Homesick

Life is funny.  Our vagabond life has blessed us with the joy of visiting many places and we have found the beauty in every one of them.  Some have been "great to visit but couldn't see us living there" (you know where you are), some are fanciful (hello Carmel where I own a book shop, and C2 and J manage a self-sustaining farm with lots of animals...), some spark the imagination (hello Paris pied-a-terre in the 1ere arrondissement...) but one, yes, one still resonates so strongly with sentimentality for me that I occasionally feel sick with longing to return.  That place was Switzerland.

When we left Geneva two and a half years ago, non-French speaking American friends of ours were in the complex throes of returning to Switzerland following a return to the U.S. for some months.  They quit their job, packed up their two small kids and just came back no-immediate-employment -opportunity be damned.  We all admired their desire to chase a dream but I never fully understood their intense and unequivocal conviction that there was no where else they would rather live.

I am sure that the benefit of perspective has dimmed some of the more challenging moments of being North American and living in the land of organisation and quiet Sundays: no shops open on Sundays, all shops close by 6:00pm, no noise on Sundays, reserved neighbours (though we had the best, hello Ioli and Gilles). 

In the few years since our arrival in Australia, we have busied ourselves here and have loved it.  We love the climate, the beaches and ocean, the palm trees, the beautiful European neighbourhoods with all of the conveniences of North America, and the very very wonderful friends we have made and who have embraced us with open arms.  So life has carried on, as it should.  We have explored our new country, and put down roots again.  Then a few weeks ago along came a little show on our wonderful Australian public television station SBS called "The Culinary Adventures of Sarah Wiener in the Alps".  And I remembered in startling detail all that my heart has been missing.

We lived in a small Swiss village on the outskirts of Geneva where I walked J across a field to school which all of the village children attended.  From school, Murphy and I strolled down a garden lane through community gardens, pumpkins patches, and sunflower fields.  Oh those sunflower fields.

I would greet whomever I met during that walk with customary 3 kisses on alternating cheeks and an exchange of pleasantries.  Most weekends, we shared an apero with friends or neighbours.  An apero usually consisted of glasses of champagne, and divine slices of Valais air-dried beef.  The beef was sliced thin that it was near translucent, and was so tender and chewy, it practically melted in my mouth.

Sometimes, especially with our neighbours, Ioli and Gilles, this would be followed by a meal of Raclette which Gilles performed with the necessary dignity afforded this traditional dish of Switzerland and the Haute-Savoie region of France we bordered.  The wheel of Raclette cheese was mounted on a special heating device which melted small amounts of cheese at a time.  Gilles would ceremoniously sweep off the melted cheese and place it on one of our plates to be consumed with potatoes, cornichons,  more Valais air-dried beef, and a fruity local Gamay red wine.  It was the most pleasure on a plate I have ever experienced. 

Often on weekends, we would drive into the Haute-Savoie to ski or hike, or into the canton de Valais for lunch, or into the countryside in our own canton de Geneve to visit friends.  In most cases, we were surrounded by the majestic Alps, with wide mountain meadows where the sound of cow bells rang loud.  Most free roaming cows in the Swiss Alps still wear those beautiful large bells and their sound is seductive. If we were really lucky, we might catch the distant sound of an Alpenhorn being blown.

 I think every mountain village in Switzerland and the Haute-Savoie must be  sprinkled with some time- and heart-stopping fairy dust.  They are as exquisite as you can possibly imagine: chalet-style architecture, window boxes spilling over with colourful geraniums, vineyards surrounding the villages, and the town center always containing the requisite boulangerie (bakery), boucherie (butcher), and fromagerie (cheese shop).  Every morsel of baguette from the thousands we consumed during our time there was perfection.  Every pain au chocolate or croissant sublime.

Each September would herald the recolte or harvest of grapes and sunflowers, and squash.  The fields all around us would fill with workers, and the wine domaines would throw open their doors for "caves ouvertes" days.  Opportunities to visit the vineyards, chat with the wine makers, wine taste, and sit down at long communal tables for wine, sausages, raclette, and conversation.

There are a thousand other details that play on my heart from making some of the most profound friendships in my life, to skiing, to church bells and markets, to gardening, to Geneva itself, to being an hour flight to London and my oldest friend, to being drunk on the beauty constantly around me; but probably it was mostly about J being small and all ours in a magical world, that I am sure contributes to my longing for that time and place.

My Island in the.....Rain

It's been a full-on couple of weeks.  The twenty-somethings trouped out and north to the Sunshine Coast to try-on living/working/travelling for a few weeks.  My trouper of a mum, trouped in from Canada trailing suitcases, smiles, and her dishwashing/laundry/dusting magic wand.

 A week or so later, we hustled her and ourselves onto a very early morning flight up to Hamilton Island in the Whitsundays region of tropical North Queensland.  It was J's Term 1 school break and we decided a beach holiday was on order.  Unfortunately, I forgot to order a side of sun with that beach.  I knew it was the end of the tropical wet season but annual charts predicted a bright and sunny week for the second week of April - ugh WRONG!

Hamilton Island is a small resort island off the coast of Mackay a little south of Cairns at the southern end of the Great Barrier Reef.  It's a hot, humid, and tropical part of Australia blessed with beautiful beaches and lush rainforest.  With a permanent population of about 1,000, it's the most populated island in the chain of islands known as the Whitsundays.

Cat's Eye Beach

 In fairness, it was a beautiful hot day when we arrived at 9:30 in the morning, and we took full advantage of it.  We deposited mum in a beach chair under a Palm tree, and explored each of the island's seven pools, and wondered at the massive low-tide at Cat's Eye Beach leaving behind fascinating tide and rock pools.  We made plans to stand-up paddle-board, kayak, and snorkle off the beach when the tide returned later in the day.

Sulpher-crested Cockatoo

Golden Orb Spider

Pesky Lorikeet

There were many of Australia's most beautiful animls on the island, as the photos (gosh C2 is an awesome photog) demonstrate.  However, as with most of Australia's natural wonders, there is always a "gotcha".  In the case, the charming creature known as the "Irukandji jellyfish".  This jellyfish is about the size of my thumb nail with lethal tentacles about a meter long.  They have been increasingly wandering into the warm coastal waters of North Queensland and have been spotted recently in the Whitsundays.

A flock of Cockatoos having a go at J's coconut

The next day dawned grey and cloudy; mum and I immediately booked passage on a catamaran trip out to the far side of Whitsunday Island to Whitehaven Beach, voted the most beautiful in Australia.  By the time, we boarded our boat at 1:00pm, the rain arrived, and.it.POURED.  It bucketed down sheets of torrential rain.  Whilst bouncing through the waves, we got chatting with one of the staff who promised us that "it never rains at Whitehaven...", "ya alright" we sceptically thought.  Well, he was right, the clouds parted like some heavenly intervention and we spent a beautiful afternoon at this beach where the sand has such a high content of silica that it literally squeaks when you walk on it.

Whitehaven Beach

Hamilton Island view from One Tree Hill - the highest point on the island

Elvis!

Other than another half-day of intermittent sun and cloud, the weather for the remainder of our week was a steady hot downpour.  It spite of the weather, we occupied ourselves with books, food, glow-in-the-dark mini golf, food, visits to a small wildlife center, food, exploring the lovely island by golf buggy, laughing at the antics of bold Cockatoos and grumpy Lorikeets, and more food.

Doesn't  he look like a natural sailor?

On the afternoon of our final day, C2 and I researched the sailing school options out of the Whitsundays and are giving very serious consideration to doing a 5 day live-on-the-boat sailing school in the Spring (our October)...with J.  Check back in October!

Amuse-bouche: One Week and One Day - RIP

Sadly, the little fella didn't make it.  I don't know what ailed him but after a day of joyful fluttering  splashing in the puddles, and sunning himself, he died during the night.

I'm glad I stopped for a while on that last day and just watched him.  For a short time, life asserted itself boldly.

A Bird Came Down

A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, splashless, as they swim.

Emily Dickinson

Amuse-bouche: One Week Later

The little fella is doing well...considering he's been stranded in my back courtyard exposed to the elements of an early Australian autumn for a week now.  Not that those elements are particularly harsh, but we do have a plethora of possums at night.  I am assuming Amuse-bouche spends his nights hidden in one of the box hedges.

He's been working on his fluttering and just today I saw him FLY a short distance from a flower pot to the stool where I've been putting his bread to encourage him to flap those wings.  Yay Amuse-bouche!  That was a big improvement from yesterday when he jumped (I had it closer to the flower pot), and promptly fell off in a heap.

His mother visits regularly and has been trying to demonstrate to her stubborn little chick what his wings are for, as evidenced in the below image.  She's a good mum but he doesn't seem overly inspired. 

Ever since I began putting seed out a few days ago, the rest of the family comes-a-calling too.  Maybe their strategy is to eat all of his food to convince him to hunt?  Or maybe they're just being birds and are not opposed to a little free seed and to heck with him.

I look forward to seeing the little guy every morning when I come downstairs.  Now I feed my dog, who is spinning in circles impatiently, waiting for breakfast then I cut up bread and watermelon for Amuse-bouche who is always hopping about impatiently waiting for his, sheesh!

We are leaving on holiday in two weeks.  I hope Amuse-bouche has figured out flight by then, otherwise, I'm going to have to pay my dog-sitter extra.

Amuse-bouche or the Story of a Hippity-Hoppity Dove

I was hanging my washing a few days ago enjoying the feel of it flapping in the breeze.  As I turned to step back into the house, in front of me lay a young bird on its back, his feet flapping in the same breeze and a beseeching look on his small face.  I immediately flipped him over, and he has been living in my rear courtyard every since.

We have dubbed him 'Amuse-bouche', in part because C2 sees everything in food terms, and in part because he eats such tiny quanities of everything I've offered.  Bread? check, watermelon? check, strawberries? not-so-much, fish? definitely not!

We have determined that he is a young mourning dove.  His mother visits him frequently but nothing she or I do have convinced him to take flight.  He's happy to flutter to the top of my flower pots but has a decided preference to hopping everywhere in his explorations.  Hop hop through the low box hedges, hop hop around all of my flower pots, hop hop under the table, and hop splash into the puddles.  I was thrilled to watch him catch a bug yesterday evening!

He's very curious, very independant, very cute, and I'm getting very attached.  I really shouldn't since I know how these things usually end.  Countless numbers of wild birds die every day but Amuse-bouche is just one little bird, and he's in my backgarden.  We are all keeping a watchful eye on him (even C2) and are hoping that soon one morning, he will just be gone...and in a good way.

Watch this space for more on Amuse-bouche.

The Apple Didn't Fall Too Far From the Tree

My sport of choice as a kid and teenager was competitive swimming.  I was never going to be an Olympic hopeful by any stretch; but was passionate and lived and breathed it for many years.   I still love watching it at any level.

So I was surprised but delighted when J qualified for a district competition following his school's annual swim meet (or swimming carnival as say in Australia).  This past week, we watched him compete for his school in the boys 9/10 freestyle relay.  He was excited, proud, and full of team spirit.  He faded a tad toward the end of his 50m race but gave it everything he had!

Well done J!


Video 2013-03-10 01.06.46 PM from Christine Hendricks on Vimeo.

A Camping We Will Go

Yes yes I know it's been a while.  I've been performing my new circus act of juggling several balls for the last few weeks.  Those precariously balanced balls have been:  playing with J during his final two weeks of summer holidays, managing a travelling trio of ravenous locusts (otherwise known as 3 twenty-somethings...yes they're back and yes they've multiplied), taking on new roles with concommitant expectations at Child Wise, a frequently absent husband whose travel schedule has been gruelling of late, and oh camping.....twice.

Baby J camping at Bluerock Alberta

Toddler J camping at Fernie British Columbia also one of my all-time favorite photos of J

I mention this last bit because Australian Family Hendricks hasn't camped since J was 2 and we were still living in the wilds of Alberta.  Subsequent to living in the wilds, we discovered the joys of renting charming villas in the south of France and Italy....with pools....and showers....and toilets...and trattorias.  We were sooooo over camping.  All that prep, all that dust, all that tent-raising, oy!

At Fernie British Columbia, Canada

But darn it, that boy just kept asking.  And darn it, opportunity just kept presenting itself.  An off-the-cuff pre-Christmas comment to friends about camping the final weekend of the summer holiday in late January bore fruit.  The plans were made, five families were committed, including our reluctant selves, and off to Lake Eildon in the Victorian Yarra Valley we went for two nights and three days.

The temperature was in the mid-30s C, the flies were EVERYWHERE, the lake water was murky, the red dust was choking, we were in bushfire country, there were NO toilets or showers or even sinks for that matter, but here's the funny part, we had an absolute ball!

Our kids (and Murphy) spent three days unplugged, outside, engaged, curious as hell, and forged a little band of explorers.  They rode a mountain board tearing downhill through our campsite, they trudged through a crystal clear stream looking for snakes and bolting out of it when they found one.  They jumped off piers into the lake, they expeditioned through the forest looking for Koalas and Wombats, and J positively vibrated with joy during our cozy nightime bedtime stories.  There was a total fireban so it was early nights and early mornings.

A rare moment of collective quiet

We adults enjoyed birdsong, being woken by Kookaburra laughter, breathing fresh air, cool nights and hot days, quality time with each other, coffee in the morning air, cold beers at the end of hot days, and the joy of bearing witness to our children's nonstop outdoor energy.  We had a French chef in our group and a kitchen tent to admire him under.

We had such a good time that we did it all over again two weekends later.  This time, we went to Balnarring on the Mornington Peninsula, a short hour's drive from Melbourne.  If it was at all possible, we had an even BETTER time.  Well, other than C2 being bitten by a shark but I'll get to that. This time, we camped beside the ocean with a beautiful beach, a playground, an ice-cream shop, toilets, sinks AND showers.  After Lake Eildon, this was very upscale.

Again, the temperature was in the mid-30s, the sun was intense and we spent hours at the beach.  The kids spent ages at the playground away from us learning to be independent and responsible.  They explored tide pools looking for starfish, swam in the clear water, dug giant holes at the water's edge, and inhaled those two wonders of natural elixirs: sun and salt water.

Nights were a little hotter, and Koalas snuffled around our tent at night like nocturnal naughty and snotty kids.  J read by lantern-light suffused with the contentment of nighttime noises, moonlight, and us beside him.

OK, so the shark story.  C2, myself, a friend Nick, J, and a couple of his mates were about 100m out in the ocean, thigh deep.  It was low tide and we were swimming in an area between large patches of reef and seaweed.  As we began to make our way back, all of a sudden C2 yelled loudly (really screamed not unlike a baby) and began hopping about on one foot.  A quick inspection revealed that he had likely stepped on the spiny dorsal fin of some low-tide bottom dweller, and had a very painful puncture wound. 

We slowly made our way back to shore supporting a grimacing C2 when all of a sudden he yelled loudly (again that baby sound) and grabbed his other foot which was bleeding rather badly.  I looked around frantically expecting to see the fin of at least a Great White as I am prone to worst case scenarios but saw nothing.  I escorted a pale C2 to the Yacht Club where the consensus was that a Banjo Shark had taken a hunk out of C2's second foot.  A quick call to the poison control center confirmed that there was nothing in these waters which could have lethally poisoned C2 with the initial puncture but I quizzed him regularly "how do you feel", "do you feel faint", "is it getting better", "are you dying".  All in all, the rest of us concluded it was good of him to take "one for the team" instead of a child getting bitten, and it did make for an awesome story.  I quietly bought J water shoes this week, however.

So surprise, surprise, we remembered how much we enjoy camping, especially with friends.  We were reminded of the amazing quality of life spent outdoors, especially in this Australian climate.  And isn't this the good stuff of childhood memories?  Exploring, sleeping in sleeping bags, eating outdoors, rediscovering the joy of nonstop play, following each other down new trails, the smell of sunscreen, and running in packs on the beach at sunset.