Here we are on the beach at Byron Bay....
And there was a storm rolling in from up near Brisbane...
This is a crumpet. Again, for reals. They are delicious.
Here are our yummy tapas at The Balcony....
And some yummy risotto at St. Elmo's...
Monday, June 1, 2009
Family Tree
Tonight I convinced Suzanne and Jeff to rustle up a heap of family photos, etc… for my viewing pleasure. I’m a nerd for family trees, oral histories, photo albums and the like, and, hoping to one day have children of our own, I’d like to have lots of photos and family history to pass on to them, as my mother and grandmothers did for my brother and I.
The little I already knew of Ben’s family history was rich: His Dad is Jewish-Australian, at least fifth generation, and Safardic Jews (for my WASP-y friends that means that his family were once Spanish Jews, prior to the Inquisition. I’m sure it means a lot more but I’m just figuring it out.) Ben’s mother was born in Poona, India, to an English man and a northern Irish woman, and just showed me pictures of her Ayah. For reals. That is some Secret Garden shiz right there, folks. (If you get that reference we are totally destined to be friends.)
What I learned tonight is that Ben’s father’s MATERNAL lineage is Safardic, but his father’s PATERNAL heritage is descended from Russia, just five generations ago, making Ben’s Jewish heritage both Safardic and Ashkenazi. Cool, huh? (His paternal grandfather also looks eerily like Brad Garrett, from Everybody Loves Raymond, just FYI.) After the Second World War, in response to the anti-semitism in Australia, Ben’s family changed their name from Goldberg to Gerrard. Jeff, Ben’s dad, and Jason, his cousin, have both considered changing it back at some point in their adult lives. Also, it turns out that Ben’s great-grandmother was from New Zealand, and that her daughter, while raised in Australia, was also born in New Zealand, so Ben’s part Kiwi, too.
Like so many Americans, my family history is rich and varied, too. My maternal grandfather was the Kansas Farmer of the Year, and someone in my family has served in every major American war up to the Gulf War in the early 90s, but we’re also horse thieves and moonshine runners. My maternal grandmother’s family has Quaker lineage from “the first ship to arrive AFTER the Mayflower”, while my paternal grandfather’s parents were born to Swedish immigrants. I have British, Swedish, Dutch and French ancestry, in that order as far as I know, and that’s just what we know about.
And I love that, in America, this is not exceptional, and that this is most of us. Isn’t that wonderful?
Should Ben and I be fortunate enough to have children, I just love thinking about how rich their heritage will be. I’m not sure where we’ll be raising them, but someday, someone will ask them about their family, and what an answer that will be: “My parents met in a bar in Scotland. Mom’s an American, from Kansas (well, she has a Kansas heart, but a Georgia belly.) Dad’s Australian, but was born in Boston while my grandfather was doing his psychiatric residency. My Aunt? She was born in Canada. My other Aunt? Her parents are German, and met in Prague on a weekend trip. My Mom was raised Methodist and thought about being a minister, but now she goes to meetings with The Society of Friends. Dad does Zen meditation, and goes to church when Mom makes him, but he’s Jewish, too.”
If life is just a collection of stories, our kids will have great ones to start with.
The little I already knew of Ben’s family history was rich: His Dad is Jewish-Australian, at least fifth generation, and Safardic Jews (for my WASP-y friends that means that his family were once Spanish Jews, prior to the Inquisition. I’m sure it means a lot more but I’m just figuring it out.) Ben’s mother was born in Poona, India, to an English man and a northern Irish woman, and just showed me pictures of her Ayah. For reals. That is some Secret Garden shiz right there, folks. (If you get that reference we are totally destined to be friends.)
What I learned tonight is that Ben’s father’s MATERNAL lineage is Safardic, but his father’s PATERNAL heritage is descended from Russia, just five generations ago, making Ben’s Jewish heritage both Safardic and Ashkenazi. Cool, huh? (His paternal grandfather also looks eerily like Brad Garrett, from Everybody Loves Raymond, just FYI.) After the Second World War, in response to the anti-semitism in Australia, Ben’s family changed their name from Goldberg to Gerrard. Jeff, Ben’s dad, and Jason, his cousin, have both considered changing it back at some point in their adult lives. Also, it turns out that Ben’s great-grandmother was from New Zealand, and that her daughter, while raised in Australia, was also born in New Zealand, so Ben’s part Kiwi, too.
Like so many Americans, my family history is rich and varied, too. My maternal grandfather was the Kansas Farmer of the Year, and someone in my family has served in every major American war up to the Gulf War in the early 90s, but we’re also horse thieves and moonshine runners. My maternal grandmother’s family has Quaker lineage from “the first ship to arrive AFTER the Mayflower”, while my paternal grandfather’s parents were born to Swedish immigrants. I have British, Swedish, Dutch and French ancestry, in that order as far as I know, and that’s just what we know about.
And I love that, in America, this is not exceptional, and that this is most of us. Isn’t that wonderful?
Should Ben and I be fortunate enough to have children, I just love thinking about how rich their heritage will be. I’m not sure where we’ll be raising them, but someday, someone will ask them about their family, and what an answer that will be: “My parents met in a bar in Scotland. Mom’s an American, from Kansas (well, she has a Kansas heart, but a Georgia belly.) Dad’s Australian, but was born in Boston while my grandfather was doing his psychiatric residency. My Aunt? She was born in Canada. My other Aunt? Her parents are German, and met in Prague on a weekend trip. My Mom was raised Methodist and thought about being a minister, but now she goes to meetings with The Society of Friends. Dad does Zen meditation, and goes to church when Mom makes him, but he’s Jewish, too.”
If life is just a collection of stories, our kids will have great ones to start with.
Chicken Chicken No More
Hello from the Adelaide Hills, and, officially, Highland Valley Farm/Sanctuary. Ben and I arrived at his folks’ place last night to lots of changes in the three years since we’ve last visited. Gone since our last visit are the frill-necked lizards and green tree frogs in the house—they’ve gone on to meet their maker. Suzanne (my mother-in-law) has also cut down a bit on her python repopulating and has just a few hatching along with a small goanna-hatching scheme. There are no joeys at present to carry around in a pouch, and I miss that, but the grown kangaroos do visit the farm during the day. There is some beautiful stained glass at the entrance to the kitchen, an impressive new vegetable garden, a heap of attractive chickens (more on that later), a cage of sugar gliders, two cockatoos, a Corrella (sp) and a Galla (sp), a giant marine fish tank in Ben’s old bedroom where we are staying, a fully solar-paneled roof, a new Prius for Ben to test-drive, and three cats, including Raquel’s visiting cat, E.T., in the house, so don’t fear that the menagerie is defunct.
Ben and I are about to head into Strathalbyn, the little village about fifteen miles from his parents house, to pick up dinner and do a bit of grocery shopping (and, with any luck, we’ll be finding a wireless internet shop to post this there.)
It’s cold in the house, but a pleasing sort of cold; those of you who know me well know that I never miss the hot summer weather in Kansas. They heat the place in the winter with an old wood stove in the kitchen and a fire in the living room and nothing more; brave, given that it can get quite cold here at night in the winter. Jeff and Suzanne did break down this summer (the summers here sound painfully hot), after twenty-five years in the country without it, and bought a small air conditioning unit for their bedroom. It’s a bit cold to swim, but Ben is hoping for a day or two of warmer weather for us to head to the coast for a while this week.
Suzanne has the run down on all the local farmers markets, so I’m excited to hit those, as well as a restaurant called Locavore that does, as the name suggests, all local meals. I have a bit of real work to do this week, as I prepare for the summer courses, but plan to spend most of my time wandering around outside, getting stuck in to some good books, and enjoying a part of the world that I’d never imagined I’d even visit, let alone for the third time.
Just in case you’re not convinced that this is a working farm, last night, over yummy homemade pesto, (Suzanne is kindly making Ben and I some of our favorite dishes), two fellas knocked on the door to let Jeff and Suzanne know that they would be out shooting rabbits for hire. Ben plans to do a bit of that this week. This morning as I was eating my morning muesli, Jeff was butchering the rabbits behind me.
One particular victory this first day on the farm: I took a short walk and came up to the house faced with a line of chickens. The rooster, in particular, was really eyeing me, and had been trying to corner me all morning. He’s also eyeing Ben as competition for his lady hens. Well, you’d be proud to know that I marched on through those chickens, head held high, filled with the confidence that comes from facing one’s mortal enemy, eye to eye.
We’ll see how the rest of the week goes.
One thing that I’ve already been reminded of is how generous Ben is to live in Kansas with my family and I. I know he misses his family and friends, and then there is the beautiful place to miss, too. I’m so grateful.
Also, I love tea. Why does the tea taste better here, though? Suzanne just told me that it is because it is made with rain water.
By the end of the week maybe I’ll be butchering rabbits. Not….
Love,
Robyn and Ben
Ben and I are about to head into Strathalbyn, the little village about fifteen miles from his parents house, to pick up dinner and do a bit of grocery shopping (and, with any luck, we’ll be finding a wireless internet shop to post this there.)
It’s cold in the house, but a pleasing sort of cold; those of you who know me well know that I never miss the hot summer weather in Kansas. They heat the place in the winter with an old wood stove in the kitchen and a fire in the living room and nothing more; brave, given that it can get quite cold here at night in the winter. Jeff and Suzanne did break down this summer (the summers here sound painfully hot), after twenty-five years in the country without it, and bought a small air conditioning unit for their bedroom. It’s a bit cold to swim, but Ben is hoping for a day or two of warmer weather for us to head to the coast for a while this week.
Suzanne has the run down on all the local farmers markets, so I’m excited to hit those, as well as a restaurant called Locavore that does, as the name suggests, all local meals. I have a bit of real work to do this week, as I prepare for the summer courses, but plan to spend most of my time wandering around outside, getting stuck in to some good books, and enjoying a part of the world that I’d never imagined I’d even visit, let alone for the third time.
Just in case you’re not convinced that this is a working farm, last night, over yummy homemade pesto, (Suzanne is kindly making Ben and I some of our favorite dishes), two fellas knocked on the door to let Jeff and Suzanne know that they would be out shooting rabbits for hire. Ben plans to do a bit of that this week. This morning as I was eating my morning muesli, Jeff was butchering the rabbits behind me.
One particular victory this first day on the farm: I took a short walk and came up to the house faced with a line of chickens. The rooster, in particular, was really eyeing me, and had been trying to corner me all morning. He’s also eyeing Ben as competition for his lady hens. Well, you’d be proud to know that I marched on through those chickens, head held high, filled with the confidence that comes from facing one’s mortal enemy, eye to eye.
We’ll see how the rest of the week goes.
One thing that I’ve already been reminded of is how generous Ben is to live in Kansas with my family and I. I know he misses his family and friends, and then there is the beautiful place to miss, too. I’m so grateful.
Also, I love tea. Why does the tea taste better here, though? Suzanne just told me that it is because it is made with rain water.
By the end of the week maybe I’ll be butchering rabbits. Not….
Love,
Robyn and Ben
Friday, May 29, 2009
Leaving Byron
Several years ago my best friend bought me a collection of Calvin and Hobbs cartoons, collectively titled “The Days are Just Packed” to make one chuckle at the perception of a six-year-old that he is busy. Ben and I have gone the Calvin route these last couple of days and have nothing to show for it, which is just how it should be.
We fought the good fight on the jet lag and managed to stay up until 8 p.m. local time that first day—had cheese and crackers in bed and slept for a good twelve hours. We’ve kept that sleep pattern for nearly our whole stay—in fact, it’s seven-thirty now and we’re both in bed, yawning, and ready for sleep. This is good for my constitution: Those of you who know me well know I’m a sleeper, who does best on about nine hours of sleep a night. Yesterday, in fact, I even caught a mid-morning nap, and it was glorious.
On Wednesday, (was it Wednesday?) we had a long-lunch and a read back at our “local” and spent the afternoon taking pictures and lounging about the place. We took a drive around Byron Bay proper and grabbed some to-go sushi from a local sushi-train; the waiter was really nice, an Israeli fellow, and started a conversation WITH ME which is always a relief for Ben. I love to talk, and I love to meet new people, and I think sometimes Ben wishes we could just disappear into a place, incognito-style.
Yesterday afternoon I booked a massage for Ben and I and we both thought our massages were quite good—Ben’s back has been hurting him since the flight, and it doesn’t take an excuse that good for me to book a massage for us, anymore. It’s funny—I didn’t have my first massage until graduate school, and then it was a huge indulgence, and guilt producing as a result. Every massage since has come at Ben’s patient urging, and, afterwards, I always say, “we shouldn’t wait so long to do this again.” I always forget. Let this post be a reminder—massages are worth every penny. It took my puritan heart awhile to be comfortable with the whole “nude in front of strangers” bit of it, but I think I’m over that now. I just remind myself that masseurs, like doctors, have seen it all, and my ass won’t be the ass that makes them lose all faith in humanity. Probably.
In my post-massage bliss I took myself down to the estuary with a Bundaberg ginger beer. I noted a rustling in the trees above me and worked up the courage to look up: There were, I’m not kidding, at least SEVEN FULL SIZE TURKEYS (I didn’t think they could fly) in the tree above me. I know, I know: Imagine that, Robyn, birds at an estuary! but it was terrifying. I forced myself to stay put for about ten minutes because I wasn’t going to be bested by turkeys, but, as they got more and more active, my fear got the better of me. Seriously. Turkeys in Australia. In the trees.
Last night we ate at a local place recommended by a friend of Ben’s, The Balcony, which is a second-story restaurant, decked out in a Moroccan theme, where you can dine al fresco. Great ambience and tapas, mediocre paella, but I am a paella snob. We had a night walk on the beach (it’s winter here, so the sun is going down about five o’clock) and I, sadly, found myself tipsy on a single glass of wine.
Today was just as lazy—breakfast around the casa, and a brief clean up (I can only handle the chaos of travel in my hotel room for a couple of days.) Ben and I spent the afternoon in town, shopping a bit and hitting the post office (celebrating 200 years, congratulations Aussie post) and then took a long walk on the main beach. It occurred to me this afternoon that, here we are a the Easternmost point of Australia, near the “bottom” of the Pacific, and just 18 months ago we were honeymooning at the Western-most point of Canada, near the “top” of the Pacific. When we were there I’d asked someone what I would hit first were I to hop on a boat and head straight west and they said Japan. I love how small travel makes the world seem. My folks are in Seattle tonight, preparing to head out to sea on an Alaskan cruise, and I’m so excited for them. This week alone the Longs are bookending the Pacific.
This is our second trip to Byron, and, on our last, we’d only spent a day, foregoing New South Wales for a week-long trip through northern Queensland. When we were last here, we said, “one day is not enough—we have to come back” and I feel so grateful that we’ve been able to. I’ll say goodbye to my little estuary in the morning, and will miss the SOUND of the birds and the tropical feel of the place, and, tonight, over a yummy dinner at a new restaurant called St. Elmo’s in Byron Bay, Ben and I agreed that “five days is not enough.”
It’s just started to rain, our first of the trip, and perfectly timed. We saw the clouds rolling in over the ocean this afternoon.
Signing off from Byron Bay,
Love,
Robyn and Ben
We fought the good fight on the jet lag and managed to stay up until 8 p.m. local time that first day—had cheese and crackers in bed and slept for a good twelve hours. We’ve kept that sleep pattern for nearly our whole stay—in fact, it’s seven-thirty now and we’re both in bed, yawning, and ready for sleep. This is good for my constitution: Those of you who know me well know I’m a sleeper, who does best on about nine hours of sleep a night. Yesterday, in fact, I even caught a mid-morning nap, and it was glorious.
On Wednesday, (was it Wednesday?) we had a long-lunch and a read back at our “local” and spent the afternoon taking pictures and lounging about the place. We took a drive around Byron Bay proper and grabbed some to-go sushi from a local sushi-train; the waiter was really nice, an Israeli fellow, and started a conversation WITH ME which is always a relief for Ben. I love to talk, and I love to meet new people, and I think sometimes Ben wishes we could just disappear into a place, incognito-style.
Yesterday afternoon I booked a massage for Ben and I and we both thought our massages were quite good—Ben’s back has been hurting him since the flight, and it doesn’t take an excuse that good for me to book a massage for us, anymore. It’s funny—I didn’t have my first massage until graduate school, and then it was a huge indulgence, and guilt producing as a result. Every massage since has come at Ben’s patient urging, and, afterwards, I always say, “we shouldn’t wait so long to do this again.” I always forget. Let this post be a reminder—massages are worth every penny. It took my puritan heart awhile to be comfortable with the whole “nude in front of strangers” bit of it, but I think I’m over that now. I just remind myself that masseurs, like doctors, have seen it all, and my ass won’t be the ass that makes them lose all faith in humanity. Probably.
In my post-massage bliss I took myself down to the estuary with a Bundaberg ginger beer. I noted a rustling in the trees above me and worked up the courage to look up: There were, I’m not kidding, at least SEVEN FULL SIZE TURKEYS (I didn’t think they could fly) in the tree above me. I know, I know: Imagine that, Robyn, birds at an estuary! but it was terrifying. I forced myself to stay put for about ten minutes because I wasn’t going to be bested by turkeys, but, as they got more and more active, my fear got the better of me. Seriously. Turkeys in Australia. In the trees.
Last night we ate at a local place recommended by a friend of Ben’s, The Balcony, which is a second-story restaurant, decked out in a Moroccan theme, where you can dine al fresco. Great ambience and tapas, mediocre paella, but I am a paella snob. We had a night walk on the beach (it’s winter here, so the sun is going down about five o’clock) and I, sadly, found myself tipsy on a single glass of wine.
Today was just as lazy—breakfast around the casa, and a brief clean up (I can only handle the chaos of travel in my hotel room for a couple of days.) Ben and I spent the afternoon in town, shopping a bit and hitting the post office (celebrating 200 years, congratulations Aussie post) and then took a long walk on the main beach. It occurred to me this afternoon that, here we are a the Easternmost point of Australia, near the “bottom” of the Pacific, and just 18 months ago we were honeymooning at the Western-most point of Canada, near the “top” of the Pacific. When we were there I’d asked someone what I would hit first were I to hop on a boat and head straight west and they said Japan. I love how small travel makes the world seem. My folks are in Seattle tonight, preparing to head out to sea on an Alaskan cruise, and I’m so excited for them. This week alone the Longs are bookending the Pacific.
This is our second trip to Byron, and, on our last, we’d only spent a day, foregoing New South Wales for a week-long trip through northern Queensland. When we were last here, we said, “one day is not enough—we have to come back” and I feel so grateful that we’ve been able to. I’ll say goodbye to my little estuary in the morning, and will miss the SOUND of the birds and the tropical feel of the place, and, tonight, over a yummy dinner at a new restaurant called St. Elmo’s in Byron Bay, Ben and I agreed that “five days is not enough.”
It’s just started to rain, our first of the trip, and perfectly timed. We saw the clouds rolling in over the ocean this afternoon.
Signing off from Byron Bay,
Love,
Robyn and Ben
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Lame Joke
This is our rental car for this first chunk of our trip. It's the economy model. Ben prefers to rent something a) faster and b) hotter, but I often work to convince him to spend our dough elsewhere when we travel.
It's called a Hyundai Getz.
Ben was telling me that the Getz "isn't so bad" and I said, "Well, I don't know...I feel like this car just GETZ me." Get it? Getz me? Hahahahahahahhahah oh.
Ben's accent is also starting to come back. Earlier he pointed out a car called a Mitsubishi COLT but I thought he said CULT. Funniest bit? It looked just like the cult members car in your imagination. For reals.
Being Present
One of the best bits of travel, for me, is the thought that I don’t want to be anywhere but THERE, wherever THERE may be. At home, while my awareness of this problem has improved (more on that later), I find myself always thinking about the next thing due, whether it’s a great thing like a wedding, a good thing like a lesson plan, or a terrible thing like my check up at the dentist. Being a planner has done a lot of good things for me, but the downside is that it is hard to be present in any one moment.
When we travel it takes me a few hours, even a day or so, to shift my thinking. One sure sign that we are on vacation is that I woke before Ben, slaved over pouring a bowl of muesli (made on a local farm with macadamia nuts) for us both, and headed down to the estuary with my coffee and nothing else—I knew I had some “being present” work to do, which means leaving the book and camera behind, and trying to quiet my mind.
Here’s how it went at first: Wow, are those limes? I hope this deck is sturdy—if I fell into the water, I could climb up over there, but are there snakes in the water? I would need a really long, hot shower if I got in there. Don’t take long showers—they’re having a drought. You’re on vacation, don’t worry about droughts. One of the best bits of staying in a hotel is the fresh towel every day, and I hate how that fresh towel now comes with a heap of guilt and the image of a lone polar bear floating on a chunk of ice cap. I wonder what the tomatoes in Italy are going to taste like? Those aren’t limes. I’m going to go squeeze them just in case. What is scurvy, exactly?
(Flip, flip) Ooh, a fish! Was that a fish?
I spent a lazy hour watching the fish, (success), and a couple of even lazier hours inside with a book. As I write this post, we’re digesting a yummy lunch of roast pumpkin salad, flat head fish, and dark chocolate beignets for dessert. Ben is playing with his photos, and I’m people watching. Dinner in tonight, methinks, and a beach walk on the morrow.
I also learned that I am not passionate about passion fruit.
Love,
Robyn and Ben
Monday, May 25, 2009
Back in Oz
Hiya, folks—as I’m writing this a news chopper just flew over because the beach where we’re staying was hit this week with the “worst storm in thirty years” and they’re doing media coverage of the “disaster” area—our timing is impeccable. Having witnessed a lot of storms, I empathize with the locals, and admire the clean-up crews. That being said, it’s the right time for a storm like this to happen, if it is going to: It is the start of winter here in Australia (which still means 70 degree days) and the tourist season is over. The upside for us is that the village where we are staying is nearly deserted—we are the only people staying here tonight, in fact—and I’m writing this sitting here:
Not too shabby. There is very little people-noise but lots of bird songs. I can appreciate them at a distance.
Let’s keep the journey talk to this: It was long. I’d rather talk about what was unique about this journey: Australia seems to be in a panic about swine flu, like most of the world, and as we walked through customs they had us walk past heat-sensitive cameras to quarantine those of us running a temperature. We also had to sign some paperwork swearing that we weren’t concealing flu-like symptoms, and several of the people on our flight were wearing masks.
Once we arrived (and showered—why does travel make you feel so grimy?) we walked into the village and had breakfast. If you’re dieting for a wedding or the like stop reading now. While I’m not trying to write a food blog, I have to tell you about our breakfast. Here it is:
We really liked it. Can you tell? I nearly licked the plate.
I know almost nothing about cooking, but I do love eating—and the chef at this joint achieved that really amazing balance of the things on the plate—rich goat cheese in the omelette, crisp Ciabatta bread (even the bread was delicious) and this tart salad to even out the omelette. Ben has gotten used to me saying things like “this (insert food here) is changing my life” but even he agreed this was an exceptional omelette—filled with yummy salmon to boot.
After brunch we took a walk to what is left of the beach—but the ocean is still beautiful, and Ben graciously took photos of flowers for me on demand. Isn’t this flower as pretty as a cupcake?
We hit a local grocery this afternoon in town to supply up—bread for toast, coffee, and honeycombed-chocolate for Ben. I’m a nerd for grocery stores so I had a great time. While we did not find it at the market today, there is a brand of cheese in Australia that has the head of Dick Smith on it, an Aussie businessman and millionaire. Am I the only person who thinks it is funny to put the name Dick on a block of cheese?
On our first trip to Australia, Ben and I established a game for long hours in the car. It’s a hybrid of Slugbug, called Magpie, named after the Murray Magpies that are populous in his home state. When you see a Magpie, your endeavor to punch your partner first, but, beware: If you mistake a Murray Magpie for a Kingfisher or another bird, you get double-punched. I got the first punch in today—and made the first mistake. Ben owes me two punches. I’ll let you know how it goes
We’re doing our best to stay awake until 8 p.m. Tomorrow: The beach. And more honeycomb chocolate.
Love,
Robyn and Ben
On our first trip to Australia, Ben and I established a game for long hours in the car. It’s a hybrid of Slugbug, called Magpie, named after the Murray Magpies that are populous in his home state. When you see a Magpie, your endeavor to punch your partner first, but, beware: If you mistake a Murray Magpie for a Kingfisher or another bird, you get double-punched. I got the first punch in today—and made the first mistake. Ben owes me two punches. I’ll let you know how it goes
We’re doing our best to stay awake until 8 p.m. Tomorrow: The beach. And more honeycomb chocolate.
Love,
Robyn and Ben
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
