “Oh,” we both said, disappointed we wouldn’t see the brilliant blue of the lake’s water, contrasted with its snowy rim. Who had told us that it was close? Oh, yes. Carlos, our B+B host.

BUT, we could drive up the hill to go whale watching! We picked the innkeeper’s brain a bit longer, determining that we could drive south (back from whence we came) and drive into the Redwood forest, and that dinner was even further south (nothing open in Klamath on a Thursday night).

We dropped our bags to our room, and drove the short drive to the lookout over the Klamath River inlet. Like the other gem we’d be told at breakfast, the line about Klamath not being on the coast was rubbish. We were in Klamath, and we were standing on the coast. It was spectacular. I pulled my jacket around me, and we sat on a picnic table and scanned the water for whale spouts. None emerged, but the salt air and the view were enough.

We reluctantly drove away, promising each other to return in the morning. We were going to see big trees now. We had stopped earlier in the day, just pulling off the road, at our first real glimpse of Redwood trees. The sun was still out then, and we walked through a small stand down to a pebbly riverbank.

This little glimpse into the world of giants whet our appetite for more, so when we took the turn off into Redwood National Park late in the afternoon, we were blown away.

We saw a car parked ahead, and pulled off the road. Another young couple was there taking fun photos of themselves with a giant hollowed out tree. We joined in on the fun, trading cameras and getting ‘couple/tree’ shots for each other.

The air was cool, damp and smelled of centuries of nature. The other couple left and we explored further. The base of one felled giant stood taller than Ben and we estimated it at over 1000 years old.

Back in the car, we made our way to “Big Tree”, the imaginatively named largest tree in North America. We parked, and walked the path, and narrowed ‘Big Tree’ down to two big trees. We took photos with both, marvelling at their height and girth. It was getting chilly and dark, and we wanted to drive to the beach before dinner. A dirt track took us to the stark and grey-sanded coast. The skies had turned grey and the wind was biting, but the untamed beach, awash with driftwood, was beautiful.

We defrosted in the car as we drove back to the highway, and headed further south to Orick for dinner.

We had been given the two big tips for dining in Orick. There was a Mexican restaurant (closed), and a biker diner (open). The diner was a beacon in the darkness, for we were starving, and had already decided that never again would we ‘car snack’ instead of stopping for lunch.

The diner was warm and smelled like home cooking. It was the first true diner experience I could remember having, and our waitress was sweet and personable, through her obvious exhaustion. We ordered diner food: a French Dip and onion rings for Ben and a hamburger and fries for me – oh and a salad, so we could feel somewhat virtuous. The French Dip – for my Aussie and British readers – is a roast beef sandwich, which is dipped into a beef broth. Salty, hot and beefy. And a departure for Ben, who is (mostly) a white meat only boy.

We devoured our food nearly before it hit the table, and it was delicious. I mentioned to Ben that we had gone from whole wheat Belgian waffles with organic Vermont Maple syrup to burgers, fries and onion rings, in one day. Another contrast to enjoy.

The only question that remained after dinner was, did we have room for pie? Hell, yes! We took it go, mixed berry for me, and apple for Ben. Bill Bryson, earlier that day, had uttered a line that I now shared with our waitress: “Can you please cut me the biggest piece of pie you can without losing your job?” “I always do,” she winked conspiratorially. And when she handed us our pie to go, they were fat wedges, fillings oozing out the sides. I couldn’t wait to get back to the Inn.

We were the only guests that night, so had the large living room to ourselves. We helped ourselves to a bottle of Moonstone Red (leaving a note for our hosts that we would fix them up in the morning), and sat by the fire. Ben read aloud from an anthology of Walt Whitman poetry, which casually sat on the coffee table. We drank wine, and ate THE BEST PIE I HAVE EVER HAD, and grew sleepy by the fire.

A good day, and as different an ending as we could have imagined in the beginning.

Tomorrow we would be hiking further into the woods, and then driving into Oregon – a first for us both. We collapsed, exhausted, and I dreamed of giant berry pie trees.

Road Trip

April 23, 2008April 24, 2008sandybarker

“I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.” Robert Louis Stevenson

This quote is taped to my desk at work – at eye level. I see it every day, and every day I think to myself, ‘How true.” Or mostly true, for me. Robert and I differ in the ‘not to go anywhere’ part, because I often travel to specifically go somewhere, but like R.L.S., I also travel just to move. Moving, going, leaving, arriving, this global kinetic energy that I partake of and contribute to, is part of my internal rhythm.

And this type of energy is heightened in a particular kind of travel: The Road Trip.

R.L.S. died in 1894, so it is safe to say that he never went on a road trip. Not really. Not the kind we take today, in cars, and on actual roads. He never knew the pleasure hitting the open road, with plans and expectations crammed in the mind, like the maps and brochures are crammed into the glove box.

But, as I climbed into a hire car in San Francisco earlier this week, I knew he would have approved. After all, ‘…the great affair is to move’, and the first leg of my trip with Ben, was the same trip Stevenson shared with his new bride in 1880: a journey north to the Napa Valley.

San Francisco is nothing like I imagined, basing my extensive expectations on remembered episodes of Full House and Party of Five, but it did not disappoint. In fact, our 44 hour stint there, our taster of a great city to which we will someday return, was so full that it is a whole post of its own. Soon. I promise.

This journey starts in SanFran, and ends in Seattle. It encompasses the Napa Valley, the northern Californian coast, Oregon’s coast, Portland, Oregon’s capital, and everywhere in between.

To the Napa Valley

Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge is cool. It is huge and iconic and brightly burnt orange, and crossing it for the first time means, “I have been to San Francisco.” Even though Ben and I had been traversing the streets of the city for two days, this was the moment when it sank in that I was actually there – and we were leaving.

The drive to Napa Valley is just over an hour. This is not a long drive, unless you are dying to pee and arrive in Yountville. Yountville is one of many small towns dotted along Highway 29, and is just north of Napa. It is beautiful and pristine and apparently people who visit have no bathroom needs (there are no public toilets). After an excruciating reconnaissance of the town, which oddly was shut at 10:30 in the morning, I hobbled to a roadside porta potty. Back in the car, my mood lifted (Ben is a master of patiently bearing the desperate cries and angry rants that accompany this state of being), and we drove on to Chandon Estate.

Chandon sparkling white is a staple for me and my friends when we attend the horseracing carnivals in Sydney, so I was looking forward to visiting the Napa estate. The grounds and building were beautifully situated, and there was a reverent hush in the air. We were directed to a tasting bar, and Ben ordered a flight of wines – three half flutes, each wine distinctive and delicious (offered sips were gratefully accepted).

I ordered a sparkling rose, just released, and drank slowly as I drank in my surroundings. It was a perfect California day: cloudless blue skies and 26°. We drove on.

I had done my homework and knew I wanted to go to Rubicon Estate, not far to the north. I could not remember why my reading had triggered this desire, until we pulled into the grand gates of Rubicon, valeted the car and walked up the steps onto a red carpet. “Ah, yes,” I said, “now I remember,” a large sign jogging my memory. The estate is owned by Francis Ford Coppola, and it is majestic.

A $25 fee would buy us a three-day passport, which included 5 tastings, tours and, well, just being there. An orientation tour fed us the history of Rubicon, which was once owned by a Russian visionary called Niebaum. Niebaum envisioned the tasting rooms and cellar door culture that is now ubiquitous in wine regions worldwide. He produced exceptional wines, which were served exclusively at the White House and on exclusive trans-Atlantic cruises. In purchasing the winery and making vast, restorative improvements, Coppola has paid homage to its history and has restored its wine-making prestige.

We tasted a flight of five wines, including a Sauvignon Blanc and a Syrah, and culminating in the 2004 Rubicon. The first three wines are only available at the cellar door, and Ben bought a bottle of the Syrah – it is outstanding. We would love to have bought a bottle of the Rubicon, but at $125, it is a little out of our price range.

We enjoyed the ambiance and the banter with the older gentleman pouring our wine, and bid farewell to Rubicon, glad we had made the pilgrimage there.

We back tracked to Yountville; we knew there were many choices for lunch, having done our ‘reckie’ hours earlier. We ate at Bistro Jeanty, a French style Bistro on the main street. The food was prompt, and tasty, although I burned my mouth on the excruciatingly hot French onion soup. It made me a little grumpy, because how do you taste wine when your taste buds have been seared off?

I downed healing water as we drove on to Mumm. Mmm, Mumm. We were greeted by a warm woman, who put the officious staff at Chandon to shame. We seated ourselves on the patio overlooking the vineyard, and I presented a 2 for 1 coupon I downloaded from the net (wine tasting in Napa can be pricey).

Our hostess brought us two flutes of yumm, I mean, Mumm. “Hey,” she said, conspiratorially, “would you like to try our signature pour? While we’re not busy.” She brought us a taste of DVX, nearly full flutes and we sipped that along with our Blanc de Noir. Both delicious, but sipping and sitting in the sun was going to my head. Ben took his tiddly girl back to the car, and we drove on to St. Helena, where we would stay that night in a B+B. We arrived at 4, after a day of sun, sips and sighs of pleasure. Ahhh, Napa.

St Helena to the land of the giants.

Fear of Falling

April 7, 2008sandybarker

Last post I revealed my desire to skip the nursing home and boldly jettison through older age with a pack on my back, a camera in hand, a grin on my face and guided by my sense of adventure.

In writing my promised list of things I have done on my way to earning my ‘Adventure Chick’ stripes, I found that I wanted to explain. I was excusing some of these feats because to me they represent ‘extreme’, and ‘brave’ and ‘living outside my comfort zone’, but I know that what I deem adventurous is, to some, just ‘fun’. In creating a post of cool things I have done, I realised there is a preface.

I am an adventurous woman. I make bold decisions for my life. I have moved to other the other side of the world – twice – with only a month’s income in the bank, and no promise of a job on the other end. I have taken chances in life that would make others flinch and choose the safe option. These big actions have scared me, but I have been brave; I have indulged my sense of adventure in grand ways. And ultimately, my boldness has rewarded me; my life often surpasses my dreams.

So why is it that I can take on a promotion, move to a new city, take a chance on love, but the thought of climbing onto a horse, or into a raft gives me heart palpitations and sweaty palms?

Because of the fear.

I fear three big things: Water, heights and looking stupid. These are common fears, but the first two are misnamed. I do not fear water – I do shower and bathe regularly, and I will swim laps in a pool. What I fear is drowning – in rapids, in surf, in water where I cannot touch the bottom, and scary things lurk.

‘Fear of heights’ is also a misnomer. I am mostly fine with being up high. I fly frequently, I cross bridges, I can stand on a chair and change a light bulb. I am, however, afraid of plummeting to my death, or even being seriously maimed. My fear is of falling. So much so, that I cannot even watch someone (Ben!) balance precariously on the edge of a cliff and look over the edge.

The last fear is the hardest to overcome. I spent much of my late teens and early 20s refusing to do something if I thought there was the slightest chance I would be bad at it. I figured that if I did not have a natural aptitude for something, I would subsequently look stupid doing it, or trying to do it, or trying to get better at it. I would succumb to the fear, and never try again.

Skiing:17 years old, school ski trip, 3 days in the snow, hundreds of dollars my parents didn’t have. I fell off the ski lift, and then I fell down the mountain (27 times – I counted). When I finally made it to the bottom of the mountain, I literally skied into the crowd waiting for the lift, knocking them over like giant skittles. As I wiped frozen snot and tears from my face with the sleeve of my stupid looking over sized ski jacket, I stomped back to the lodge in my stupid looking ski boots. There I stayed for the next 2 and ½ days, consuming my body weight in hot chocolate. Safe. And, in my opinion, not looking stupid.

And I nearly did not learn to drive. It was only my father’s patience and persistence, that I learned through my tears and refusals to learn.

Fortunately, in the most recent half of my life, I have cultivated the one thing that can fight this fear of falling on my face. It is called ‘laughing at myself’. Laughing at oneself is the foundation that allows us to try new things, to surprise ourselves, and to delight those who love us.

On the last full day Ben and I had together in Seattle, we ended up at a video arcade. There it was: the game Dance, Dance Revolution. It has foot pads and a screen; you watch the screen, and copy the steps onto the foot pads. It is not really dancing, more like the African Anteater Ritual (shameless reference to the 80s classic film Can’t Buy Me Love), a series of ever quickening stomping and stamping.

Ben did not even hesitate, plugging his quarters into the slot and mentally preparing himself for the challenge ahead. Hours of playing this same game in the comfort of his living room meant that he was really good at it. But what I was thinking as I watched my 6’1” boyfriend stamp and stomp to tinny techno, was how brilliantly unself-conscious he was. I felt a welling of, what? Pride, I guess. He was doing this crazy fun, silly thing, right there in public, and I knew there was no way I was going to have a turn when he finished. I knew I would look stupid.

There it was, that fear. It lurks, and pops up when I least expect it. It is a self-centred fear, because it is borne from thinking that ‘everyone is watching and judging me’. Ben would not have judged me had I stood up there and had a go. He would have laughed with me and encouraged me, just as he does when I learn new things on the computer (things he finds really simple), or fall down on a steep ski run (yes, I have gone back, and I love it).

So, that day in the arcade, when that fear bit and niggled at me again, I looked at my cute, funny boyfriend doing something I wasn’t willing to do, and I admired him and loved him all the more for it.

He has his fears too, and when I see him overcome them, when he wins his battles (however large or small) over his fear of the unknown, I am supportive and proud.

I want to banish this stupid fear of looking stupid – forever. So, I will continue to laugh at myself, to willingly be the fool, and to give things a go – even those things I will be bad at.

The other fears – water, heights – are as acute as ever. So when I do tell the cool, scary, adventurous things I have done, keep in mind the stakes, even if for you they’d just be a bit of fun.

Feel the fear and do it anyway. Right? Absolutely!

When I Grow Up

April 4, 2008sandybarker

My oldest relative is my Great Aunt Joan. She is in her seventies and there are rumours (which I totally believe) that she was once a spy and worked for MI-6 (like James Bond). She lives with Foy and they are two very sweet, dear old English ladies. In fact, my family even refers to them as the ‘DODs’ (Dear Old Dears). It is an ironic, but endearing title that they wear with pride, while they safari in Africa and trek through the Australian Outback.

You see, the DODs are the original adventure chicks, and when I grow up I want to be just like them.

The last time I visited them in their tiny village outside of Oxford (where they casually refer to their neighbours as that Cusack girl who is married to that lovely actor – Sinead Cucask and Jeremy Irons – and yes I am shamelessly name-dropping, but I am totally into that six-degrees thing and think of all those connections!), Foy asked us to come up to the study.

My sister and I made our way up to the second floor, where the cubby-style study resides. Foy booted up her computer and then began playing the video from their latest trip – a safari in Africa. Joan watched from behind us, as the scene on screen cut to nine lionesses devouring a zebra, at night.

“Um, Foy? Did you film this?”

“Yes, dear.”

“How close were you? I mean, how much have you zoomed in?”

“Oh, we were close. What do you think, Joan? We were probably about 20 feet away?”

“Oh, yes, about that.”

My sister and I looked at each other, gob smacked. I had long admired the adventurous spirit of these two women, but this elevated their status to ‘goddess-like’. It was then that I knew I would always travel. I will endeavour to be an adventure chick long into my 80s – and why not? It is in my blood!

Next post: Cool stuff I have done to start earning my ‘adventure chick’ stripes.

Mexican Jumping Beans

April 1, 2008sandybarker

I am not a huge Willie Nelson fan, but I do subscribe to his sentiment, because like Willie I can’t wait to get on the road again. It is time. I have ants in my pants, itchy feet and can’t sit still. Were I six and were my mother here, she would wonder aloud if I had swallowed Mexican jumping beans.

This happens to me when I am close to travelling again. It is eleven more sleeps, which means I am in final preparation mode.

The past couple of months have been about the planning. Ben and I have been online and on the phone, swapping ideas, websites and our latest toy, customised Google maps. We read up and revise, and discuss and decide. It is a fun process, and one that lends itself to building anticipation.

We will both fly into Los Angeles where I have friends, and where we will stay for a couple of nights (a short stay, but we will be back). We then fly to San Francisco, where neither of us has been, and where both of us are excited to go for the first time. I bought us a tiny guidebook, but really, we are governed by the ‘laws of first-timers’. We are staying near Fisherman’s Wharf, where we will eat sourdough bread and seafood; we will ride a tram up an impossibly steep street; we will see the Golden Gate Bridge and visit Alcatraz.

Importantly, Ben and I have promised each other that while we are following these obvious tourist tracks, we will be travellers. We will find wonder and fresh perspectives in our touristy endeavours. It will be our mantra: ‘travellers, travellers, travellers’.

From San Francisco, we hit the road. We pick up a hire car and will continue north to Seattle where Ben is due for work, taking five days to get there. We have some varied stops planned, the first of which is The Napa Valley. Oh, Napa – the scenery, the wine, the Chintz!

In seeking out a Bed and Breakfast close enough to several wineries, but somewhat off the main strip, we viewed more shots of Chintzy bedrooms that I ever care to again. Some rooms are even named after the Chintz: The Pink Rose Blossom Room, The Room with Two Many Pillows (Ben: “Where do we sleep?”), and The “Oh my, Grandma’s Sewing Box Threw Up’ Room. Resigned to the fact that Chintz is a given no matter what, we decided on the place with a spa tub and gourmet waffles.

After being spoiled in The Napa Valley, we will rough it in a Northern Californian coastal town, replete with Redwood Forest. Yes, we go from wine tasting to woodland trekking, a challenge for even the most experienced packer. From there, ever north into Oregon, a state I will get to add to my ‘I’ve been there’ list.

I have friends from Oregon. They all extol Oregon’s beauty as its greatest virtue. To honour that, we will drive the coast for as long as possible, and then head inland up to Portland. At this stage all I know about Portland is that I should shop there, as Oregon has no state sales tax (and Washington State has one of the highest in the U.S.). I will be as true to my wallet as time allows, for we are due in Seattle the next day.

Ben has work there Monday to Thursday and then we will be able to explore further a field for a couple of days. For me, four days alone in a favourite city is a gift, and then of course, we can head out to the wonderful array of Seattle’s restaurants in the evenings.

We fly out of Seattle on a Saturday, giving us that night in LA, where I have been promised we will Par-Tay. My LA friends are in the know, which is important when in a city of that size. LA visitors without a ‘local guide’ can suffer from ‘Disney-itis’. This is a condition whereby they think they have been to LA, because they stayed in Anaheim and went to Disneyland. Disneyland is not LA. LA is a vast and energetic city with much to see and do that does not include a giant mouse and mass merchandising.

So, eleven more sleeps. At this stage I write lists: To do, To buy, To pack, To take on the plane. I am a list-maker in everyday life, but when in travel mode, they are even more crucial. They keep me sane, grounded. And for a girl who swallowed a handful of Mexican jumping beans and can’t sit still, some kind of tether is necessary to keep my feet on the ground – for the next eleven days anyway.

“On the road again, I just can’t wait to get on the road again…”

Stolen Meme

March 22, 2008June 19, 2020sandybarker

Well, appropriated is probably more accurate, as I will credit this meme to the Sydney Morning Herald – weekend edition.

Right off the bat, I confess two things in this blog entry:

One. I used to pretend I had my own cooking show. Granted I was a pre-teen when I did this, but whenever I was cooking for the family, I would talk to the kitchen wall (a la Shirley Valentine) as though it were a camera, and explain my cooking techniques, step by step. I developed quite a sparkling repartee. I gave this practice up years ago, but on occasion I still fantasize about having my own cooking show. Perhaps this is why I have become a celebrity chef groupie (Rick Stein kissed me once – on the lips!).

Two. I used to pretend that I was on Oprah. This fantasy is more recent – from my university days when I dreamed of fame and glory for my brilliant acting career (yet to eventuate). I would do this pretending when I was driving. I was charming, self-deprecating and suitably humble when I responded to her probing and insightful questions. Unfortunately, the closest I ever came to living that dream was when I went to Madame Tussaud’s in London and posed with her wax figure (she’s quite tall by the way).

So, this brings us to the meme.

I was indulging one of my weekend pleasures, reading the papers, dissecting them, ranking the supplements from least desirable to most intriguing, and then poring over the pages. I came across this meme (a series of questions to answer), the subject of which was Myf Warhurst, who is brilliant and funny, and truly knowledgeable about all things music. From there I worked around to the appropriation. I would indulge my childhood fantasies and in essence interview myself. Until The Herald calls me for the real deal, this will do.

My earliest memory is being in hospital. I was 18 months old, and was there because I had stopped breathing. I was sitting at a small wooden table with other kids, eating Weetbix for breakfast. Later I went missing. They found me in the men’s room, peeking into the showers. (I started young.)

At school I was bossy, too smart for my own good, and a bit of a loner. I excelled in handstands and asking too many questions. In high school I quit the handstands, but was still hugely unpopular, because I had a Texan accent (from living in Texas – not just for fun), and wore makeup in a school full of Aussie chicks who preferred sneakers with skirts and bare faces.

My first relationship was with Shane (I forget his last name). We were 10 years old. He let me look at his Star Wars book, which had photographs from the film. I secretly wanted to be with Mark Hamill, but we were together for almost a whole month – Shane, not Mark Hamill.

I don’t like talking about injuries, surgery, childbirth and other gory stuff. Just talking about it creeps me out.

I wish I’d never worn glasses without lenses in them because I thought they looked cool. It was the 80s. Enough said.

My parents always told me that I could tell them anything.

I wish I had straight hair.

I wish I hadn’t obsessed about a boy called Jeremy all through high school.

My last meal would be in Greece: fresh bread, tomatoes, tzatziki and olive oil.

I am very bad at ball sports. Just don’t throw it, kick it, or pass it to me.

Friends say I am silly, naughty, lucky, bold.

The song I would like played at my funeral is Wonderwall, by Oasis.

If only I could be paid to travel – again.

The last big belly laugh I had was today, on the phone to Ben. He is that smart kind of funny, the kind that is sexy.

What I don’t find amusing is inconsideration. In traffic, at the gym, in shops. Not funny, not cool, not nice.

Cat or dog. Dog, but don’t tell my cat that.

If I were a car I’d be Seriously? This is a question? Why not, ‘If I were a tree I’d be’? Or ‘If I were an animal I’d be’? (A Peugot 307, a camouflage gum, a turtle – just in case you were wondering). Silly question.

I often wonder how things will work out. They always do – often better than I could imagine – but it doesn’t stop me wondering.

That’s all for now…

Traveller or Tourist?

March 21, 2008sandybarker

Years ago in another lifetime, I was a tour manager in Europe. I was responsible for running coach tours – 21 to 35 days for a well-known touring company popular with 18-35 year olds. My responsibilities ranged from accompanying a client to the hospital in Venice, to nursing broken hearts and hang-overs, and everything imaginable in between. One of my favourite parts of the trip took place on day one of the tour. We would leave London early morning, and drive to Paris by late afternoon. On the drive from London to Dover, where we would catch the ferry to Calais, I would give my ‘First Day Talk’.

The First Day Talk was a marathon of public speaking. It could take up to two hours, which may seem long, but when you are about to spend 24/7 with 50 strangers for the better part of a month, there are a few ground rules to lay. I covered toilets (not as available in Europe as in other parts of the world), and sleeping arrangements (I was not employed to hook people up), and departure times (I would – and had – left people behind). I also covered money, language, weather, clothing, behaviour, drinking, and food, but the grand finale of the talk was the ‘traveller versus tourist challenge’.

“A traveller,” I would begin, “is someone who tries new food and new experiences, who embraces differences from home, who is flexible and willing to ‘give it a go’. A traveller is interested in getting to know a place, and is keen to attempt the language. A traveller will appreciate that things in Europe are far more expensive than in Australia, New Zealand and the U.S. A traveller will want to get out there and do and see and participate in as much as possible, because a traveller knows they may never get the chance again. In short, a traveller will be an asset to this tour.

“A tourist, on the other hand, is someone who will notice all of these differences, and rather than embracing them, the tourist will complain and whine about them. Be a traveller, not a tourist.”

To this there would be heads nodding in response. I would even hear clients, when in unpleasant, awkward, or expensive moments on tour, say to another, ‘Remember, we’re travellers not tourists.’ Mostly it worked. Most of my clients were good fun and good people. There were a few tourists on the trips – but the others would usually bring them around – by cajoling, ribbing, or even with a few sharp words. Once I established that we were all in this together, the clients tended to develop a camaraderie much like a workplace. You all get on with it, even if you don’t like everybody else. When someone steps out of line, or needs support, the others rally.

A decade later, I still consider myself a traveller, not a tourist. I can think of two really obvious exceptions.

In Peru in 2006, I contracted Salmonella. It is in the tap water – even in a 3-star hotel – and through force of habit I rinsed my only tooth brush under the tap. I was then faced with the dilemma of rinsing it again under the hot water tap, or rinsing it in bottled water. I opted for bottled water, when what I should have done was throw it away. Within 12 hours I was sitting on the toilet, throwing up into the bathtub. I had to crawl on hands and knees between the bathroom and the bed. I could not keep down any food, and was on FULL STRENGTH, serious, do-not-mess-with-me-anti-biotics.

When I sobbed to the tour’s guide that I just wanted to go home, I was not in traveller mode. I was not embracing the differences between home and Peru. I was bloody pissed off. I was pissed at the water, and the hotel, who could not figure out how to get through to my mother in Australia. I was pissed off that I would miss trekking the Inca Trail. I was pissed off that for three months I had been getting up in the dark mornings, and running hills and steps in training for trekking the Inca Trail. And on top of all this ‘pissiness’, I was feeling sooooo sorry for myself. When I finally got my mum on the phone, I sobbed down the line in broken English, ‘I just want to come h-h-home. I h-h-hate Peru.”

I stayed. I got better. I finished the trip, and despite feeling like a cheat when I got to Machu Picchu – because I had arrived on a bus, not on foot – I was glad that I had not flown back to Sydney. When I was well, I got to feed llamas, and ride through the mountains on a motor cycle. I stood amongst ancient ruins, soaked in natural hot springs, and watched the sunrise over the Amazon Rainforest. I got to be a traveller again.

My other recent experience being a tourist was in Maui and it was, I cringe to say, voluntary.

Ben and I were staying at the Renaissance Wailea Resort, and it was beautiful, particularly the sunsets viewed from the balcony. We had been there nearly a week, and had spent most of our time experiencing as much of the island as possible. We had trekked across lava, and snorkled with the turtles ( I LOVE the turtles). We had driven the Road to Hana, which is only 60 miles, but took us 10 hours each way; we stopped frequently so we could hike, and swim in waterfalls, and get amongst it. Our best meal on that two-day trip was a smoked fish taco from a road-side stall. We were in Hawaii and we were squeezing every joy out of it, including the luxurious touches afforded us at the resort.

On our final full day there, we decided that we would take it easy. We would indulge in something a little ‘touristy’: we would lay by the pool and drink cocktails. We gathered books, hats, and sunscreen, and strolled down to the pool. We grabbed towels and set up our little part of paradise. The sun was hot, the skies were blue and the breeze was gentle. I went for a swim. Ben went for a swim. We dried off, lying on our sun loungers, and then went back and had a swim together. We sipped on ice water and perused the cocktail menu. Ben read, and I took photographs.

We had been there about 45 minutes when Ben turned to me and said, “This is boring. We should at least go to the beach.” ‘Thank god,’ I said, agreeing; it was boring, and definitely not something I could spend a week doing. We packed up our little part of paradise and opted for the beach – about 100 metres away – but even that got old after an hour. “Shall we make a move, Honey?” We spent the rest of the day driving to and from Haleakala Crater, which was incredible and other worldly – a grand mini adventure.

We tried. We tried to do the touristy resort thing, but it just doesn’t suit us. This is not to say that we can’t be still, that we can’t enjoy being in one spot and doing nothing. We can, but it depends on the spot, and it depends on the ‘nothing’.

Reading on a bench overlooking an incredible lakeside sunset in Wanaka, New Zealand – yep, we can do that.

Sharing a hammock for two – yep, that’s us too.

Sitting by a generic resort pool, amongst row after row of sun loungers, and avoiding ‘kid soup’ (the resort pool), not so much.

When I returned from Hawaii, I met up with a friend’s mother who I see on occasion. She, too, had just been to Maui. “Oh, did you see the lava fields?” “No.” “Did you go out on a boat, go snorkling? Swimming?” “No.” “Did you see the volcano? Watch a sunset? Swim in the ocean?” “No, no, no.” She had not left the resort, but she claimed to LOVE Maui. Tourist. Definitely.

p.s. I am not just a snob about coffee.

Giving Back

March 16, 2008March 16, 2008sandybarker

Images of wide-smiled African, Asian and South American children in need, pepper our media so much so that we become immune to them. Even those of us who sponsor a child, or community through charities such as Oxfam Community Aid Abroad, Save the Children and World Vision, can become numb to why we do this. The money comes from our account every month, and once in a while we browse the newsletters sent to us, but it is hard to sustain the level of empathy that made us sign up in the first place.

Well, there is a way to reconnect with that empathy. It is a form of tourism that has been around for a while, but is now experiencing a surge of interest. It is known as ‘Voluntourism’, where travellers can pay an organisation – a charity or tour company – to participate in hands-on charity work. You travel to a developing nation and have the privilege of building a home, or assisting in an agricultural project, or even teaching the local children.

Some people even turn this type of travel into a new life. In 2002 Australian Jane Gavell travelled through Central and South America, including Peru, and then spent eight months in Cusco learning Spanish. In 2003, she started Peru’s Challenge with her partner Selvy, a native Peruvian. Peru’s Challenge runs community-based projects which directly benefit children of Peru. In addition, Jane and her small staff host other like-minded travellers who want to give their time to Peruvian children, and pay to do so, as the charity is completely self-funded.

http://www.peruschallenge.com/

Intrepid Travel has just released promotional material for their M.A.D. (Make a Difference) trips, which span four continents, and range from two to six weeks in duration. The trips are not costly. The accommodation and food are simple. The time is divided between seeing some of the host country and assisting the local communities.

http://www.intrepidtravel.com/challenges

In these and other such trips, you would pay money and then spend a significant chunk of your holiday time helping others.

So, why would someone choose to do this?

I have pondered this question this past week, ever since I received Intrepid’s newsletter, and knew instantly that I want to take one of these trips – either to Africa or South-east Asia. And the answer for me is simple: it is the children.

Now, perhaps strains of ‘I believe the children are our future, teach them well…’ are floating through your mind. And yes, I realise that saying I want to help the children is a little, well, wanky? Naff? Miss America Wanna-be? (I hope those references cover all my readership) But the fact is, when I have travelled to other countries – and particularly developing nations – it is the children who fascinate me, and often reveal something about the place, about the culture.

The country where my encounters with children resonated the most, is Peru.

I was on a organised tour and was struck down with Salmonella. I missed the Inca Trail, and I was devastated, but that is a whole other blog post. Days later, when I could remain upright for a few hours at a time, my guide – and friend – Geraldine, put me on the back of a motor cycle, and rode me across the countryside so we could catch up with the rest of our group at Machu Picchu.

We stopped to take some photos of the magnificent valley, and right there at the side of the road in the middle of ‘nowhere’ were two women, a blanket laid with wares, and a small boy.

The boy, who was 2 or 3, picked up one of the mobiles from the blanket and presented it to me. I did not want to buy it for many reasons, but mostly because we were traveling light and I would have had to carry it. I said hello and greeted him warmly, kneeling down to take a look at what he presented. He smiled at me, a tiny salesman, until I said “No” and shook my head. Then the smile disappeared. He looked at me hard, suddenly a serious little man, then turned away and tottered back to his mother. I wondered how many times a day he did this. He had Winnie the Pooh on his hat, but I doubted that he had many playthings waiting at home.

Another child I encountered with this same ‘old’ look in her eyes, was the daughter of a 15-year old girl on the Floating Islands of Lake Titicaca. She, too, handed me something from her mother’s blanket of hand-crafted goods. When I gently said, “No, Sweetie” and picked up something else that had caught my eye, she hit me with it. I was not deterred, and wanted to get that smile. I cajoled her, making faces at her; her mother tickled her to help me in my quest. Nothing. The same stoic little three-year-old face. I bought something and moved along, but I was intrigued by this little person, with her permanent frown, and I watched as she moved independently around the island.

I had encountered quite a few of these old souls, so it was refreshing and heartening to meet the children at our home-stay on Amantani Island, also on Lake Titicaca.

The people of Amantani speak Quechua, which is an Indian dialect, and some speak a little Spanish. I was on the home-stay with a fellow traveller from Canada and our guide, Geraldine. Geraldine knew no Quechua and Sylvia, our home-stay ‘mama’ knew about as much Spanish as I did (not a whole lot). Our communication over the time we were there consisted of gesturing, pointing, some primitive sign language, and lots of smiles.

Sylvia lived with her parents, her grandparents, her sister and brother-in-law, and her two children, Brian and Jessie. Yes, those were the names of the baby and toddler on this small island in the middle of a giant lake, where no one speaks English and only a smattering of Spanish is known. Brian and Jessie. I asked Geraldine about it, and she said that the home-stays are part of the sustainable tourism program on the island, and that a lot of the small children have ‘western’ names, because the women hear them and like the sounds of them.

Jessie was a delightful two-year-old, who welcomed our gifts of pencils and paper. She laughed constantly, and loved playing peekaboo. She wanted to be tickled, even though she pretended to ‘run away’, which she did in fits of giggles. Brian, about 15 months, had that serious little face I had seen many times before, but when his mother picked him up, his face lit up and a smile erupted.

The home was rustic, with no electricity, no running water, and all the cooking was done in the small ‘kitchen’. This room was separate from the rest of the house, had a low ceiling and a hot fire, and the interior walls were covered in soot. We spent a lot of time in there the evening of our stay, as the temperature outside – and in our room – was very cold. We ate potato stew served over rice with bread on the side. It was delicious, and carried a smoky flavour from the fire on which it was cooked.

Our room had three beds, each covered in layers of blankets, all made on the island. I thought that the four blankets on my bed was a little, um, generous, but later that night when I burrowed underneath them and got toasty warm despite the cold air, I was grateful for the foresight. At dawn, Sylvia brought a large bowl of steaming water for us to use to wash ourselves. I was mindful that she and her mother had been up before dawn to boil the water for us.

As well as the gifts for the children, we were asked to bring gifts of sugar, rice and flour for the family. I would have brought much more, but the families are paid a small stipend for the accommodation through their local government. To bring anymore would be inappropriate, almost an insult, and there was nothing ‘poor’ about these people. The children were happy and clearly loved, the family members were close, and the farms and houses well maintained.

The ‘home-stay’ program is run on a rotating roster governed by one of the island elders. He distributes the home-stays and the fees collected from our tour company – and others – who visit regularly.

We could inject money into the local economy by purchasing the local crafts. And I did. I bought beautiful hand-woven, hand-knitted alpaca scarves, socks, hats and finger puppets. The Christmas of 2006 my family and friends received many Peruvian gifts.

I would have happily stayed on Amantani Island for many more days. I would have tended to the children, or fed the animals, or peeled potatoes for stew. It was a community with harmony at its core, and I wanted to stay longer than our overnight home-stay. The island, that community, those children tapped into something that is vital to a happy life: humility. I have so much, and because of that, it is incumbent upon me to give back. Somehow.

There were tears when we said good-bye to Sylvia. She was a lovely young woman, who went out of her way to spoil us. We hadn’t needed words to communicate that we were happy to be there, and had so enjoyed meeting her young family. Her husband, who was working on another island, must be so proud of them.

I often think of Brian and Jessie, and then of the children who were not so happy, and were doing it much tougher than these two. There are far too many children in the world doing it tough, and children should never have to worry about where their next meal is coming from, or where they will sleep tonight.

This brings me full circle. I do not plan to be a parent, but I am an awesome Aunty. As a school teacher, I am fortunate to be in a position to educate and contribute to the development of children, but at times I just want to do more, give more.

I will head to Africa or to South-east Asia, hopefully this year, and I will give back, because I am fortunate, and because I can.

Tags: ‘Voluntourism’, Peru, Lake Titicaca, children, Intrepid Travel, Peru’s Challenge

Going Home

February 28, 2008March 9, 2008sandybarker

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 60^th 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 60^th birthday.

Happy Birthday Daddy.

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