Do Not Enter’s written on the door way
Why can’t everyone just go away?
Except you
You can stay

What do you think of my treehouse?
It’s where I sit and talk really loud
Usually
I’m all by myself

I’m the captain but you can be the deputy
I’m really glad you think I’m so funny
I don’t think I’m ever gonna let you leave

Alex G. Treehouse

As kids, everyone dreams of building a tree house. Of rope ladders and string lights, hideaways and tire swings. Of magic and adventure. Maybe a mini fridge. As far as I can remember, I never had one – a tree house, I mean. Nor a mini fridge.

I can remember playing in large cardboard boxes, left over from a move or the delivery of an appliance. On the inside, buttons and screens and keyboards drawn in markers and me, of course, pretend-playing in my tiny cardboard house for hours.

Later, we would dig holes into the neighbours’ muddy yard, large enough to house a small person or two, and in our imagination as big as an underground castle. My own children had a massive play house on stilts, in our backyard, custom-made out of left-over wooden display shelves from the bakery. I always imagined myself moving in there one day, with my books and a comfy chair and a typewriter on a small, rickety table. Instead, when the children had moved on and out, we cut off the stilts and turned the whole thing to a storage shed.

Fifty years later, and here I am at last: my very own treehouse, at least for the next couple of days. A beautiful deck, wrapped around the trunks of an old pepper tree. Fairy lights twinkling magically. A comfy chair (albeit still a bit wet from last night’s rain), a small wooden table (not rickety at all, though. Probably designer and very expensive!) and the peace and quiet I need to write.

Taking a break from adventure, it is the nature that surrounds me that I seek and enjoy. The shade-giving branches of the tree, as old as me, swaying gently in the warm summer breeze. The chorus of the cicadas, an ebb and flow of cacophony. In the afternoon summer heat, a lazy bird song here and there. The perfect place to reconnect back into nature and replenish my soul, just like the welcome flyer tells me to.

The Pepper Tree treehouse is a passive house one hour and a half south of Sydney – which, at the time of booking, meant nothing to me. I just liked the unique design of unpredictable lines and corners, and the twinkling fairy lights wrapped around the tree in the centre of it all. Which looked so pretty upon arrival the first night, its countless lights reflected in the wet wooden boards of the treehouse deck.

In the morning, a freshly brewed cup of coffee and the view of a mountain in front of me, I leaf through one of the architecture design magazines, and learn about the many awards this place has won and the meaning of “passive house”. Inspired by all this talk of drastically lower energy use, I soon retreat to the lounge to watch a bit of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Passive it the word. (I also come across a photo of my sustainable, award-winning classroom in the magazine, by the way. This discovery could explain the sudden lack of energy).

Later I go walk down the hill into the town of Unanderra. On my way, there are a few things I see but don’t really understand: mango and lemon trees covered with giant hair nets, the nameless lush green hills behind me and the hideous sight of what looks The Scouring of the Shire and Mordor combined in front of me.

There are plenty of resources one can consult, to gather information on a place you have never been to before: travel guides, the internet, people.

While standing at the bus stop across Woollies in the town centre, successfully having accomplished my mission of needing two things from the supermarket (a toothbrush and mosquito spray) and buying 15 instead (three different chocolate biscuits, hummus dip, carrots for hummus dip, crackers for hummus dip, six coke cans warm and one cold one), I decide to pop into Sue’s Beauty Spot to get a pedicure. And an answer to all the questions I had regarding this town, and then some:

That the fruits and vegetables grow well here in the Southern Highlands—not only mangoes but also figs, limes, lemons, and more—were it not for those pesky birds (hence the nets). People who live here, she tells me, like growing their own produce. And the space and climate allows for it.

That the mountain in front of my kitchen window is called Mount Kembla. Later, I read that local Aboriginal legends describe Mount Kembla and Mount Keira as sisters, with the five islands (Wollongong) being daughters of the wind. The Illawarra Aborigines inhabited this region for over 20,000 years until the arrival of the First Fleet in Sydney in 1788 and the subsequent British Invasion of Australia. By 1846, the number of Aboriginal people in the Illawarra region had dwindled from about 3000 to only 98. Sue doesn’t delve into that history. Instead she tells me that many of her older customers voted No in The Voice referendum.

Mount Kembla played a crucial role in coal mining during the 19th century. The massive factory plant in the distance is a steel plant built in the sixties, attracting numerous immigrant workers in the 50s and 60s to the area. Once a small and laid-back beach town, Unanderra is now considered a suburb of Wollongong, or The Gong, the larger neighboring city with a university. The steel plant no longer holds the title of the biggest employer; instead, it’s the university and Health Services.

Sue tells me that she came to this region when she was three, and her parents found work at the local steel plant soon thereafter. That the switch from living in the Swinging London, England to the Sleepy Southern Highlands had been hard at first. She shares with me me that she has two German Shepherd rescue dogs and enjoys going to Costco four times a year to stock up on things. She is not a fan of Donald Trump, but many of her older customers are. Sue expresses concerns that he might start World War III and emphasizes how blessed we are to live in the beautiful country of Australia (even though this summer has been unusually wet). She notes that my feet are very tight from too much walking.

Tight-footed and heavy hearted, I leave Sue’s Beauty Spot a little while later to catch the bus up the hill to my beautiful treehouse in the lower foothills of Mount Kembla. The world seems to be spinning faster and faster, and I want time to stop for just a little while. I turn on the air conditioning for the heat and the fairy lights for the magic. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll watch another episode of Desperate Housewives.

I don’t mind surfer girls.

Yeah! Yeah! Surfer girls!

I don’t mind shooting the curl!

Yeah! Yeah! Shooting the curl!

I don’t mind sitting on the beach!

Yeah! Yeah! On the beach!

I don’t mind it – ain’t it neat?

Ain’t it neat?

I don’t mind. I don’t mind.

Surfer Girls by Hitman.

The sky above me darkened quickly, shifting from bright blue to charcoal black as the summer sun disappeared. Dark clouds rolled in from behind, carrying raindrops that tinkled upon hitting the water along the shoreline: Ding! Ding! A dance of vanishing circles in the shallow water in front of me, the beach covered with small craters formed by the rain hitting the soft sand.

Sitting there in the warm summer rain, I watched my family trying to catch a wave. The endless cycle of pushing their boards against the incoming surf, slowly making their way out into the deeper end until that perfect wave started to form. Quickly (more or less) turning around, hopping on the board, and paddling, paddling, paddling until it felt right to POP! and stand up on their boards. At least, that was the goal – after all, this was our first time out, attempting to master the art of surfing… in the rain!

Twelve days of Christmas with my family. In Australia. My Christmas wish coming true. If you were to ask me about my favourite part, this is what I could say (and I might break out into song, just like they do in the movies):

On the first day of Christmas, my loved ones shared with me

their arrival in Sydney and Christmas dinner in Fresh-ie.

On the second day of Christmas, my loved ones shared with me

a proper hot Christmas at the beach and a walk to Man-ly!

On the third day of Christmas, my loved ones shared with me

Boxing Day at Warringah Mall, and contortionists at the Sydney Opera House to see.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my loved ones shared with me

wetsuits and surf lessons with Queen G.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my loved ones shared with me

the Taronga Zoo!

On the sixth day of Christmas, my loved ones shared with me

a guided kayak tour in Sydney Harbour and a win for the Sydney FC!

On the seventh day of Christmas, my loved ones shared with me

a walk from Spit Bridge to Manly and a meal of expensive French brie.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my loved ones shared with me

New Year’s Eve in the city (that was cra-zy!)

On the ninth day of Christmas, my loved ones shared with me

the Barrenjoey Lighthouse and the chase for the rucksack forgotten on the B!

On the tenth day of Christmas, my loved ones shared with me

a visit to various museum gift shops and a Schnitty with a Stein-i!

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my loved ones shared with me

four red apples, half a bottle of wine, left-over sunscreen and a large bag of laun-dry!

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my loved ones left with me

a ton of memories, lots of laughter, and enough love to last me until Ju-li!

My Twelve Days of Christmas. Gisela

Yet, my favourite memory will be that moment when sitting at the beach in the rain, exhausted from giving surfing a try, loving every moment of it, and watching my family in the waves, each one of them giving their best effort! They weren’t concerned about the heavy clouds rolling overhead or the rain that intensified by the minute. Their expressions. Their posture. Their success in standing up on that darn board. They were simply creating their own conditions and making the best of it. And there I was, experiencing that goosebumpy feeling of happiness, awe, and wonder. Everything was perfect at that moment.

I have an irrational fear of waves. It even has a name, as I read on the computer: cymophobia, the fear of waves. I fear anything wavy—waves, sea swells, wave-like motions, my hair. I could try to explain this fear by recalling childhood memories of being wiped out by a wave, pulled under and completely disoriented, ending up with a mouth full of sand and vowing to never catch a wave again.

But the truth is, I’ve learned quite a bit from observing the waves and how others approach them.

There are those, who try to evade them by standing on their tiptoes, arms raised, squealing from the sensation of the cold water touching them. Or simply run away from the incoming waves, screaming (not me!). Others turn their backs to the incoming wave altogether, trying to avoid eye contact as if ignoring it would change anything. I’ve learned to duck the most frightening ones, hands firmly pressed together before diving under, eyes tightly closed, feeling the water wash over me—please make it quick! And finally, those who dare to open their eyes underwater, captivated by the water’s violent game with the light, shifting from light to dark to light again. Oh, and then there are the body surfers, patiently waiting for the right moment to catch that wave and let it carry them ashore.

The same could be said about how we approach life. Running away from it. Attempting to avoid it. Turning our backs to it. Closing our eyes and getting through it as quickly as possible. Or enjoying it and allowing it to propel us forward. However, there’s no need to run from it, attempt to control it, or be overwhelmed by it if you learn to read the surf and your surroundings.

On the day of our first (and only!) surf lesson, the circumstances for going into the water were less than ideal. A heavy thunderstorm followed by hail, ominous grey skies, and drizzle. We called the Surf Club, assuming the lesson would be cancelled. Yet, they simply asked us to come down to the beach and wait out the thunder and lightning. Alongside thirty other tourists who had received the same advice. When the skies finally cleared, and we managed to struggle into our wet wetsuits (which, as it turns out, is almost as challenging as surfing itself), our surf instructor Simone imparted another lesson:

When you want to go surfing, you can check the tides, surf reports, weather channel, and thunderstorm warnings. But ultimately, you have to come down to the beach and sit with the surf for a while. Observe it. Understand it. Be prepared. But then, you have to go out there and give it a try. Ride the waves.

We never know what our life is going to look like. We can dream and imagine it, but we don’t really know what it’s going to be until we’re in it, right when it’s happening. You can prepare, but you can’t plan for these things until they happen.

The Art of Racing in the Rain. Garth Stein

So, if you were to ask me what the best part of my family’s visit was, I would say that perfect little moment of sitting at the beach, watching them surf in the rain. Knowing that the rain would eventually arrive, but not knowing exactly when. And until then, just enjoying the moment!

Cheers!

Hello Dan, it’s Joe here, I hope you’re keeping well
It’s the 21st of December, and now they’re ringing the last bells
If I get good behaviour, I’ll be out of here by July
Won’t you kiss my kids on Christmas Day, please don’t let ’em cry for me

I guess the brothers are driving down from Queensland and Stella’s flying in from the coast
They say it’s gonna be a hundred degrees, even more maybe, but that won’t stop the roast
Who’s gonna make the gravy now? I bet it won’t taste the same
Just add flour, salt, a little red wine

And don’t forget a dollop of tomato sauce for sweetness and that extra tang
And give my love to Angus and to Frank and Dolly,
Tell ’em all I’m sorry I screwed up this time
And look after Rita, I’ll be thinking of her early Christmas morning

…

Tell her that I’m sorry, yeah I love her badly, tell ’em all I’m sorry,
And kiss the sleepy children for me
You know, one of these days, I’ll be making gravy,
I’ll be making plenty, I’m gonna pay ’em all back

How to Make Gravy. Paul Kelly

A single bottle of ketchup – err, tomato sauce – rests on the small round table in my classroom. Forgotten. Left behind. The only leftover from our Class Christmas party. Another school year’s end. The sausage rolls that came with it… long gone. As is the rest of the Christmas buffet. The students have left, their belongings, books, and bags cleared out – except for a lone hat left behind in one student’s box. Chairs neatly stacked on tables, walls stripped of posters and paintings, yet the snowflakes on the window remain, dreaming of a white Christmas that will never come. Oh, Australian Christmas! Or should I say Chrissy?

The other day, someone asked me about Christmas customs and traditions in Australia. I was tempted to give the stereotypical response of Surfing Santa, prawns on the barbie, and kangaroos pulling Santa’s sleigh… but truthfully, I haven’t witnessed any of these myself. What I’ve noticed is that Christmas Down Under isn’t much different from the Canadian Christmas. It’s just a bit more colourful, brighter, and, of course, hotter! Much hotter!

There are Christmas lights and beautifully decorated Christmas trees. Carols in the park. Family gatherings with too much food, too much drink, and too much money spent. Boxing Day is as much of a thing as are stockings and a big family dinner, minus the turkey – it’s ham here, or a roast, accompanied by gravy. Lots of gravy. Happy Gravy Day!

December 21. While the Northern Hemisphere quietly embraces the winter solstice, Australians not only welcome the longest day of the year but also celebrate Gravy Day! Although not yet officially recognized as a national holiday, “Gravy Day” has gained recognition in Australia through a song and various internet posts.

The story behind Gravy Day traces back to a 1996 song titled “How To Make Gravy” by the renowned Australian singer Paul Kelly. The song recounts the tale of a man in prison, expressing his longing to be with his family during Christmas. His touching letter, written on December 21 in the song, has become cherished and celebrated down here.

In the song, Joe, the letter’s fictional writer, reminisces about his family’s traditions: relatives visiting for Christmas, the lively gatherings, laughter and fights, dancing and love, and of course, the delicious food. The song even provides a simple recipe for gravy: “Just add flour, salt, and a little red wine.”

Songs are a great thing. They bring back memories, make you happy or sad, and get stuck in our heads – forever! (Just the other day, I realized I could still recall every word from every song in The Sound of Music. Don’t judge me—there’s a story behind it, one that involves Easter Sunday in 1986, watching VHS videos in reverse, singing along, and suddenly realizing I had the exact same hairstyle as Julie Andrews. Maybe one day, I’ll write about that.)

Songs not only give us other perspectives but also allow us to relate to different experiences. Christmas songs especially! Who hasn’t fallen in love in snow-covered mountains, looking gorgeous like George, only to be dumped right after like a load of heavy snowfall? Who hasn’t worn a sexy red bodysuit in freezing winter snow, reminiscent of Mariah? Or spent Christmas Eve in New York City, getting arrested by hot Matt Dillon in a uniform? (Rest in peace, dear Shane MacGowan. Remember the time we drove for hours to hear you sing in Stuttgart. And ended up in a construction site on the Autobahn in the middle of the night?) No seriously, good songs not only remind us of what we’ve been through but also help us understand others’ feelings, bringing us closer together by finding what we have in common. Songs make us feel like someone else gets us.

At first glance, How to Make Gravy, is a song that offers the simple ingredients to a happy Australian Christmas (or any Christmas, really): Happy Christmas! Just add family and friends, good times and great food. That is the obvious message—a certain idea we have of what Christmas is and what Christmas should be; our perception of Christmas—a happy time, a time spent with others, lots of presents, laughter, and cheer. Add sunshine and the beach when you are celebrating Down Under.

And Christmas in Australia may be all that. And to a certain extent, it is to me as well. I’ve got my own little (somewhat pathetic) tree with lovely wrapped gifts underneath, Christmas parties, and dinners to attend, and maybe even a few prawns. School is out, so I get to relax and enjoy the beach, the sunshine, and the ocean (though I have not seen Santa surfing yet).

However, there’s more to it. It’s about the nostalgia for times long gone. (I must confess, I miss our Christmas tree in Toronto—fresh, green, slightly crooked, adorned with ornaments the kids crafted in school years ago, and even real wax candles, much to our neighbours’ grief that our house might burn down! And there’s as well!) There’s also a sense of loneliness that comes with being apart while the family gathers thousands of kilometres away. It brings about a feeling of guilt for not being there. Yet, amidst these emotions, there’s an overwhelming excitement for when the family can finally reunite and celebrate Christmas together. Though it might look different from before (definitely brighter)and feel different (certainly warmer), it might create a new set of Christmas traditions.

So, if you ask me what Christmas is like in Australia, I can’t really say. I can only say what it feels like to me: Just like Joe in the song, I’m super excited to be with my family for Christmas. I can’t wait to pick them up from the airport on December 24. And I am looking forward to celebrating Christmas with them, Aussie-style: the beach, sunshine, presents, and, of course, a delicious Christmas dinner. Maybe we’ll cook some prawns on the barbie (although, I hear, you had to pre-order them) or have a ham. But definitely lots of gravy. With tomato sauce – not ketchup!

Happy Christmas! With lots of gravy! ❤️

We’ve been around the world. We’ve been everywhere

You think of a place, and probably been there

My life would have been a total failure

If I hadn’t seen Western Australia

It’s far away from the neighbours, far away from it all

If you never been in love, man, you are going to fall

It’s hot and it’s tough, and it’s incredibly pretty

and in the land of Oz it’s like Emerald City.

Australia. Coldplay

I woke up with a jolt. Where was I? What time was it? And what the heck was I doing here? The hotel room pitch black from the blackout roller blinds – only a sliver of morning light coming through curtains. I stumbled out of bed, fumbled my way to the window, and with a clickety-click pulled up the blinds. The alarm clock on the tiny nightstand showed 4:45.

In front of my eyes, morning was breaking. The deep azure blue of dawn giving way to the orange and yellow hues of the morning sun. The dawn into a bright and sunny day. Good morning sunshine. Good morning Perth!

I was on the other side of Australia. 3290 km from Sydney. 18421 km from Toronto, Canada. The furthest city from home. What had started as a silly idea months ago – a Schnapsidee my mom would have called it – had become reality: Welcome to Perth! Welcome to Western Australia!

How I got here? Well, I can explain. And I am sure that you will agree, that this was indeed the best Schnapsidee ever! And I did not even have any schnapps when I planned it!

In fact, it all started at school. During class, to be exact – but don’t tell my boss! Coldplay was coming to Australia and as a true Coldplay superfan, I saw it as my absolute duty to attend their concert in Downunder. Much to my, and all of Sydney’s dismay, their only concert in all of Australia was going to be in… no, not Sydney. Nor Melbourne. Nor Adelaide – which would have all been somewhat reasonably accessible cities. No, their only concert was going to be in Perth!

I knew that Perth was on the other side of the continent. I did not know how far it was, to get there. Ignorance is bliss. And so, on that fateful Monday morning in May, I entered my name in the online ticket lottery, not really expecting to score a ticket.

But, lo and behold – 47 minutes later and thousands of fans in line in front of me, my number was up! There it was, a reserved ticket and a prompt to enter my credit card number. With shaking hands and sweat collecting on my forehead, I entered the payment details and: SUCCESS! YOU ARE GOING TO SEE COLDPLAY IN PERTH! Digital confetti filling my phone screen. I let out of small scream, my students quizzingly looking at me. ” Back to quiet work, everyone!”

And I was going to soak up that sunlight in front of my window with every inch of me.

Turns out that soaking up the sun in Western Australia was pretty easy to do. A gorgeous blue-sky kind of day ahead of me, the perfect weather for a road trip to Margaret River, along gorgeous white beaches and the deep-blue waters of the Indian Ocean.

With 8.8 hours of sunshine per day, Perth is the sunniest State Capital in Australia (in comparison, Sydney has a measly 7.2 hours of sunshine per day on average. Toronto gets a whooping 2.5 hours a day this time of year.) With the country’s best weather and clearest skies, Western Australia has outshone Queensland as the nation’s Sunshine State.

And the sun over here was incredibly bright! With less air pollution due to Perth’s isolated location thousands of kilometres away from the next big cities, there is less stuff in the air for the sunlight to travel to and scatter off. Perth – the City of Light.

However, the City of Light got its name not because of its brilliant rays but because of a cute story that involved the earth, the moon and the stars, the notion of feeling isolated and alone, and the idea that we are all connected somehow.

In 1962, as the story tells, the American astronaut John Glenn was orbiting earth in his spaceship “Friendship” as the first American to do so. It was night in Perth, and the residents of the isolated city on the west coast of Australia wanted to make sure that John did not feel alone on the spacecraft flying over. The residents and local businesses made an effort to turn on all of their lights, so John could see the city below.

And he did! As the spacecraft approached the coast of WA, John could see the city brightly in the cover of the night. The City of Light was born! Only too well did the people of Perth understand the same feeling the astronaut would have experienced alone in the spacecraft. In a way, the bright lights of Perth in the dark of the night signified the hope of humankind in what seems like a dark void of uncertainty.

The next day, a walking tour through Perth itself. More lights, this time in the shape of Christmas lights in all shapes and forms Australian. After all, ’tis the season. Light-up kangaroos in front of old government buildings, ginormous silver Christmas balls at Elizabeth Quai, and light. up Christmas trees between skyscrapers in the business district. Lights, and more lights everywhere – as if the hot sun burning down on us was not enough.

And then – finally. To top it all off: the light show of all light shows brought to the City of Lights. Flashing wristbands, pulsating strobe lights, fireworks and glowing ballons. I am sure, had there been a spaceship orbiting the earth that night and flown over Perth, it would have seen the show light up space.

60.000 people coming together to celebrate music and happiness and unity. People from close and people from far like me, who had acted on a silly schnapsidee that made absolutely no sense but just felt right. People from Perth and surrounding areas, from the Outback and other states. From Sydney and Melbourne and Adelaide. From Jakarta, Singapour and other exotic places. People who sang and danced together and turned on their lights to light up the stadium, light up the city, light up the sky. People who paused for a moment to send their love to all corners of this earth: from my kids in Toronto to all the people in the Middle East, Ukraine, Sudan… Thoughts of love and hope and light. Tiny thoughts in the big picture. Tiny lights like stars in the dark nightsky. But lights nonetheless.

And in that moment it seemed that once again, the bright lights of Perth in the dark of the night signified the hope of humankind in what seems like a dark void of uncertainty.

Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And everything you do
Yeah, they were all yellow

Yelllow.Coldplay

Round and round, up and down
Through the streets of your town
Every day I make my way
Through the streets of your town

And don’t the sun look good today? (Shine)
But the rain is on its way (shine)
Watch the butcher shine his knives (shine)
And this town is full of battered wives

Round and round, up and down
Through the streets of your town
Every day I make my way
Through the streets of your town

And I ride your river under the bridge (shine)
And I take your boat out to the ridge (shine)
‘Cause I love that engine roar (shine)
But I still don’t know what I’m here for

The Go-Betweens. Streets of Your Town

And then there are new places I visited this time – new experiences and adventures: Waiheke Island for example. One of the top 10 Pacific island destinations, only a 40-minute ferry ride from Auckland. Home to boutique vineyards, and pristine beaches, olive groves and seaside villages, it offered me a new and very different side of Auckland. A lighter, brighter, and more playful version of what remembered from four years ago. Or maybe the place had not changed at all but me?

Together with my friends, we let ourselves drift across this small island. We stopped at vineyards along the street, sat in front of roaring fireplaces with a glass of wine, and talked for hours. Walked along white deserted beaches, collecting shells and watching white boats bopping on the turquoise waters of the island. Rummaged through tacky tourist shops in Oneroa and had French pastry in Surfdale. Wai meaning water; Heke meaning to ebb, drip, trickle or descend. Waiheke thus meaning “Trickling waters”. Just like the water, time on Waiheke trickled by. A welcomed slowing down of things around me.

The marathon is run, my friend from Hongkong has come and gone, and I am spending my last evening in Auckland. Bought a book in the familiar bookstore, that’s called “Everything is Beautiful and Everything hurts”, which describes my current state perfectly. No longer feeling rushed to tick as many items off my travel list as possible, I am enjoying my time in Auckland in front of the large TV screen of my hotel room, watching a very educational movie on Netflix and waiting for room service to deliver the burger and coke I ordered – post-race ritual.

Exploring new places for the first time is one of the joys of travel … but I realized that revisiting old places can be great too! Different weather, different activities, travelling with different people really changed the feeling I have for this city now. By returning to this place, I literally added another perspective to my experience of that place. And I never thought I would ever return to New Zealand, which makes it extra special.

It’s not just places which change over time – people do too! Your own eyes can become like new eyes over time, as you develop into a different version of you, who sees differently. This city may not have changed, but the observer has – I certainly have. I see and experience things differently from this past version of me. And from different points of view. From mountain top to windy harbour bridge. “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes” (Marcel Proust).

But if you please excuse me now – my BUTLERBOT has arrived, bringing me my dinner. Things have definitely changed around here. And I kind of like it. Cheers!

Please allow me to introduce myself
I’m a man of wealth and taste
I’ve been around for a long, long years
Stole a million man’s soul and faith

And I was ’round when Jesus Christ
Had his moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Pilate
Washed his hands and sealed his fate

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But what’s puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

Sympathy for the Devil. The Rolling Stones

In Grade 5, my son wrote a speech for school on the Tasmanian Devil. Dark fur, stocky build, fierce teeth. Looks a bit like a baby bear. Except that there are no bears here in Tasmania. Only possums and pademelons, quolls and wallabies. The Tasmanian tiger (extinct) and the Tasmanian Devil. Tasmania’s largest carnivorous marsupial. That’s the Tasmanian Devil.

Except that he did not – write a speech on the Devil. Instead, he presented the Wolverine to his classmates. Same thing in my memory – but it is not the same thing, the Tasmanian Devil and the Wolverine. Both look like miniature bears. Both have dark fur. Both are pretty aggressive animals. Both are ferocious predators and love their meat. But one has a pouch and the other one doesn’t. Small detail, huge difference. My apologies to my son. And the Tassie Devil.

For the last two weeks, I have been travelling through Australia’s southernmost state, Tasmania. On my journey, I noticed that the devil is in the detail when exploring a new place. Tasmania is a beautiful part of Australia – varied and ever-changing: cities and towns with a European flair, rolling hills and lush green fields, Eucalypti forests and wet dense rainforest, mountains and cliffs, beaches and crystal-clear waters. Just like the weather, you never know what to expect around the next corner.

It is easy to like Tasmania when visiting the well-known sites: the curious Mona Museum of Old and New Art in Hobart (let’s count how many female genitals we can count, shall we?). The former convict settlements in Port Arthur (hey, let’s bring over 12000 British convicts to this colony called Tasmania and let them form a new community… What could possibly go wrong?). The wilderness of the West Coast, where mining brought fortune and fame to many, and left behind devastation and destruction. Cradle Mountain and glacial lakes, the vineyards of the Tamar Valley. And, last not but not least, the stunning East Coast with its tourist attractions: Bay of Fires, Wineglass Bay, Freycinet National Park. It is easy to like Tasmania.

What made me fall in love with this place, were the little things. The details that you can miss so easily if you don’t take your time and pay attention.

The history of the Henry Jones Art Hotel and its display of local art was explained to us guests in a one-hour tour behind the scenes by a former teacher who hated his job and became the hotel’s curator instead (now, here’s an idea). Once home to a jam factory, now an example of a well-restored historic building that combines the old and the new. A glass of bubbly certainly helped to understand some of the art displayed.

The detail of the Airbnb in Zeehan, a five-hour drive west of Hobart and the first stop on my circuit tour of Tasmania. The verandah swing overlooking the wild valley full of eucalyptus forest and hills. The wallabies grazing in the morning mist and the light of the morning sun. The details.

The red iron-clad bathtub on the porch of the next house on the northwest shores of Tasmania. A bath in steaming hot water in the cold morning air, a cup of coffee and the grazing cows my only witnesses. If you don’t take your time, you might miss something incredibly important.

The things you see when you take your time to look. Like the wombat’s butt, I watched disappear into its burrow’s hole when going for a walk in the rainforest near Cradle Mountain. Or one of my students from Sydney, that crossed my paths not once but twice when touring Tasmania. The kid looked at me as if I was indeed the devil that haunted him. Poor fellow!

I loved having a glass of rosé wine and sunshine on my face at a winery near Launceston called Small Wonder Winery because it reminded me of the Niagara Valley and home. I loved looking for pretty seashells at the Bay of Fire because that’s the only thing that is missing at Sydney’s beautiful beaches. I loved the moonlight that shone on my bed at Freycinet and the stars in the night sky. Loved the sunrise that woke me in the morning and the roaring of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

Today is the last day of my Tasmania trip, and I am tempted to check one more top attraction off my sightseeing list: Freycinet National Park and the famous Wineglass Bay are only an hour’s drive away. Instead, I am sitting at a yellow vintage dining table, overlooking the Great Oyster Bay. A fire in the fireplace in roaring, outside the window the crystal blue ocean is rolling. Where the water meets the sky. Shades of blue.

Somebody asked me if I had seen a Tasmanian Devil on my tour, and I said: No. Well, I have. The first one was a stuffed animal, and for sale at one of the tourist shops. The second one was equally lifeless, dead at the side of the road. Have I seen the devil in Tasmania? No, I have not. But I got a glimpse at what Tasmania is about and I have to say, I liked every little detail of it.

a sheoak sigh as the breeze plays about her needles

the plaintive call of the black currawong echoing across the valley

a rustle in the leaf litter of a scurrying skink

the busy chatter of feeding honeyeaters

the crunch of gravel by passing walkers

the high trill of a flame robin calling to its mate

the buzz of bees amongst fragrant blossoms

the sharp screech of a black cockatoo flying overhead

the clack of loose bark as it bangs against it branch

the silent passage of seeds – released and cast

the distant roar of the ocean

Wind Song. Ant Hellier

Once upon a time, a fair maiden wanted to travel to the unknown lands of Tasmania. The flying dragon had been tamed, the cottage prepared – even a carriage had been readied, though the fair maiden dreaded riding on it by herself. To make the adventure an epic one, the brave young lady had even hired servants to carry her up Castle Mountain. Everything was set for a dream come true.

But a spell was cast upon the lands and a great illness swept across all countries near and far. The fair lady was forced to return to her home castle and remain behind closed gates until the evil spell had been broken. No hiking, no riding on the wrong side of the road, no Tasmania. Yet the fair lady never forgot about her dream. It remained dormant inside her for years like the seed of a banksia pod waiting for fire to be released.

Many moons later, three and a half years to be exact, the maiden – though not so fair anymore but brave and determined – got another shot at travelling to the Island Off An Island: Tasmania. And so it happened that one gloomy, cold Monday morning, she got dropped off at the shores of Tasman Island, nothing to herself but a heavy rucksack that weighed many stones but a smile on her face. Her dream was about to come true. She would brave the treacherous peaks and valleys of the Three Capes Track.

A few hundred metres into her journey, the brave woman came upon a withered, wooden bench. A great lover of these places of repose, she sat down and looked over Denman’s Cove, where just moments ago she had been dropped off. The weathered plaque read Dear Eliza and marked the first of many more Storyseats to come. Storyseats to guide her along her way to the Capes – this one remembering the many thousands of convicts that had been brought over from England over 200 years ago to build settlements. Forced and lonely labour, as a letter those days often took over a year to arrive. If it arrived at all. A bit like walking the Three capes, with no internet connection for days.

Happiness weighs a ton
It’s all speckled in luck and heavy as fuck
I never could pick it up
I’ve been staring at the stars
They’re spelling out words and waving their wands at me
I am the chosen one
Cool name

Far away from here
There is a notice flapping in the breeze for me
Along with a notion that I changed too much
Maybe not enough
I don’t wanna weigh you down

Cherub. Ball Park Music

“Good morning! It’s really great to be here with you. I’m Xavier, but my friends call me X. And from this moment on, I’m gonna be your own personal AI DJ on Spotify. Yeah, I’m an AI but listen, I don’t set timers, I don’t switch on your lights. I’m all about music, your music. I know what you listen to. I see Ball Park Music there,” the app said, referencing a recent favourite of mine.

I admit it – I had been listening to the Australian band, or more specifically this one particular song, a lot lately. A lot a lot! Bordering on obsessive-a lot. I liked the melody, and the words spoke to me. And when I find a song I like, I tend to play it on repeat. Over and over again. It’s a bit like a cheese sandwich with mustard, or yoghurt with maple syrup. When I like something, I like it a lot. Until I don’t.

But who was this guy, calling me out like this? And how dare he snoop around in my favourite tunes? It felt creepy and yet, strangely comforting at the same time. Someone, who knew me whether I liked it or not.

“So I’m gonna be here every day playing those artists you got on rotation, going back into your history for songs you used to love,” it said, “and I’m always on the lookout for new stuff too. Just to push your boundaries a little bit.”

Push my boundaries? Not sure if I needed that. All I wanted was to listen to my favourite music.

“I’m gonna come back every few songs to change up the vibe. But if you’re ever not feeling the music, there’s gonna be a DJ button at the bottom of your screen. Tap that, and I’ll come back early to switch it up,” DJ X said. “All right, enough talk. I mentioned Ball Park Music. Let’s get it going with that and some other music you’ve been listening to.” The tunes started playing.

DJ and I met a few weeks ago, have been going back and forth for hours, and I return to him every once in a while. “Up next is a track you used to love, but it’s been a minute since you’ve listened to it,” the DJ said, before putting on a track by Harry Styles that I had not listened to in over a year. Nor want to listen to, it because it was a rather sad song and reminded me of how lonely living on your own can be sometimes. And how difficult starting over had been. DJ X opening old wounds and not even offering me a tissue. Or a shoulder to lean on. Even pressing the DJ button at the bottom of the screen didn’t help. The damage was done.

It’s a bit of quite a weekend. Not like something I would usually write about. Because there really isn’t much to write about. A colleague suggested writing about the “Präteritum Song” she had been teaching her German students this week, and that has been stuck in my head ever since then. I’d rather not – still trying to forget!

Not like the past weekend, when I enjoyed the rugged beauty of the lush Southern Highlands. Hiked rainforests and escarpments, sampled hot pies and Australian wine, and visited the Big Bad Potato (what a strange sight). Heard a different birdsong than the usual kookaburra laughter (the gorgeous Crimson Rosella visited the backyard early in the morning), and saw spring spring in front of my eyes. I found the desk I want to write a book at and a beautiful little French restaurant, where I want to have a big dinner party with all my friends and family.

Family. My family is on the move this weekend. It is the last long weekend in Canada and school is starting again. My colleagues are having the end-of-summer jitters, and my children are moving out. Taking off just like the shy birds in the yard, turning us into true empty nesters. It feels strange not to be there. Strange not to help them move into their tiny dorm rooms. Strange not to give them a hug goodbye. Instead, we FaceTime, me getting a tiny glimpse of what their new life looks like. They are a bit nervous, they say. Starting fresh is never easy. I’m an expert on that. I try to give them some advice: take a shower, go outside, get a coffee. Suddenly a “Mom, I have to go! Meeting up with some friends!” That was quick! I’m happy for him.

Time for me to follow my own advice. Go for a run – it’s Terry Fox’s Anniversary and I run in his memory. Get a coffee – lots of dads with their families having breakfast. It’s Father’s Day today. I think of my own dad and the first Father’s Day without being able to call him. Take a shower – DJ X talking to me through the shower curtain. He may be nosy, but he’s not indecent. He respects my privacy, after all.

I can’t sort out my feelings about DJ yet, but I don’t hate him. There are days, where he is the only human-not-human voice I hear. One time DJ chimed in with its smooth, bass-ey voice, and said I was listening to “Herb Gronmeir,” which is a pretty strange mispronunciation of Herbert Grönemeyer, even when you factor in the umlauts. DJ X may know my music, but he’ll never really know me. Sorry DJ X!

“To finish, I have the Präteritum Song for you. There’s just something about hot German Grammar that makes it hard to resist. And if you don’t like it – too bad. No blue DJ button for this one! Enjoy the lyrics, your DJ G.”

Das Präteritum ist gar nicht schwer, wenn Musik dazu erklingt.
Das Präteritum, ach bitte sehr, es wird leichter, wenn man singt.

The time to hesitate is through
No time to wallow in the mire
Try now we can only lose
And our love become a funeral pyre

Come on, baby, light my fire
Come on, baby, light my fire
Try to set the night on fire, yeah

Light my fire. The Doors

Her name is Lotti. Long blond hair, luscious and shiny. Slender legs. Seductive, yet kind eyes. A mature beauty. Patient and kind. She loves to read and is a great listener. She is intelligent, well-travelled and speaks many languages – German, English, and her own language of love.

Every Friday, she comes by to visit our classroom, and the kids love to see her. She stays for a while and hangs with us. Usually, she doesn’t say much. Just sits on the grass in the sunshine and spends time with them. The children love to read to her – the ol’ girl just closes her eyes and listens. Fiction or facts, fantasy or fun – she enjoys any type of genre. Food stories are her favourite though. Or books about squirrels. Though she would never chase one – this lady is way too cool and composed for that kind of behaviour. A Grande Dame. A wagging dowager. The princess of print.

Her name is Lotti. Lotti the story Dog.

Welcome to my school. Our school. The school of Lotti, the Story dog and crazy chickens running around. Of bush turkeys and big fat crows. Kookaburras, goanna lizards, and stick insects. Where little ducklings hatch and ponies roam the sports field. It’s a zoo – literally!

A year ago today, I returned to Sydney to finish what I had started – teaching the dream of living and working abroad. Time flies when you are having fun. At least most of the time.

I admit it – the start was a bit rough. Arriving in the middle of the school year and taking over a class that had a series of class teachers, wasn’t always easy. Animals help – in this case, it was a beaver I had brought over from Canada. Kasimir was his name, and he told the children stories about his adventures with his mate Frippe. Stories about baking and gardening, cooking and drawing. The simple books somehow appealed to the students, and together we created our own stories about Kasimir.

Off to a good start in the new school year – a trip to the Taronga Zoo with sixty students from all Grade 1 and 2 classes. In March, the Easter story reenacted with a donkey that did not want to come out of its horse float. Ducklings that hatched in the Kindergarten Class – very fluffy and surprisingly naughty. All these helped create an atmosphere of caring and belonging for the students and for me. The lizard in the classroom, the spiders under the classroom containers, the snake in the playground not so much!

And of course, Lotti the story dog!

Story dogs are part of a literacy program in Australia that tries to make reading fun for children. And my students love it! Each Friday, third lesson, Lotti shows up at our classroom and invites two children to come with her and read. The students run to get their easy readers and books, and off they go to find a quiet spot somewhere to sit and read to the dog. The accepting, loving nature of dogs gives this program its magic and helps the little ones relax, open up, try harder and have fun while reading to a friendly, calm dog. No judgment, no assessment. Just love and fun. The bark that lights my fire! Woof!

So when you ask me, what sparks light my fire while working at a school abroad, it is little moments like these. Seeing my students sitting on a picnic blanket, trying to teach the oh-so-patient Lotti to read a German book.

The quiet of arriving at school early in the morning, when the rising sunlight filters through the trees, the grass next to the sports field is still wet with rain, and the kookaburra sits on a tree stump, pondering life. The glimmers of joy. Kindy kids sitting on rocks, having a morning tea picnic. Primary kids making soup out of leaves and flowers and sticks. A girl sneaking chicken eggs into her schoolbag to take home (not sure if they made it).

In a city of posh private schools and school uniforms, of old-fashioned school frocks and straw hats, the sight of the students at our school is quite refreshing. Some maybe call it a bit of a hippy school (no offence, quite the contrary), I call it a place of many little sparks that light my fire.

In 2019, I came to teach in Sydney to reignite my love for teaching, and to rekindle my passion for being a teacher. And it did. No school is perfect, and neither is this one! But it has a lot of elements that I am looking for when I think about how and what I want to teach. I enjoy teaching in German again (no more dreaded French), working in a team, the freedom you have as a teacher when working at a private school, and of course, the beautiful location.

A year ago today, I returned to the German School Sydney for another two-year contract. Took the big risk of coming back. Breaking my own rule of “never go back to a place where you were happy before”.

I returned with the constant reminder in my head, that things would not be the same. Because they are not. Friendships have changed, teaching has changed, and the school has changed. I have changed. Things are different now than they were in 2019, but that does not mean they are better or worse – they are just different. Still plenty of tiny little sparks that light my fire. A year has passed and another one to go. And who knows what will happen then.

It is our annual Christmas Market at school this weekend and there will be sausages and mulled wine, waffles and fairy floss (spun by no other than me!). Children will sing Christmas carols, walk with lanterns, and roast marshmallows over the open fire pit. A big bang for a small school.

Lotti will be at home, and together with all the other animals, wait for the peace and quiet to return to our school grounds. And while I’ll be working at my sweet stall, trying to get the fairy floss out of my hair, I will watch for the little sparks rising up from the open fire pit and all the other little magical spots. The little flames that keep lighting my love for this place. For teaching. And in my head, I can hear Lotti barking. Woof!

• 😊 Blocking out students’ faces to assure their privacy 😊

It all starts with impersonations. We can make ourselves sound like almost anything: chainsaws, other birds, cameras and even koalas. Pretty soon we are telling all kinds of lies: big lies, little lies, white lies, porky pies, and big fat whoppers.

Liarbird. Philip Bunting

(Warning: This post may contain fibbing, faking, fabricating, or straight-out lying.)

July 2019. The first time I set foot in an Australian coffee shop and ordered a “weird long black with a dash of milk“. How I struggled to purchase my first cup of coffee, and how I made a complete fool of myself while doing so. I remember holding my open wallet across the coffee shop counter like a little kid, so the barista could choose the proper coins to pay for my hot beverage. Perfect humiliation.

Four years later, and I have practised my coffee-ordering skills (I have graduated to a “large almond cap extra strong extra hot”), though i continue to struggle to recognize the proper coins. Nobody pays with real money in Australia anymore – it’s all tap and pay. And even I wanted to, I am often too lazy to look for my glasses to identify the right coin.

The other day we were learning about Australian coins and bills in Math class and for the first time I had a proper look at each individual coin – with my glasses on! It turned out that most of them had an Australian animal on the reverse side: a feather tailed glider, a frill-necked lizard, an echidna, a platypus, or five kangaroos. And the liar, err, lyrebird. One of Australia’s best-known birds but extremely shy. Encountering a lyrebird was almost as impossible as ordering a coffee in a local coffee shop and paying for it with the proper coins.

During our past winter break, just having returned from the hot and humid Canadian summer, a colleague of mine invited me to the Southern Highlands, two-hours south of Sydney. Renowned for wineries, excellent cafés and restaurants, some of the best waterfalls in Sydney and of course, epic hikes and lookouts. We wanted to explore the area and decided on a short little hike to the Fitzroy Falls through a eucalyptus forest, with rainforest areas and thick bush covering the ground. 

The morning had started quite early and unusually cold – so cold that there was frost on the lawn and a thin layer of ice on the windshield of our car. Not the thick layer of ice we get in Canada, that requires an ice pick and an axe to get through. But still – there was ice in paradise! My first frost in Australia. Temperatures had dipped below zero during the night and the insides of the Airbnb, we were staying at, did not feel much warmer than that. The bone-chilling cold in the house drove us to the warmth of our car and its seat heaters, and off we went to the Fitzroy Falls in Morton National Park – toasty bums and perfect coffees in hand.

Shortly before nine, we arrived at the enormous park with cascading waterfalls, imposing gorges, and lush rainforest full of wildlife. And we had it all to ourselves! Maybe it was too early, or maybe it was too cold, but on our short walk along the trail, we did not meet a human soul. Nor did we see any animal other than a few birds: cockatoos and kookaburras, bowerbirds and crimson Rosella. And all of a sudden, long brown tail feathers rustling in the bush, and we heard the distinct call of a big fat liar – the Lyrebird!

A ground-dwelling Australian bird, it has the impressive ability to mimic natural and artificial sounds from its environment. Its fossils dating back to about 15 million years, this shy animal was an excellent imposter and liar! The better the faking, the more popular the male bird with the ladies! The fake call and the impressive S-shaped tail feathers that resemble the shape of a lyre instrument – hence its name.

Just in my head, it was spelled l-i-a-r bird and looked more like the character from a picture book I would read with my class. And why not – after all, this bird was very good at faking it! Winter was its mating season, and he was fibbing and faking away!

Speaking of winter and liars – some of my friends and family members abroad at times seem to think I am lying when I tell them about the Australian winter.

“Yeah right,” they say, “some kind of winter, when there are blue skies and palm trees!”

And, I agree, while winter here in Sydney does not compare to the bone-chilling, heart-breaking, snot-in-your-nose-freezing cold in Canada, there have definitely been signs all around me that scream: It’s winter!

And I am not making this up!

True Winter Sign #1

While winter in Australia officially lasts from June until September, the first signs of winter appeared in April.

Daylight savings time had ended on the second Sunday in April, and all of a sudden the sun sets at 5 in the afternoon. And I don’t mean a slow, long-lasting setting of the sun that gives you enough time to make it home before it gets dark. No, I mean a quick and sudden night-falling that lasts only minutes. You can literally watch the sun drop. I was out for a run at the lagoon that second Sunday in April, and still had a few kilometres to go, when the sky suddenly started to get dark and went from blue to orange to purple to pitch-black! I must have run my personal best that afternoon, so I did not have to run through the dark forest full of dangerous creatures like snakes and spiders and boxing kangaroos.

True Winter Sign #2

Also in April, I made the painful realization that winter in Sydney comes as an overnight shock! Not a gentle cooling of temperatures – no! One night you sleep in a t-shirt and shorts, the next you get your double Doona cover (aka duvet), blankets, flannelette sheets, flannelette PJ, flannelette everything out and shiver yourself to sleep.

I had left my windows open while I was gone to Germany for two weeks and when I returned to my little granny flat, the inside was so cold I could see my breath. It took my gas cook top and the pathetic little space heater I had purchased before my trip to get at least one room in the tiny place somewhat warm. Houses here are often built of wood with very little insulation and no central heating, and I learned quickly to leave my windows shut.

True Winter Sign #3

Everyone starts to wear their winter gear – despite it being plus 10 degrees outside! Waiting at the bus stop in the morning, I started seeing people wearing fur-lined UGG boots, thick puffer jackets, woollen beanie hats and tights instead of shorts. Sometimes UGG boots and shorts. Or woollen hats and bikinis. It is a bit confusing for a Canadian, I have to admit.

But, after a few weeks of secretly mocking the over-the-top winter wear of the locals, I started to do the same. Layers of sweaters and a jacket and a scarf when I leave the house in the morning at 5 degrees. A t-shirt and sweat run down my face when I return in the afternoon to a sunny 23 degrees. My UGG boots I only wear inside to keep my feet warm – give me another year, and I’ll break down and wear them in public.

True Winter Sign #4

You know it’s winter in Australia when the surrounding animals change. And I have to say, I love it! All the tiny critters like cockroaches and spiders and ants disappear, and it’s a rather peaceful time in my apartment. When you can go to the toilet in the middle of the night without stepping on a giant bug or open your Nutella jar without being greeted by an army of ants. I do, however, miss the little gecko in my shower a bit.

Instead, you see whales and dolphins swim by in the ocean to migrate from their Southern Ocean feeding grounds to warmer waters to mate and have their babies. The only animal that stays with me all year round is my loyal friend, the kookaburra. Except that he did not get the memo about the time change and started acting up at 4 in the morning instead of five.

True Winter Sign #5

You know it is winter in Australia, when you see Christmas hats and roast dinners at the local Pub – Christmas in July is a thing, though I am not sure why. There is the Christmas Market at our school in August and people line up to enjoy hot mulled wine in 20 degrees and sunshine.

It is hard to believe that this is already my third winter here in Australia. That it’s already been a whole year since I arrived. And yet, every day I learn something new about this beautiful country and its traditions and habits.

Ocean winter swim is a thing here in Australia and I watch the locals swim into the rising sun every morning at the beach while I drink my almond cap, extra strong, extra hot.

One day I took all my courage and went in the freezing cold water myself. Barely able to breath, I did some strokes to create heat, when I saw three whales in the distance, jumping synchronously out of the ocean, dancing just for me. And when I got out of the cold water and climbed on my kangaroo to hop back home, I looked back and waved at whales with my mitten-clad hand. Or something like that.

Fibbing is fun and almost never gets you into trouble. Just like the liar bird said!

Cheers!