LA Strikes Again

It’s back.  Again.  That horrible, aching homesickness for LA.  It was self-inflicted, mind you, but I unwittingly exposed myself to the catalyst.  And that catalyst was an innocent solo trip to a movie (I fly solo a lot - I’m my own BFF - long story).  So anyway, the movie was Larry Crowne, starring Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts and it really wasn’t about LA at all - in fact IMDb refers to the setting as “Anytown, USA” - but I know better.  

There were some touching moments in the film, but I didn’t cry in any of those.  But I did cry.  I cried when Larry Crowne (Hanks) is zipping down a street on his scooter with those brown mountains in the background, that smog-filtered sunshine enshrouding everything, those spindly palm trees pushing their bushy heads up to the sky behind the buildings.  I cried about the buildings - ordinary ones.  Those dull, beige, cookie cutter buildings that house cookie cutter businesses like H&R Block, PetSmart, Sally Beauty Supply and the local Chinese place.  

I got a lump in my throat during the diner scenes.  I don’t think I’ve ever been in that particular diner, but I don’t have to to know exactly what it’s like to be in it.  I know how that padded vinyl booth feels when you slide into it - and how it creaks and squeaks under your bum.  I know the feeling of the faux wood-grain laminate table top and the ridged, metal edge trim.  My fingers have the feel of the bumps on the glass sugar dispenser imbedded in their memory, along with the gentle ripple of the water glasses that neatly fit the grip of my hand.  The sign outside simply advertised “Pie” - you never see that here.  “Pies” perhaps - but they will be the meat ones and will never be referred to as simply “pie” - and how I miss pie - a la mode.  No one ever says "a al mode" here either.  

Then there were the diner meals - the perfectly round, perfectly brown pancakes, the French toast, the whipped butter in the little metal dish and the syrup in the little metal jug.  There were those perfect, straight, uniform strips of streaky American bacon, and pork links - sausage.  Never see sausage here.  SausageS, yes.  But not sausage.  And it’s not the same thing (not that I mind an Aussie banger when the mood strikes).

And finally, I got sentimental seeing ivy used as a ground cover in the gardens around the college.  And I got a little misty in the scenes at the end outside Larry’s new apartment which is mission style.  Textured stucco, heavy wood beams, big doors with rustic metal trim, wrought iron balustrades, and terracotta tile floor.

I looked around the theatre, briefly, and considered my fellow patrons.  They laughed in all the right places and seemed to enjoy the movie, but I knew that none of them could possibly enjoy it or be moved by it in the same way I was.  But then, it occurred to me, neither would people in the US - including - or especially -  those in LA.  It would all just look ordinary to them, which I’m sure was the intention of the director (Hanks, also).  Ironically, I kind of feel blessed that I got to enjoy it from my own, private angle.  There’s a strange beauty in an agony that makes you feel something so deeply.

Photo of Burbank taken from my friend's apartment this morning

You can find him on Instagram as experiment818 (Thanks, Sean!)

Beauty in the Mundane

One of the first things I like to do on arrival in the States is go to a grocery store.  I’ve never been fond of grocery shopping, but that’s not what it’s about.  It’s about the differences between a grocery store here and a grocery store there.  Now, to be fair, when I got back to Australia after living in the US, I couldn’t wait to go to a grocery store here, either.  It’s that whole evil curse thing I wrote of in my first blog post.

So for those of you who have never missed being in another country before, I’ll try and explain.

First of all - it’s the smell.  Mind you, when I was pregnant with The Little American, I did my level best not to breathe through my nose whilst at the supermarket, for fear of losing, right there in front of God and everyone, what little lunch I’d managed to hang onto that particular day.  

But still.  The smell.  It’s actually not even that pleasant in various parts of the supermarket - but it’s distinctive - and a reminder that I’m in America.  That I’m not just a tourist, no matter what my stupid visa says.  It’s the smell of a home that is not my home but that my heart - and my olfactory nerves - tells me actually is my home (or one of them).  

It’s familiar.  It speaks of kitchens and meals and families and homes in the sprawl of houses and apartments around whatever supermarket I’m in at the time.  It says that here is America and here are Americans.  They’ve been here the whole time I’ve been on the other side of two oceans pining for America - going about their lives, making their sandwiches, their snacks, their meals.  Having showers, doing hair, dressing babies, maintaining children, and all those other little things that make up our mundane existence.

I grab a cart (or trolley, as we say here), and slowly trawl up and down the aisles with a lump in my throat.  Being in the supermarket tells me I’m really here.  I’m really in America.  I scan the shelves for the familiar labels of products I’ve missed and add a few to my cart as I go.  Typical choices would be:

• Hostess treats - I usually go for Ding Dongs.
• Butterfingers candy bars.
• Welches Grape Jelly.
• Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream (Everything but the... is my favourite).
• Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls.
• American bacon (nothing wrong with ours - it’s just not the same - apples and oranges).
• Pillsbury Grands! Biscuits.
• Post Honey Bunches of Oats Cereal with Strawberries.
• Kool-Aid Pink Lemonade.

I know those aren’t exactly Heart Foundation approved choices - but I’m on a nostalgia trip, remember?  Cut me some slack!

And I’m going to spend an inordinate amount of time marvelling at the Cool Whip cabinet, the ice cream freezer, and the hair products, just to see what’s new.  There’s also going to be unbridled amazement in the makeup and beauty section when I behold the much-cheaper prices for the products I buy back here in Australia.  

At some point I’m going to go to the meat section and look for a nice big pork loin.  And I’m going to stand in silent contemplation and awe for the tiny price compared to what I’d pay for that meat here.  And I’m going to remember how I miss slow-cooking some nice pulled-pork for my family.  I never do it here.  Too expensive.  And somehow just not the same.  

Finally, I’ll meander toward the checkouts with my loot.  It’s not unusual to have been in the store for a good hour or so at that point.  Then there’s the likes of Costco or Sam’s Club - that’s a whole other post, I’m afraid.  And the length of time it takes me to get around those stores increases exponentially with the sizes of the boxes and packaging they proffer, to which my long-suffering friends will attest from my last trip, bless them.

So next time you have to trudge around the supermarket for the necessities, spare a thought for how much I would love to be in your shoes, and look for the beauty.  I promise it’s there.

Of Mountain Lions, Sharks and Golf in Phoenix

I was asked yesterday whether I’d ever been to Arizona, which I have.  I was asked where in Arizona I had been and it led to my conjuring up memories of spending time in both Arizona and New Mexico over the course of my life.

Most recently, I spent a few weeks in Glendale, just outside Phoenix, in the middle of a moisture-sucking hot July (not that there are any other kinds of July in Phoenix).  A friend of my dad’s offered to take John golfing one day.  John figured that since the man was of a certain age, they’d start early, play 9 holes and be home before the relentless sun baked them to a grease spot.  Sure enough, Jerry picked up John at about 7 and off they went.  I sat in our little extended stay apartment with the kids and watched daytime TV for a while.  Took the kids for a swim, then returned to watch some news.  Apparently children on the outskirts of town were being taken from their backyards by mountain lions.  Good grief!  Yet so many Americans have told me that someday  they’d “love to visit Australia” but they didn’t want to “get eaten by sharks, or be bitten by deadly spiders or snakes.”  I pondered the unlikely event of one of my children being taken by a shark from their own backyard.  Spiders are easily controlled with a good dose of bug spray.  I’ve never seen that many snakes - and of those I have seen, at least a third were rattlesnakes - in the US.  Discovery Channel has a lot to answer for where Australian tourism is concerned.

But I digress...

Lunchtime came and went.  I figured they’d stopped for lunch or some refreshment somewhere.  Finally, around mid-afternoon, there  was a feeble fumbling at the door and it fell open to reveal what remained of my husband.  His face was a ghastly shade of purple with disconcerting white patches in the regions of his cheeks.  His eyes were bloodshot and wild.  His hair looked decidedly crispy.  His lips moved but no sound issued forth.  He moved into the apartment far enough to flop onto the couch.  I backed toward the fridge and mechanically prepared a cold drink, rarely stopping to break my gaze of fascination for the sun-baked horror that was John.

When he was sufficiently revived to speak, John recounted a summary of his day.  He said it started out quite bearable.  The sun rose higher and got hotter, and by the time they were about 5 holes in, John was starting to feel like it was getting a bit much;  however, there were only 4 holes to go and they’d be finished playing by lunch time.  John swung and putted his way toward that final 9th hole, finished it, and then watched Jerry happily start trekking toward the 10th.  They were doing the whole 18.  John braced himself and soldiered on.  If the old guy could do it, so could he. Ah, male pride.  So undaunted.  So deadly.

But I have other memories from Arizona - and New Mexico too.  I remember Tucson because we stayed with friends there first when I was a kid and we went out to Old Tucson. That was before the fire. I thought it was an amazing place, with its old West feel, the stagecoach, the gun fights in the street, the cool dark saloon, and the tales of familiar Westerns that had been filmed there.   

I remember going to Tombstone too. My dad was a big cowboy fan from way back when he was a boy watching Westerns at the local cinema in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and my mum was a history buff, so it all really resonated and stuck. It wasn’t just stories on the screen any more.  Wyatt Earp and his brothers, and that whole OK Corral business - real people in a real place.  Amazing!   

The Grand Canyon!  I adore the Grand Canyon. Magnificent, majestic, monumental - adjectives such as these were surely coined for this incredible place.  There's nothing like walking up to the edge and seeing the earth fall away beneath your feet. It just sucks the breath from my body every time. Last time I went it was snowing. So beautiful.

As for New Mexico, we’d  had "adoptive" grandparents just outside Santa Fe when I was a kid. They had an adobe ranch house and Grandpa built those corner Navajo fireplaces for a living. It was a splendid, cool house, with a tiled floor on the edge of a reservation. On the hearth was a huge old smelting pot from a gold mine, with gold still drizzled down the outside. Must have been worth a fortune. At the back of the house was a trading post and the local native people would come and trade jewellery, baskets, paintings and rugs for staples. I spent hours looking at the beautiful things in that store. Outside the store was a huge, old cottonwood. The last time I visited (some years ago) the cottonwood was dying and the shamans from the local pueblo had come and put all kinds of things on the tree and were doing ceremonies to honour the spirit of the tree.  I don’t think I ever looked at any tree quite the same way after that.   As children, my sister and I used to dig around the property there and find arrowheads and old shards of pottery. I still have a small bag of them in my dresser drawer. I always felt that it was kind of magical on that property.  You could feel the heartbeat of an ancient people right under your feet and see it in the undulation of the land and the pueblos baking in the heat.

I recall staying with friends in Albuquerque when I was about 11.  Their backyard was separated from a large empty lot by a high wooden fence.  I remember playing out there one morning and suddenly hearing the strangest, loud hissing noise coming from the other side of the fence.  There were no footholds that would have enabled me to see over the fence, so I just stood there, staring at that fence and hearing that noise, until suddenly, over the top of the fence, I began to see colourful domes begin to edge ever higher.  Turned out I had ringside seats to the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta.   That was a very exciting surprise for a child who had only ever seen hot air balloons on TV!

So many memories of such a fortunate life, really.  Writing about them has really brought that home to me.  Oddly, the further I get into writing this blog, the more guilty I feel about not sharing my experiences of Australia, as if I’m betraying her with my shameless love for another country.  At some point, my wide, brown land is going to need her own blog.  In the meantime, however, I will continue to revel, here, in my love for America.  My America.  

The Little American

I own an American.  

Okay, maybe I don’t own one, but I have one in my home and I gave birth to her.  My youngest was born in OKC and we left the US right after her first birthday.  She doesn’t remember the US, which is a bit sad.  However, we talk about the States all the time in our home, so she’s heard a lot about it.  I have many close friends who are American - in fact, my best friends are American - so they have an influence as well.  The Little American receives packages and notes from many of them, and she’s fond of sending them audio messages and shout-outs on my PingChat! text app on my iPhone.

Anyway...

I feel some responsibility in raising a child who holds a birth certificate from another country.  Somewhere in the treasures I’ve squirreled away is a card from the Governor of Oklahoma welcoming her to the world, and another from George W. and Laura Bush, encouraging her to grow up and make a mark on the nation of her birth.  I know they churn these things out and send them off willy-nilly, but I still take it rather seriously.

So...

Now that The Little American is nearing her 5th birthday and extremely conscious of herself and her identity, and already starting to read and write (she brought me her first sentence the other day - completely off her own bat:  “I DID POO” - yes, I’m so proud), I feel it’s time to get serious about instilling in her some basics about America and what it means to be American.  

She likes me to pray with her each night before she goes to sleep, and she likes me to sing her a song.  Up until recently, it was a lullaby, but as of a few weeks ago, I thought it would be a great opportunity to start teaching her The Star-Spangled Banner.  So to start, I cobbled together, as best I could from the cobwebby corners of my memory, the story behind the American national anthem.  She has a little American flag on the top of the bookshelf in her room - one of those little ones that comes with its own little stand.  It stands proudly next to the teddy with her birth details embroidered on its foot that she received from her aunt when she was born.  

I unfurled the flag and explained about the 50 stars.  About the 13 stripes.  About the Battle of Fort McHenry in Chesapeake Bay.  And about Francis Scott Key’s observation of the battle and  his glimpses of that beautiful flag, and all it meant, every time a rocket lit the night sky over the fort.  I animatedly told The Little American of Key’s pride and relief in finding that “our flag was still there” when the sun arose the next morning.  She was enthralled.  I’m enthralled, too.  Even as a non-American, the history of the United States can bring a tear to my eye.  Amazing spirit, and that proud, righteous rebellion.  The Founding Fathers.  I love it all.

It’s time to educate The Little American about America, her flag, her history, her birth state of Oklahoma - and in the process, re-educate myself, and I’ll admit it - I’m excited!  I’ve already jumped on Amazon.com and ordered some books to help the process along somewhat.  So, arriving within the next few weeks will be:

• The Star-Spangled Banner  by Peter Spier
• Oklahoma:  From Sea to Shining Sea  by Linda Saylor-Marchant
• S is for Sooner: An Oklahoma Alphabet by Devin Scillian, Kandy Radzinski

So I sing her the song, and she listens intently, and bit by bit, she's begun to sing little snatches of it with me.  When I get to the part with "Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, o'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming" her eyes shine and she dramatically points to her little flag on the bookshelf.  Every time.  She gets it!  And I feel, all at once, proud with her - and of her - and for her.  What a heritage!

God bless America.

Welcome to OKC - Sonic Has the Best Ice.

We drove into Oklahoma City in the middle of a hot, sultry July.  The heat was in you, on you and generally all around you unless you were somewhere with killer A/C.  Our family of (then) 4 was solidly packed, with our few belongings, into our well-travelled GMC Safari van.  We’d traversed the US from its northwest corner of Seattle, across Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, and Kansas to finally end our journey in Oklahoma City which we would call home for the next almost-three years.  We had no home (yet) and were booked into the cheapest extended-stay accommodation we could find - My Value Place off the I-44.  My feelings for My Value Place deserve their own post, so I’ll leave that alone for now.

My husband was to be starting school in September and we had to find a cheap house, set it up as best we could on our limited student-visa income, and start our new lives.  Even though we were native English speakers in an English-speaking country, and I had lived in the US before and revisited multiple times, there was still a huge amount of settling in to be done.  And I had seriously underestimated that.

However....

Okies are the friendliest people on the planet (well, of the ones I’ve met so far).

No, seriously.  These people just love everybody, whether they’ve met you or not.  You can be standing in line at Walmart, minding your own business and tuning out the warm conversation of the stranger behind you in line - only to find out that they’re actually talking to YOU.  As if you’re their neighbour.  They often seem genuinely interested in you.  And that’s BEFORE they find out that you’re a foreigner and that you have a cute accent and that you might know Steve Irwin.  Which I don’t.  But there’s no harm in asking, right?  And I’ve been asked.  A lot.

So when they find out that you’re new in town, and that you’ve had the good sense to come to good old Oklahoma (so underrated and amazing - just ask anyone there) - they cannot help you enough with your transition.

“Oh honey!  I’ve always wanted to go to Australia!  You have SUCH a cute accent!  Do you know Steve Irwin?  I just LOVE him!  Now if you need anything just ask.  Where're  you staying?  Okay, so your nearest Walmart Neighborhood Market is going to be about 2 miles away on NW 23rd. Know where that is?  Be sure and visit the National Cowboy Museum.  Bricktown is fun.  And Sonic has the best ice.”

Everybody we met was so helpful and welcoming.  And nearly everybody finished their orientation speech with “And Sonic has the best ice.”  I found this baffling.  I’d never had ice from anywhere recommended to me.  In fact, in Australia, ice from fast-food establishments is eyed with suspicion.  Aussies are sure that ice is a way of cheating us out of a full cup of soft drink, which is possibly true in The Land of Small Cups and No Free Refills. 

However, as we drove around town in that first couple of very hot months, we began to notice that by noon on any given day, outside the Sonic outlets would be a sandwich board reading:  “No ice.  Sold out.”  So eventually, we went and got a drink there to see what the deal was.  I ordered a Route 44 Strawberry Limeade, and....oh....my.....heaven in a cup.  What a delicious, thirst-slaking beverage that is, and I’ll be blowed if that ice - like perfect little mini-meteors - doesn’t make a good thing better.  I got it.  Sonic has the best ice.  It’s true.

Eventually we got our house, got set  up and settled in and before we knew it, we’d weathered our first spring in Tornado Alley and our first year in OKC was up.  New student families began to filter into town over the summer.  I welcomed them, oriented them and made sure they knew that Sonic has the best ice.  Just in case they were wondering.

My LA

It costs a lot of money for me to travel to Cali.  I don't mind - I just wish it were in my power to do it more.  Having said that though, it is all the more precious to me each time I get there.  There are things I love about Cali that are just IN me because I lived there.  There's the silly desperation of seeing footage from an LA freeway in a movie or TV show, where I crane my neck to get a view of the freeway signs and see if I can get a bearing.  There's the odd but endearing familiarity of seeing glimpses of overpasses covered in graffiti and ivy in a way I've only ever seen there.  Those palm trees poking up into the smog and the sunshine.  The familiar signs of motels and restaurants and stores that make themselves seen from the sides of the freeway.  The way-too-many lanes filled with way-too-many cars.  Yep - even that dumb traffic can make me feel nostalgic.  

But I wish I could fully convey to you the feeling I get, after countless hours - well over 25 - in the air over my own vast island-continent home, and then the seemingly endless stretch of the Pacific - to finally get a glimpse of that California coast.  It makes me choke up every time.  It makes me choke up now to type this and see it in my mind's eye.  It's so familiar and so dear and so many years between visits, that it just causes this emotion in me at that moment that only grows as we close in on LA.  It starts as a tickle and grows to a warmth and by the time I touch down, I swear that emotion almost has a smell and a taste about it that nothing else does.  We cross the coast and I look out the window taking it all in.  Those mountains, those brown hills, and LA nestled between them and the sea with its soupy smog layer like a shroud of mystery.  I know smog isn't meant to be a beautiful thing, but when you're as "homesick" as I am, even the smog seems endearing.  

We go into our inevitable holding pattern, circling ever lower and I can see the Hollywood Hills, the smudge of the white Hollywood sign, the blocks of homes and shops and schools.  The tangled grey ribbon of freeways.  The cars - driving, gridlocked, parked in the streets bumper to bumper, parked at the malls, at the beaches.  I see the poor neighbourhoods - everyone too close together, the unkempt yards.  I see the rich ones - large homes set well-back, swimming pools, tennis courts - and I think about the people who live there and how many of them have a hand in the electronic media that bombards us and and defines us right around the world.  We get lower and now I can make out signs and I get a thrill of excitement as I read them - In-n-Out, Del Taco, Conoco, Bank of America, La Quinta, Ralphs - so mundane and every day to you who live there, but such a sight for the sore eyes of one who did and doesn't any more.  I see the familiar sprawl of LAX runways and the iconic retro-spaceship restaurant.  I try not to think about the horrid immigration line I have to stand in - the one where I get treated like an alien when I feel I am not one.   More on that in a moment.

The plane touches down and I get a thrill of exhilaration knowing I'm on US soil, that before much longer I'll be one of the millions who throng this amazing city.  The anonymity amongst the familiar. Precious irony!

We stop at the terminal and I impatiently unclick my seatbelt long before the light goes off.  I feel annoyed at the fellow passengers thwarting my desire for a hasty exit to the terminal and my beloved LA beyond.  I try to maintain my manners as I make a place for myself in the now-crowded aisle and retrieve my carry-on from the overhead lockers and then stand in the confined space trying not to inhale through my nose the assault of the aroma of too many economy class passengers who have stewed in their own juices for the past 20 hours or so from Sydney.  Finally the door is opened and the line of humanity begins to flow out the bottle-neck onto the air bridge.  Air bridge.  Stairs.  More stairs.  A passageway.  Travelator.  Ramp.  Passageway.  Immigration.  I head straight for the bathrooms and relish in the space after the confinement of the ones on the plane that have grown ever grottier on the hours of our journey.  The bathrooms here are huge and basic and old.  But even here I begin to smile at little things that tell me I'm "home" - starting with paper toilet seat covers which are a rarity in Australia.  Damn, I love those things!  I wash my hands for a long time and behold my economy-class ravaged face and hair.  I try to freshen up, brush my teeth, drag a brush through hair traumatised by pressurisation and condensed human breath.  I smile at myself and try not to giggle or cry.  I'm home!

I go back out to the Immigration lines and watch with envy as US residents move to the less-crowded far end of the arrivals hall.  I try to scope out the shortest line for processing "aliens" such as myself.  Immigration and security officers firmly direct people as they see fit.  Last visit I got in line behind a famous Australian foreign correspondent.  He smiles at me.  He's used to being spotted by fellow Aussies I suppose.  I smile back and try not to stare.  

After quite some time I make it to the Immigration desk.  The officers always seem young and bored.  Nice manners, a sense of humour,  and cute accents mean nothing to them.  They've seen it all before and they'll see it all - and plenty else - again.  I can't help but think about how I probably lived in California before they did.  I know all the words to all the American patriotic songs.  I can sing the national anthem and pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. I won a school-wide essay contest in 5th grade with the theme "What America Means to Me."  I possibly know more about American history than they do.  They open my passport and eye my face with suspicion, ask me the usual questions, finally give me that precious stamp and wave me on.  I wait impatiently with the jostling masses of passengers and trolleys for the luggage carousel to bring me my bags.  They finally come, I hoist them onto my trolley and make for the doors.  Customs asks me about declarations.  I tell them about the cookies and candy I've brought for friends.  This usually gets me through faster than not declaring anything and being searched.  

The doors slide open and I push my trolley out into the pickup area. I can see through the glass doors to the smog-filtered sunlight beyond.  The sunlight never quite looks that way anywhere else in the world.  I love it.  Before long I'm zipping along the freeway with whatever friend has collected me, the wheels whistling on the ruts in a way that never seems the same anywhere else.  The palm trees, the freeway signs, the too-many cars in the too-many lanes....it's all here.  It's always been here.  I always imagine that it's glad I'm back.  My LA.

I'm not at all well....

I'm obsessed and I really don't have the desire to recover.  I love the USA.  I'm homesick for somewhere that isn't truly my home.  And when I'm in the US for any extended period of time, I'm homesick for my actual home - Australia.  This would all be very well if I had unlimited flyer miles or pots of money;  however, that's not the case.  Furthermore, I live in Perth - about as far away from the US as you can get without launching yourself into space. 

So I need some therapy to help manage my condition, rather than cure it, and I've decided to jump on the blogging bandwagon.  Why not?