Going home to the place where I belong

Recently my sister Doreen in the USA posted this old photo taken (I think) early in 1974 of some members of our family. She sent it round to her three daughters, two of whom (twins) were in utero at the time!

Brother Paul with Fritz, brother-in-law John holding his daughter
Raina and my daughter Zoe, sister Doreen, and Mum and Dad.

In fact I can clearly remember taking this photo of some of the family I was about to leave forever - or so it seemed 49 years ago. Another sister, Nancy, was no longer living near enough to join us on this day. And my then-husband was on one of his final workdays, prior to our scheduled emigration to Australia. I had little expectation then that family would ever visit me on the other side of the world, as both of my parents and then Doreen later did several times. Or that my mother would spend one of her final years with me not long before she died. I certainly didn't expect I would end up working in jobs that would allow me regular visits 'back home' over many years. Or that Nancy would one day join me in Australia, along with her family. So the day that this photo was taken was a sad one for me, even if I was also looking forward to a new life in Australia.

My brother had driven my daughter and me down to Doreen's little farmhouse in Preston, Connecticut - which she and her husband had bought not long before. One reason I probably remember the day so well is because this was the winter of the great Oil Crisis in the States. Some State Governments had decided to lower the speed limit on freeways and highways to 50mph (80.5km) because that was deemed to be more fuel-efficient than the usual 60mph. I don't think my brother was very happy about that temporary regulation - even though we weren't then travelling in one of the sportscars that he would later keep tucked away in his garage throughout the winters (and I think still does!) 

Zoe at Cheney's Apple Farm1973

I suppose it was a drive of just over an hour from where my parents and brother lived in Massachusetts. By then, I think I would have been staying with my parents as my husband and I were getting ready to leave the country for good. We had spent almost a year living nearby after returning from our first three-year stint in Australia. We'd come 'home' from those firsts few years in Oz with a child and no intention of going back. Fate decided otherwise. And glad am I for that. But that's a story for a different post.

After seeing that family photo this week, one of Doreen's daughters (my niece) sent me this message: "Wow, can't believe you have been in Australia for so long. Crazy." Personally, I can't believe there was ever a time when I wasn't in Australia. That's how strange it seems to me that I ever identified as American. And when I became an Australian citizen at an Australia Day Ceremony, on 26 January 1976, dual USA/Australian citizenship was not allowed. So becoming Australian meant renouncing US citizenship.

Our first home as "new Australians": Glasslough, Epping Forest, Tas.

On 27 January 1976 - the day after the Mayor of Glenorchy, Tasmania, granted my Australian Citizenship Certificate at that ceremony - the Tasmanian Branch of the Australian Department of Immigration sent a letter to the US Embassy in Canberra, informing them I was now an Australian citizen. But it wasn't until two years later that I received a registered letter from the US Consulate in Melbourne, informing me that Section 349(a)(1) of the Immigration and Nationality Act states that "a person who is a national of the United States whether by birth, or naturalization shall lose his nationality by (1) obtaining naturalization in a foreign state upon his own application..." The letter included forms which we were supposed to sign and return. And I'm pretty sure I did so...

...because in May 1978 I received a "Certificate of Loss of Nationality of the United States". Nowadays both the USA and Australia allow dual citizenship. So my daughter has retained both the US citizenship she inherited by birth, and the Australian citizenship she gained when we were naturalised. Did I care about losing US citizenship? Not in the least. Not then or ever since - though I admit it would have been easier to be a US citizen when I later travelled back and forth to spend time with my ageing parents. I very nearly overstayed the three-month visitor's visa on one occasion.

What surprises me most now is that I'm sometimes treated as if I'm still quasi-American. People who don't know me well - but have some knowledge about my background - will often apologise to me after saying something slightly critical about the United States. Yet I'm probably more critical than anyone about certain US policies and practices - about health care, for example. And don't even mention Trump! I can't help feeling very lucky to be Australian - though that doesn't mean I'm not also critical about some of my adopted country's policies and practices. Take the ongoing incarceration of refugees who arrive illegally by boat. Truth is: there is plenty that needs fixing in both countries. 

I just happen to think that ours is in so many ways a better environment in which to live and work. Maybe not for everyone - but for a larger percentage of the national population than is the case in the USA. I'm not sure I thought about that in 1976, when we left the States for good. Our reasons for leaving were entirely personal, not social or political. But we must have had some inkling that we could make a better life here. It's now 53 years since I first came to Australia - and 47 years since Zoe and I became citizens. That's what I celebrate on Australia Day! 

 

 

Early introduction to Planet Aphasia

Ask me what is the most dazzling theatre experience I have ever had and I will answer without a moment's hesitation that it was the 1993 premiere production of L'homme qui... at the fabulously renovated old Paris theatre, Theatre des Bouffes du Nord.

This stunning drama, inspired by Oliver Sacks' The Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Hat, was the work of British director Peter Brook and his renowned troupe of actors, dancers and musicians known as the International Centre for Theatre Research. Brook's multinational company had had a peripatetic existence until the troupe took up residence at this Paris theatre, built in 1876 and renovated in 1974 under the direction of Brook and his partner Micheline Rozan. The theatre, and the unusual way in which it was brought back to life in a way that maintained its aura as a living relic, is worth a story of its own. The Theatre des Bouffes du Nord featured prominently as a location for the classic French thriller, Diva. And if you read French, have a look at the theatre's official website for an overview of its amazing history and restoration.

We arrived early at the theatre that night, as we weren't sure how difficult it would be to find. (We'd been told it was behind the Gare du Nord, one of Paris's larger railway stations.) And we also knew that Brook's policy did not allow numbered or reserved seats. Tickets were all one price; you sat wherever you wanted, or could. It was necessary to arrive early to get a good seat. And so we had at least 15 minutes in which to sit and marvel at the incredible ambiance created by a restoration that had retained as much as possible of the fabric of more than one hundred years of use. Peeling paint on the stage's walls and overhead a giant domed grill of rusted metal contrasted sharply with crisp new seating that appeared as if suspended within the original and untouched perimeter walls.

The play itself, of course, was performed mainly in French. I say 'mainly' because a good deal of what some of Sacks' patients spoke was gibberish, in keeping with their various brain disorders. Allen doesn't speak or understand French. He knew about Sacks' work, as did I, though I don't know if either of us had yet read the book which inspired the production. But not only did Allen feel he understood most of what was going on, we both felt we could almost 'hear' what the afflicted patients were trying to say in their nominally unintelligible ramblings. All of this was due to the magnificence of the acting – there's just no other word that describes it better than 'magnificent'.

At the play's conclusion, the audience sat silent and stunned for what seemed like ages. Then applause and foot-stamping erupted (the built-up seating had a wooden floor, I think). And when the tumult finally died down, many people, like us, remained rooted to their seats. All around I could hear intense conversations in French start up about the play and its contents. It was an electrifying experience – just what good theatre should be, but so rarely is.

Why do I so often now think back to that magical Paris experience? I suppose it's because in some ways I feel I'm now living inside a Sacksian world. How strange it is that the single most inspiring theatrical experience I have ever had should so eerily have prefigured where our lives were destined to end up 20 years later – Allen struggling, mainly in vain, to make himself understood. And his shrinking brain in ever-increasing revolt against his personality and all that he once was, knew and accomplished.

It seems only appropriate to end with a statement about aphasia taken from an April 2 post on Oliver Sacks' blog:

What is aphasia?
Imagine knowing what you want to say, but your brain refuses to let you utter even the simplest word. Or imagine listening to your friends and family and having no idea what their words mean. Sometimes the ability to read or write is affected too.

That, unfortunately, is the world Allen now inhabits – a place a fellow sufferer has called "Planet Aphasia".

Salamanca Market stalwarts

Hobart's Salamanca Market (Tasmania) and Eumundi Markets (Queensland) could probably be credited with the revival of the market culture in Australia.

Both started with fruit and vegetables and some local craft works targeting mainly local or district residents and occasional visitors. But both expanded to become major tourist drawcards, contributing to the revitalisation of their historic precincts in the process.

Salamanca Market recently celebrated its 40th anniversary. For about half that time my sister has been a stall holder there, selling her handmade jewellery. She uses mainly sterling silver, semi-precious stones and freshwater pearls, but in the last few years she has also incorporated some of her original crochet work to make a range of brooches and other accessories featuring fruits and flowers in a kaleidoscope of colours and patterns of her own design.

My sister's can-do partner is the engine supporting the stall's success. Hard-working and always cheerful, he builds, adapts and facilitates all that's needed to to make the operation (and their home, for that matter) run smoothly.

Both are also wonderful salespersons, well informed about all the materials they use in their jewellery and the processes by which these are produced or mined. And most importantly, they really love meeting the people who visit their stall each week. They are always ready for a chat with tourists and make it their business to be a source of useful information about all sorts of island experiences.

Salamanca Market is what market shopping should be like: local artists, artisans, crafts persons and small-scale entrepreneurs making a living doing something they enjoy. Don't miss the market if you ever visit Hobart (http://www.salamanca.com.au/salamanca_market_hours.htm). There are some 300 or so stalls, as well as dozens of small craft shops and boutiques in the neighbouring sandstone warehouses left over from the city's convict-era colonial past.

And be sure to say hello to my sister and her partner in market stall 250.

(Postscript: It's seems more than coincidence that my sister met her partner more than 10 years ago at Eumundi Markets. She was spending a couple of weeks visiting with me and rented a temporary market stall in Eumundi on two consecutive Saturdays. What began as a friendly exchange between neighbouring stallholders has now developed into a lifetime partnership.)

Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens

Nothing too unusual to report here on my fourth day of holiday in Tasmania. So how come I'm exhausted? Well let's see. My sister and I did a tour of secondhand shops earlier today - what we call "op shops". She's an expert on the local scene and I was hoping to pick up some tips on how to find the best deals.

In the end I forced myself to pass up a cashmere and wool Perry Cutten 3/4 overcoat ($10) and a camel hair great coat ($40) because... Well, after all, I live in a semi-tropical climate and rarely get to wear even a wool cardigan.

My sister's three rules for op-shopping: (1) you should love the item (not just like it) and find it near-perfect, (2) you should need the item or at least definitely plan to use or wear ear it and (3) the price should be right. Those coats failed to meet the second criterion and one of them was also one size too big (a failure in the first category).

So it was on to lunch at one of North Hobart's many ethnic eateries. Then we visited the Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens. Established in 1818 and covering 13.5 hectares, the gardens include 6500 species of plants, 400 of which are Tasmanian natives.

As always when I've visited these gardens, I was transfixed. We probably walked several kilometres, admiring the sequoia, Chinese elms, alders and one magnificent white mulberry that covered a space as big as the average house block.

Below I'll share a few photos from the gardens, including one taken underneath the mulberry, though it doesn't do the old tree justice. And I'm working exclusively on my iPhone to take these photos, post them to my blog and then view the results. I won't be able to check the quality until I take time to review everything on computer later. So forgive any less-than-perfect-quality shots.

A Tassie tale

I see I have managed to post from iPhone though I can't manage to place photos anywhere except at the end of each post. So here's the second part of my introduction to my current Tasmanian interlude. I hope you can match the photos to the text.

The entrance to the upstairs unit at my sister's house is via a ramp from ground level to the door, through a green tunnel. On the left is a large Japanese maple, clipped to a make a green wall in summer, but just imagine the riot of colour in autumn. And on the right is one massive clematis vine growing from a patch of garden under the ramp. Its colourful burst would occur in spring.

My sister's house is on a steeply sloping hillside so her garden is a series of terraces. Veggies are planted in sunny strips and spots here and there.

Especially delightful are the plants I remember from my cold-weather gardening days - like fuchsia and roses. And can you see that fat bumblebee on the tall balsam?

The Valley Rattler

Grandson Sam, Granpa A and I spent Easter Sunday riding the Mary Valley Heritage Railway from Gympie to Imbil and back, on a beautiful steam train known as the Valley Rattler.

The heritage railway has operated this colourful old steam locomotive pulling half a dozen authentic carriages as a delightful tourism initiative since 1998. The train takes up to 480 passengers per trip on a return journey from the old Gympie Railway Station (Queensland) to the inland town of Imbil several times a week. The outbound trip takes two hours and then there's a two-hour layover at Imbil. Here passengers can lunch at one of several cafes or pubs. Or by arrangement, the railway will provide box lunches that are collected on arrival at Imbil. Some people on our train brought picnics and there was plenty of space for casual dining around the Imbil station grounds.

Imbil was positively bustling. A small market offering local produce and other market-type attractions is set up along the historic main street, which still contains many of the original old buildings now turned into modest cafes and shops. After lunch and some shopping, passengers re-board for the return trip and another two hours of very pleasant sightseeing.

The train travels through picturesque bush and farming country in the iconic Mary River valley, crossing the Mary and several other rivers and creeks on the way. We stopped once on the outbound trip – at Kandanga – and once on the return trip – at Dagun – where we were able to sample and buy various local wares and refreshments in mini-markets set up specially for our benefit in and around the original station buildings in each place. A wine and cheese tasting was the highlight of the Dagun stop on the way back.

From the moment of boarding at 9.45 am until our return to Gympie at 4 pm, Sam had a great time, and so did we. Our beautifully wood-panelled car (Car 'C' No. 1038) was built in 1923 at Ipswich. It was originally a 1st class car that had been converted to 2nd class in 1984. Even though we hadn't paid top dollar for a seat in a 'club car' (the cost for the three of us was just over $100 plus lunch), it seemed to me as I walked through the other cars in the course of embarking and disembarking at various stations that ours had the most sumptuous and comfortable seats on the train. Maybe that was because we booked well in advance. (The train was just about sold out, I believe, and advance booking is a must.) We shared our little cabin with another threesome who were great company. And the long, well-sprung upholstered bench-type seats on both sides of the cabin could easily have accommodated another person each, so the six of us had plenty of space to spread out.

Some of the platforms presented a challenge to A, as there were no modern facilities such as ramps or lifts. Instead, sets of metal stairs without handrails were lifted into position at each stop. But there were always offers of assistance from staff and other passengers. Even so, Allen chose to sit out the last stop with one of his puzzles, while I ferried him samples of the wine and cheese on offer. It had been a long day, after all.

What the train lacked in modern amenities (I will spare you a description of the loo facilities) was more than outweighed by the very friendly and helpful staff, all of whom were in period costume and used equipment and tickets faithful to the early days of train travel in Queensland. I'm not sure but I think some of the staff are volunteers, too. And a few were what is sometimes referred to as 'disabled', but that label certainly isn't appropriate to describe the standard of their very capable service. So it wasn't only the facilities that were 'old-fashioned'; the service was the same – old-fashioned in the best possible sense. 

Mysterious Xieng Khouang

Watch this space for more stories about living, working and travelling in Laos.

A balcony garden in Vientiane

I sat down today to start work on some entries about our years in Laos. I thought I would first scroll through some of my hundreds of photos, to see what visual material I might want to share with you. But the first photos I came across were these, of our little balcony garden in our Vientiane apartment. It seems I can't get away from plants and gardens, even when living in a 6th-floor apartment with just a couple of little balconies as my share of the South-East Asian outdoors. The 'nursery' in Vientiane where I bought most of my plants was a wonderful street of open-air plant stalls, most specialising in one or two varieties and all staffed by helpful and knowledgeable growers.

Getting information from these stallkeepers (mostly older women) was sometimes problematic unless they spoke a bit of English or French to complement my basic Lao (which didn't extend much beyond 'How much is that?', 'Very beautiful' and a reasonable fluency in numbers going up into the thousands – at that time, the US dollar was equivalent to about 10,000 of the local 'kip', so fluency in the thousands was essential). The service was wonderful, of course, as it was in most commercial venues and markets we visited on our weekend shopping excursions. Merchants had in-depth knowledge of their products, and nothing was too difficult. In the case of pot plants, for example, if you selected a plant and then a decorative pot – or even if you brought along your own pot, purchased elsewhere – the stallkeeper was only too happy to dart around the back and repot the plant for you. No charge for potting soil, of course –  not that such a thing actually existed. No self-respecting Lao gardener would dream of paying anyone for dirt! But the rich soils of this city on the banks of the Mekong, replenished annually by all that wonderful stuff flooding down from the upcountry mountains, needed very little help from chemicals. Besides, our cleaning woman liked nothing better than to potter around on the balcony all morning. We and a dapper elderly Japanese man two floors down were the only residents in this building full of 'falang' (foreigners) who bothered to grow anything. It made for a polite bow of recognition whenever we would meet that gentleman in the lift, but our cleaning woman was determined we would not be shown up.

When we settled in for our two-year job in Laos, we had tossed up the pros and cons of apartment living vs renting a house somewhere in the suburbs. But since I was working a good 10 or more hours a day, and travelling often to remote districts to monitor project activities, we opted for as simple a daily lifestyle as possible when in town. Probably just as well, or I'm sure I'd have spent too many hours I could ill afford tending a lush garden such as those maintained by the families of our Lao friends.Will I ever again grow a lotus as lovely as this one? Bo pin yang (i.e. 'never mind'). The memory of it will always be with me.