Home and away

I realized this morning that I have lived just a touch more of my adult life outside of Sydney than in it (assuming I was an adult at 18, which is debatable).

Other than our hometown, Graham and I have lived in Old Bar (Mid-North Coast, NSW), Perth (WA), Cambewarra (South Coast, NSW) and Dubai (UAE). In Sydney, we lived in four different homes, and spent most of our childhoods there, which means we have a fair breadth of diversity even within Sydney.

Most of the years that I have lived outside of Sydney I have not missed it for a second. That’s the city itself, of course. I have missed my loved ones who (inexplicably) continue to inhabit it. But I have not really missed Sydney town, per se. 

Yes, it has excellent coffee, but so do Perth and the South Coast. Yes, it has beautiful beaches, but so does the rest of the country. Yes, it has great shopping, but so does Dubai.

And in none of those places does it take 60 minutes to travel 10 kilometres at peak hour.

There doesn’t seem to be anything else in the world that makes my otherwise rather low blood pressure reach steam-out-the-ears point other than a Sydney traffic jam. That’s because the narrow, meandering roads were built for horses and carts in the mid-1800s and all the red tape in the state keeps them that way.

And the Spit Bridge is just too stupid to talk about.

But, until this year, I have always lived at visiting distance from Sydney, and maybe I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed reconnecting with special little bits of it from time to time. 

Now that I can’t, I know what they are. Here are three:

The harbour

Well, that’s obvious. For those who haven’t been there, it looks like this.

Now that's a harbour.

Every city should have one. Stunning, hurt the eyes, gob-smackingly beautiful. When I lived in Manly and travelled to work on the ferry, it was a daily blessing to suck in that salty air and enjoy one of the prettiest commutes in the world. I miss the slap of waves on creaky, old jetties, the cold, sandstone walls that line the harbour and even those pesky seagulls, noble rats of the air.

The parks

Makes you want to climb it, don't it?

I’m talking about the old parks, cunningly crafted into quirks of geography around waterways, or spread out majestically on prime land that in other cities would be full of highrise apartments. (As is often the case, the things we love about Sydney contribute to its dark side – if all the parks were full of buildings and modern roads, there’d be no traffic jams and a zero off the end of house prices. Oh well.) 

It’s the trees, particularly, that I miss. Oh my goodness, the trees. Those enormous, eminently climbable Morton Bay figs in the Botanical Gardens, which could house a family of tree-dwelling hippies with ease. And those stately, old-fashioned rows of date palms in Centennial Park. As a child, I thought date and canary island palms were Australian natives, they were such a feature of old parks and gardens in established suburbs of Sydney. Now that I live in the Middle East, I still get the occasional pang when one of them reminds me of home.

The magpies

This one is a little more personal, and very specific. No, I don’t miss the way the magpies swooped my head in spring. What I miss is the sound of magpies in the afternoon, particularly a late autumn afternoon. Maybe it’s rained, there’s a chill in the air. It’s that tender time of evening when the bruise of darkness is just beginning to bloom over the sky. The air smells of camellias and the damp crush of liquidambar leaves underfoot. I don’t know what they’re doing – calling each other home to bed? – but the magpies sing this warbling, ecstatic song for half an hour or so that is better than Mozart. Wherever else I’ve lived in Australia, it is not the same. It’s a very Sydney moment. 

Sob!

What do you love about your hometown?

The new normal

My lovely friend Becky Beach introduced me to a new phrase early on in my time in Dubai – ‘the new normal’. It’s so relevant here because it’s amazing how things that are so freakin’ weird can quickly become flat out unremarkable.

Here are a few.

Ugly is the new normal

I come from a land of rolling green hills, crystal blue waters, sweeping plains, far horizons, yadda, yadda. I never failed to draw in my breath with delight as I drove home over Good Dog Creek, past Cambewarra Mountain, whether fog was seeping over the ridge or the golden rays of the setting sun were gilding the peaks.

Now I drive home past this.

But what’s weird is that I hardly notice it now. In fact, I find myself thinking, oh, those high voltage power lines look kind of beautiful in the twilight.

Servants are the new normal

At first I found being called ma’am multiple times a day disconcerting, to say the least. I found the swarms of gardeners, maids, shop assistants, labourers and cleaners both disturbing and overwhelming (because you should never have one person do a job that can be done by ten). I found the fact that anything I wanted made, delivered or serviced could be done, on the double, very surprising.

Now, a line of gardeners cycling down the freeway, each pulling a lawn mower behind them – ho hum. A man offering to put my groceries in my car – but of course. Coming back to a freshly washed car in the mall carpark – yawn.

Hot is the new normal

If it’s under 50, you can still actually breathe outside. If it’s under 40, you can walk, run or play outside. If it’s under 30, you need a cardigan. If it’s under 20, you must be out of the country.

When I open my wardrobe, a wave of heat rolls out because the air conditioning can’t get inside. I have become used to putting on clothes that feel like they have been on a slightly warm towel rack.

Automatic is the new normal

I have nearly walked into glass doors that don’t slide open for me. What? I have to push them? A broken escalator stops me dead in my tracks. I have used toilets that flush automatically, soap that dispenses automatically and taps that turn on automatically. Just stand there, it’s all automatic. And if it’s not, there’ll be an assistant to do it for you.

Crazy driving is the new normal

You could call it ‘cultural differences”, you could call it bad manners, or you could call it sociopathy. Whatever you call it, it certainly gets the blood pumping. Just in case you missed it on my Facebook, here is a picture of a kid travelling in his sunroof.

As you do.

And my kids are so attuned to this normal environment that they chant (before I even get a chance) “Your parents don’t love you” when they see toddlers roaming seatbelt-free at 100 kms an hour.

Aah, I could go on for hours. I think we’ll revisit this topic sometimes soon. The possibilities are endless.

What is normal for you that would have shocked you a few years ago?

The amazing lizard lady

Me at my mirror in the morning.

I have long thought that I have a little reptile in me. Not that I lay eggs or eat insects, but there are other, more subtle, signs. Such as the need to go and sun myself after sitting in the frigid conditions of air-conditioned offices (yes, that’s you, South Coast Register). And a preference for hibernation during cold weather.

But the lizard-like characteristic that has come most to the fore in these days of ‘late youth’ (ahem) is that I now have scales rather than skin.

I can no longer apply foundation or powder to my face without moisturising like a bandit for half an hour beforehand. Otherwise the scales show. And I’m not talking a little light Oil of Olay daily moisturising fluid. I’m talking night repair cream. In the morning.

I now not only constantly rub paw-paw ointment into my lips. I have to run it across my hairline because it’s always peeling. (Yes, Mum, I know, I should wear a hat. But I can’t wear a hat, because it scrapes against my poor hairline. And so it goes.)

The backs of my hands are so dry I actually shed skin there like a snake, and my feet – well, it would be in poor taste to describe them. Let’s just say that hot footpaths don’t bother me overmuch.

I also have this rash that comes and goes (can you tell me what it means?) on my décolletage (love that word), and when it comes it makes me look like a freshly plucked pterodactyl*.

And I know reptiles don’t have hair, but if they did it would be like mine. You could scrub pots with it.

I can’t blame the fact that I live in a desert for all of this either. The scales were growing before I left my bit of Australia, which was so wet you could get foot rot from going without gumboots.

Instead, I blame the fact that I had oily skin in my youth and so developed an aversion to icky moisturiser that I didn’t overcome until my late thirties. Too late!

But I’m trying to see the bright side. Snakeskin clothing is in fashion, so I’d better get me some of that. And I guess I can claim to be wearing very expensive gloves made from the tender bellies of baby crocodiles, which would be a very ridiculous and Dubai-ish thing to do. Ditto shoes.

Finally, I am prepared to offer my skin (post-mortem, preferably) to makers of handbags. I think I would look quite stylish.

Is there something you are starting to resemble as you reach ‘late youth’?

* Yes, I know pterodactyls didn’t have feathers. Just messing with ya.