Precious and fragile things
Need special handling
My God what have we done to you?

We always tried to share
The tenderest of care
Now look what we have put you through

Things get damaged, things get broken
I thought we’d manage, but words left unspoken
Left us so brittle
There was so little left to give

I pray you learn to trust
Have faith in both of us
And keep room in your hearts for two

Precious. Depeche Mode

Once upon a time, there was a ring. Oh, Lord! No, not THAT RING! No, just a simple little ring, probably not worth much but precious nonetheless. 

A slim, gold-plated band with a rectangular blue gem sitting flat on top. A simple design of swirls and leaves on each side of its head. The aquamarine stone held by a thin frame of gold metal, dotted with white and yellow specks—the beautiful imperfections of the Lapis Lazuli. Blue like the night sky: the stars, the moon, the Milky Way. A whole universe in a tiny rectangular space.

My parents’ engagement ring. Purchased sometime in the 1950s, though I am just guessing. Given to my mother by my father, probably for its beautiful colour. Maybe for its meaning of harmony, love and protection in any kind of relationship. I doubt it, though – I don’t think people were big into crystals back then. Especially my father – but who knows? I wish I could ask them.

Instead, I consult the internet. The blue Lapis Lazuli, so I learn, is one of the most precious and beautiful stones. It is the stone of friendship and relationships but also truth and honesty! Who knew? 

A semi-precious rock formed by several minerals: the white specks of calcium, the golden flecks of pyrite, and the deep blue colour of sodalite.

When my mother gave me her ring at my wedding, it became MY precious. I wore it every day, not paying much attention to the wear and tear of everyday life. I did not protect it from sharp dish soap or oily hand lotion, as they tell you – not even from the raw ground beef I sank my be-ringed hand into when making meatloaf. It took me a while to figure out, where that nauseating stench on my right hand came from. My precious ring desperately needed to be de-beefed!

Eventually, the bottom of the ring wore thin and broke apart. A jeweller in the local shopping mall in Toronto was able to fix it – re-shanking they call it. Such a massive word for something so small and delicate. 

The ring journeyed with me through time. From Germany to Canada to Australia and never left my finger. Until the blue stone in its middle couldn’t hold on any longer. One night it fell out of its metal band and was gone. Just like that. I had the whole pub crawling on their knees, trying to find the tiny little blue gem on the worn red carpet of the bar. But to no avail – the rock remained missing, and the golden casing now sat empty on my right ring finger. It felt like the last thing that had reminded me of my mother, was gone.

This made me think of my chiropractor Dr. Jack – a fixer not only of bad backs and stuffed-up knees but, as it turned out, of broken jewellery as well. I remembered him admiring my blue gemmed ring, and decided to give it a shot.

“How much would it cost, to have the stone on my mother’s ring replaced?” I inquired hesitantly.

“One hundred dollars? One thousand? One million? Is it even worth it? Will it cost me my soul?” 

“Your soul!” he replied dryly. “And of course it’s worth it – it’s your mother’s ring.”

And so I dropped off my precious ring at Dr. Jack’s clinic – it was on a rainy day in February. I remember because I slipped on the wet front step on my way out, thinking that was a great way of making new customers. But this wasn’t about me or my bruised tailbone – this was about my ring!

One month went by. Two. Once in a while, I would ask about my ring, only to get a vague answer of it still waiting to be cut…. Just when I was about to give up on my family heirloom, I received a message from Dr. Jack informing me that my ring was now in Bangkok, together with many other broken jewels, waiting to be fixed over there, for a much smaller price. Had I lost my ring forever? Or, much worse, had I indeed sold my soul? How much would this sentimental journey cost me? My ring had travelled to Thailand without me. What an amazing trip – I kind of wanted to be my ring.

And then, one day in May, I received a photo of my mother’s ring, all shiny and new, with a brand new blue gemstone in the middle! My ring was once again complete, and on its way back to Sydney (I wondered what class it would fly in? And how much this trip overseas would cost me?). 

It turned out that it did not cost me my soul. Or a million dollars. Just $100 and a good bottle of wine. 

When I picked up my ring from the clinic this week, it did look a bit different –  very polished and clean. The blue stone a little shinier and smooth. But when I put it on my finger, I could still see the night sky, and my mother giving me the ring on my wedding day for “something blue”.

They say, if you lose a crystal, wish it well on its journey (and what a journey this little bugger has had!). Hope that the person who finds it will benefit from its positive energy (the only thing that benefitted from my poor little lost gem was the vacuum cleaner that sucked it up in that bar the next morning).

They also say, if you lost a crystal and then find it again, that maybe you needed a little break from the crystal’s energy and that you are now ready for its good vibrations once again. 

So bring it on, little Lapis! Bring on the strength and the courage, the royalty and the wisdom, the intellect and truth and everything that this blue rock stands for. “If you like it, put a ring on it!” she said. I’m with Beyoncé on this one!

No, to be honest, I’m not a big believer in crystals and their energy. I just like the blue colour of the ring on my finger. How it reminds me of the blue of the ocean. The sky before sunrise. My mother. I like that this little ring went on a journey on its own to get fixed and that it came back to me, all shiny and new. I like the story it tells me. Or as the author Laura van Berg put it:

“Objects contain worlds; troubled and fractured histories; unanswerable mysteries; force fields of thoughts and feelings. (…) Objects have the power to communicate the matter that exists beyond the limits of language”. (Laura van den Berg. Object Lesson: An Exploration).

So cheers to the stories that objects tell. The adventure, my precious ring has had. To Dr. Jack and the Stone Cutters of Bangkok. And the little things that are really the big things.

It’s been a long time running
It’s been a long time coming
It’s been a long, long, long time running
It’s well worth the wait
It’s well worth the wait
It’s well worth the wait
It’s well worth the wait

Long Time Running. The Tragically Hip

Going through my old emails, I came across a message sent on March 1, 2020. It read: 

“I have heard my knee again – this time hiking. They think it’s the meniscus. With lots of exercises, chiro, and patience, I am hoping to be still able to run the Noosa Marathon in May, maybe only the half.”

It did take lots of exercise and chiro to get back to running, but most of all, it took patience. Lots of patience. Three years of patience! 

But here I am! Noosa Marathon 2023, and I did it! Not the whole thing – I am three years older now! But Noosa Half is done! Check! It’s been a long time coming!

Noosa is a beautiful place on the ocean, an hour and a half flight north of Sydney. You get on the plane in Sydney in 7 degrees fall weather and arrive with a balmy 26 degrees sunshine. 

Noosa is a squeaky beach, swaying palm trees, coffee shops and small boutiques, ocean, rivers, and islands. But most of all, it’s flat! Super flat. There are a few misplaced-looking mountains in the hinterland – five to be exact. The five Noosa Mountains. Huge volcanic rocks that are categorized as laccoliths. Created about 26 million years ago, when dome-shaped bulges of magma cooled below the Earth’s surface. They look a bit like a pimple to me. Pretty pimples you can go hiking on.

Flying into Noosa and catching a first glimpse of the Sunshine Coast, there was a moment of panic when I wondered whether we had to run up one of these rocks during our marathon, but fortunately, we soon learned that our race would only take place on the beautifully flat streets of Noosa. Phew!

And so, three years after booking this flight, this hotel, and this race, I cashed in all my travel vouchers and was ready to run. Checked into the motel, picked up my race kit, had the obligatory pasta for dinner and went to bed at 8:30 pm. After all, we had an important race to run the next day. Always on my side, my energizer-bunny friend and running mate from school, and together we rocked this town.

Was I prepared? Nooo! Was I well-trained? Nooo! It had been three years since I last ran this distance, and in between, there was a messed-up knee, long Covid, years of quarantine, my father’s death… I was not prepared at all! 

 But I was ready! Because I wanted to finish what I had started. I had returned to Sydney to finish my contract with the German School. Had come back to finish the year of living my dream. Of experiencing fall and winter in Downunder. And to run this damn marathon.

And we did! It was hard, and it hurt. Kilometre 14 still sucks, and you ask yourself why you are doing this. Your legs hurt, your feet hurt, everything hurts. But then you look around and realize you are in paradise. The crystal-clear waters and the lush tropical vegetation. The morning sunshine warming the back of your legs, a gentle breeze cooling your face. And for a moment, you forget about your achy legs and the blisters on your feet, and you smile. I am running a dream! I am living my dream. It’s been a long time coming!

No, I’m not colorblind
I know the world is black and white
I try to keep an open mind
But I just can’t sleep on this tonight

Stop this train
I want to get off and go home again
I can’t take the speed it’s moving in
I know I can’t
But honestly, won’t someone stop this train?

Don’t know how else to say it
Don’t want to see my parents go

I’m one generation’s length away
From fighting life out on my own

John Mayer. Stop This Train

(This post is part of a 30-Day Journaling Project that I am participating in. Thank you to Suleika Jaouad of The Isolation Journals for provide the prompt.)

Day 16. Look through your photographs – maybe in old albums, maybe on your phone – and chose a person to write to. It could be someone living or someone who has died. Write them a letter, allowing the words to flow as they will. Then decide: Save it, or send it – and maybe a copy of the photograph too.

Dear Dad,

In the comforting darkness of the passenger cabin, surrounded by the soothing sound of the airplane’s constant hum, I write this letter to you.

I have been putting off this task, have been avoiding this writing prompt. So much I want to say, but I don’t know how. Words inside my head crash into each one another like atoms colliding. So many emotions, but I feel numb. So many thoughts, yet I feel dumb.

I spent the last eight days with you, watching you disappear slowly. We went from having Easter Lunch together to watching you suffer in a sterile hospital bed. Went from greeting each other as father and daughter to saying farewell with nothing more than a gentle squeeze of your hand.

I am on my way back to what I call home now. It is not easy to leave. Not easy to leave you. But it feels like I have nothing else to give. Feels like I have done everything I could right now. I am so grateful I got to sit with you and listen to you. Got to hold your hand and gently talk to you. Got to look after you for a short little while at least. In the end, it felt like I had no more to give. I have to go to find the strength to come back soon. Even if that means you will have left by then.

On my 22-hour journey around the globe, I watched an insane amount of reality shows on the tiny airplane screen in front of me – my comfort zone. 90 Day Fiancé (UK Edition!), Say Yes to the Dress (an old-time favourite), and various foodie shows. Insanely mind-numbing, but strangely comforting.

In one of the shows, something was said that struck a chord with me and got me to finally sit down and write this letter to you, Dad. Allow me to let the words and tears flow. And it went something like this:

“Even though I didn’t always have the greatest relationship with my parents – if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I am not me without all the experiences we had together – positive and bad.”

So here is my letter to you, Dad, to say thank you for all the experiences we shared – good and bad. For making me the person I am today.

Thank you for taking me for hikes and bike rides, though I am sure I complained plenty about each one of them. For taking me to the pool every Sunday morning, where you would swim your laps, while I would spend most of my time under the hot shower. For taking me to more churches than I cared to see. For introducing me to Beethoven’s 5th and Irish Coffee. Thank you for instilling in me a love for travel and adventure. For supporting my crazy dreams, no matter how outrageous they were.

While spending the last few days in your apartment, I found a big red folder with my name on it. I opened it to have a look inside. In it, I found all the blog posts I had written in the past, printed in colour and filed in no particular order.

When I left for Australia, you asked me whether I could still be a good mother to my children from that far away. Back then, I did not know what to say. In fact, I remember feeling a little irritated and annoyed by your question. Thinking about it again as I looked through the paper copies of my blog posts, I thought that every parent probably does what they think is best at that moment in time. Both, you and I.

And then I closed the thick red folder and put it back on the shelf in your deserted apartment.

Thank you, Dad, for reading my posts. For reading this letter, though I will never mail it. Thank you for being my dad. For making me who I am today. Miss you already.

Gisela

Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can’t go back
And moods that take me and erase me
And I’m painted black

Well, you have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It’s time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We’ve still got time
Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice
You’ve made it now

Falling slowly, sing your melody
I’ll sing it loud
Oh

Take it all

Falling Slowly. Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová

It’s fall in Australia. Forgive me if I call it fall. Fall is the older English usage, and I like it better – it’s familiar and trim, so apt for the season; its fitness for purpose, its spiritual intimations (the end of paradise, the falling of the year). This end of a season.

Rain is falling. Temperatures are falling. Even some leaves are falling in the evergreen Northern Beaches.

Days are getting shorter. The star-lit nights are getting longer. Daylight savings time ends tonight. Falling backwards by an hour. Hello darkness, my old friend – I’ve come to talk to you again...

I spent the day in bed, hiding under my warm doona, looking at UGG boots and electric heaters online. Yesterday I was wearing a summer dress. Today, I am fantasizing about an Oodie – an oversized blanket hoodie that looks awfully cozy and warm.

The first day of autumn was on March 1, but never mind the official date. You wake up one morning (I think it was on a Thursday) and the weather takes on a different feel after weeks of soupy humidity. You walk to the bus stop and the air feels different. Not only colder, but drier and sharper against your skin. You regret not having brought a sweater. Later, as you are running from one classroom to the next, you briefly look up to see a crisp blue sky, scrubbed of its summer haze. In the evening, when you return from school, you realize there are new scents in the evening air: damp earth, eucalyptus trees, and a wood stove burning close by. The sand feels colder to the touch, as you settle down to watch the sun set, creating the bold and beautiful orange, red and pink colours you see more of in the cooler season of fall. And when I say cooler, I mean average temperatures of 15–22 degrees. I am not complaining.

As the summer lingers, the days are still warm even as the evenings get shorter. Locals go for a swim after work in the ocean waters that are actually the warmest in the month of March and April. People still shop the supermarket barefoot  (I’m still not used to that).  Gone are the tourists that flock to the beaches on the weekends. It feels like the town is being returned to its rightful owners. You get back your favourite spot at your favourite café. The local eatery doesn’t run out of your favourite dish of meatballs and rice.  Knit sweaters appear in the shops’ windows. One last call from the cicadas. Small living things like ants and cockroaches and spiders decide to move in with you. The kookaburra continues to laugh, even though his laughter sounds a little sentimental, too.

As autumn arrives, so does a certain sense of melancholy and sadness. Gone are the days of heat and sunshine and being outdoors all the time. The year is about to come inside. Things are about to get serious. Feeling a bit more alone and homesick feels appropriate for this time of year. I miss celebrating birthdays with my family. Remembering anniversaries of loved ones that have passed with loved ones that are still alive but thousands of miles away. 

With the arrival of fall, I realize that I do not know Australia in autumn at all. That I have no idea what it is like. The last time I was here, I had to leave at the beginning of April as the pandemic was settling over the world like dusk setting in on a rainy autumn day. Do the leaves change colour? Do the trees go bare and naked? Do people eat pumpkin pie for Easter? Does the Easter bunny hop in the opposite direction?

Easter. Easter is such a spring holiday to me. The symbol for new beginnings and life, for flowers and short-sleeved outfits, for pastel colours and new hope. Teaching my students about Easter, I realize that all the schoolbooks we use have an Easter in mind that happens in spring. Not in fall! It’s a good thing that we always have a variety of beautiful flowers blooming down here, no matter what the season: giant Hibiscus, red bottle brush, prickly Banksias and the bright purple Tibouchina trees. So we add a few brown and orange and yellow leaves to our picture of the Easter bunny hopping through fall flowers. The children don’t mind. I find it hard to get used to this new Easter setting.

Autumn in Australia to me is early morning runs in cool, fresh air. The end of our first term at school (three more to go, before it all starts again). School holidays and flying out to Germany to see my dad and sisters. Falling back to spring. Springing back into fall. As I said, I am confused. 

One a day not too long ago, when it was still hot and summer, I went to the movie theatre to find some reprieve from the heat. The film “Shackleton” which tells the story of an expedition gone wrong and a ship being crushed by ice in Antarctica, seemed perfect to cool me down. Not only did it offer me a break from the stifling late-summer temperatures, it also gave me some unexpected advice on how to handle my own sense of feeling stuck at times.

1. Focus on your mission. Change your mission if you have to (I am on a mission to find out what this place feels like in autumn. Screw you Covid!).
2. Improvise when needed (Had to drop my race in Canberra to fly to Germany instead, which might have saved me from having to walk 21 km).
3. Use your emotional and social intelligence (if you got any).
4. Be persistent and resilient (every day!).
5. Manage the vital details (I cooked lentil soup this week – the perfect autumn meal).
6. Communicate frequently with the people on your team (not much of a caller, but I actually zoom called with my sisters this week, and it felt good!).
7. Learn from your mistakes!

Cheers!

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me
I am shielded in my armour
Hiding in my room safe within my womb
I touch no one and no one touches me
I am a rock, I am an island

And a rock feels no pain
And an island never cries

Simon & Garfunkel

The pulse oximeter on my finger was beeping. The screen on the small device flashed continuously.

“Mmm. That’s odd”, the nurse mumbled, fiddling around with the POx on my left hand.

“Let’s try again.”

I was lying on a heavy metal stretcher in the nurses’ room, staring at the white ceiling, and trying very hard not to get concerned about what the nurse had just said. I was way too tired to really care anyway.

“You have no pulse!” she declared, still trying to adjust the small machine on my middle finger, so it would pick up any form of vital sign.

That was indeed odd because as far as I was concerned, I still felt very much alive. Maybe feeling a little sleepy, but definitely not dead.

“Ah! There we go! It’s very low, but you do have a pulse!”

I feigned relief and smiled.

“It’s amazing you are even awake! Has it always been that low?”

Yup.

“Must be because you are a runner!”

I doubt it, but sure. Sounded better than basically being half-asleep all day.

“High-performing athletes often have a very low heart rate!” the nurse educated me.

Nope. I mean, yes – but I was not a high-performing athlete! Far from it. I just had a slow heart. Or none at all. That and very low blood pressure

“Oh my. Don’t you feel dizzy? You should have a glass of sparkly in the morning before you go to work.”

Though I liked the idea, I was not sure how my school would feel about that. Better dizzy than drunk!

And low iron. Or EYE-ON, as the lovely lady in the blue scrubs called it. Which was the reason why I was lying on this metal stretcher with a needle in my arm – my EYE-ON was extremely low, and I was about to receive an iron infusion. The magic potion. The super solution. The secret juice that was going to turn me into a half-marathon-running machine. And within the next three weeks, please – because that’s when my first race in Canberra was happening.

I had just run my personal best that morning, and I had hoped I could avoid this medical procedure. Not because I did not want it – I very much wanted all the iron I could get and all the energy that it would hopefully bring me. No, I had hoped to avoid the costs of getting this special treatment. Could have spent a weekend in the nicest spa in the Northern Beaches for the cost of the little cannula filled with brown liquid gold. I had hoped the nurse would look at my blood work results and tell me in a hushed voice:

“Darling – you don’t need this. You are fine! Why don’t you save yourself the money and just eat a bit of spinach!”

But no! Instead, after having looked at my file online, she got up and closed the door – almost as if to make sure I was not running away. After all, I was a high-performing athlete in her eyes.

I was going nowhere. And I was going to get some EYE-ON! Which would turn me into some kind of superhero instantly. Like Captain Australia. or something!

(Yes, there is a Captain Australia! I looked it up! And a Captain Britain, a Captain Brazil, a Captain America, of course, even a Captain Canada – all part of the All Captains Squad! Which Wolverine doesn’t want to be part of, because Captain America is bossy as usual. And then… oh, I’m sorry. I should focus! Eye on the eye-on!

Back to the iron! Iron is an important mineral that is involved in various bodily functions, including the transport of oxygen in the blood. No wonder I had felt so drained lately. That, or the fact that I basically had turned my entire life upside down – literally!

It turns out, iron is also the most abundant rock-forming element on earth, constituting about 5% of the earth’s crust. Iron is the reason for the earth’s magnetic field. And it is responsible for the red colour in many of Australia’s rocks and the deep red sands of the Australian desert.

Ever wondered why is Uluru red? For thousands of years, Uluru’s surface has been exposed to the water and the oxygen in the air. (That, and millions of flies!) This exposure has slowly decayed the minerals in the rock, causing them to oxidize. As a result, the iron minerals found inside the rock’s surface are rusting, which leads to its red colour. There you go!

And even sandstone, the principal rock type here in the Sydney Basin, is rich in iron. At times, you can see the iron oxide minerals shining through, having formed a vivid orange and brown circular pattern in the light brown stone. “Liesegang Banding” this internal rock feature of red swirls is called and can be found all along the coast of Sydney.

Next to twirling in circles, the local sandstone also likes to form a pattern of fine wavy lines created by layers and layers of sand deposited by a huge river system that came all the way from Antarctica 250 million years ago, when everything in Down Under was still connected.

And finally, there are these strange holes, also called honeycomb weathering. An attractive element of coastal exposure of the rock to water and wind occurs when the salt crystals from the ocean water break parts of the rock, creating a small hole that gets bigger as the process repeats itself again and again.

Sydney’s sandstone, called Hawkesbury Sandstone, can be found everywhere in the region (the name “Sydney Sandstone” had already been given to the other Sydney in Nova Scotia. Sorry, Captain Australia. This one went to Captain Canada!).

In nature, it underlines and shapes the scenery of vertical cliffs, plateau surfaces, and steep and boulder slopes. Sydney’s sandstone landscape is largely built from nutrient-poor, but iron-rich rock that supports the incredibly rich flora of the area. Many of the species found in the area are said to benefit from the buffering action of the iron against the phosphorous toxicity of the land. The diversity of sandstone heathlands and shrublands in places like Ku-rin-gai Chase right next to my school is only surpassed in the variety by biodiverse hotspots found in southwest West Australia.

In history, where sandstone has been important to the Indigenous people long before the settlers arrived, and many rock engravings can still be found in the area.

In the city, where sandstone has been the premium building stone from the early days of settlement in New South Wales to the present day. The city’s Town Hall, Cathedrals, art galleries, museums and schools are made of this iron- and quartz-rich rock. It is the rock that built The Rocks!

On his well-toned chest, Captain Australia wears the Southern Cross – a radiant star group that appears in the dream stories of the Aboriginals and helped early sailors find their way. The 5 stars were useful nighttime companions to all explorers and travellers.

Last night, after my iron infusion and a big dinner of hamburger and Coke (doctor’s order), I was sitting at the beach, waiting for the supplement to do its job. The last couple of weeks had been hard – the end of a long term, parent interviews, accreditation and taxes, the occasional moment of feeling homesick – and I was waiting for that additional energy to surge through my veins. For my muscles to bulge just like Captain A’s, for those guiding stars to appear and show me the way. But nothing happened, other than my stomach making funny gurgling sounds.

But as I looked up, there it was – the Southern Cross! At least, I think it was because I’m not very good at recognizing star constellations. And while I realized that it may take a few more weeks for the infusion to kick in and my energy to surge, I was having my own little superhero moment right there and then, on the dark deserted beach. Surrounded by the sandstone of the headlands, the guiding stars above me, and heaps of smelly iron-rich seaweed in front of me, I was getting the energy I needed to get up and go on. At least until the EYE-ON would kick in!

Cheers

• https://www.ga.gov.au/education/classroom-resources/minerals-energy/australian-mineral-facts/iron
• https://www.nationalrockgarden.com.au/rock-collection/hawkesbury-sandstone/

I am woman, hear me roar
In numbers too big to ignore
And I know too much to go back an’ pretend
‘Cause I’ve heard it all before
And I’ve been down there on the floor
And no one’s ever gonna keep me down again

Yes, I am wise
But it’s wisdom born of pain
Yes, I’ve paid the price
But look how much I’ve gained
If I have to, I can do anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
I am woman

You can bend but never break me
‘Cause it only serves to make me
More determined to achieve my final goal
And I come back even stronger
Not a novice any longer
‘Cause you’ve deepened the conviction in my soul

Yes, I am wise
But it’s wisdom born of pain
Yes, I’ve paid the price
But look how much I’ve gained
If I have to, I can do anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
I am woman

I am Woman. Helen Reddy

March 8, 2023. International Women’s Day. 

Another busy Wednesday at school with teaching, planning, and tons of emails. The record-breaking temperatures from the two previous days were finally starting to come down, and the classrooms were back to a balmy 30 degrees room temperature. We do have air-conditioning in our fancy classroom containers, but the heat usually wins by midday. I couldn’t wait for the school day to be over, so I could get home to enjoy a refreshing dip in the ocean and an evening in the cool ocean breeze.

Getting off the bus, I was greeted by a large sign in front of the local bakery: You are awesome! Well, not me specifically, but every person walking by. Every woman. Every man. What a lovely message. Soon thereafter, the first texts from Canada started coming in on my phone: Happy Women’s Day! You Ladies Rock! And a YouTube recording of the song “I am Woman”.

Right, I almost forgot! It was Women’s Day and ironically I had just spent the day filling out feedback surveys for the leaders at my new school. Which, interestingly enough (but not surprisingly) were all men! When I thought about it, so far all the leadership roles at the schools abroad that I have worked at had been filled by men. Montreal, Hong Kong, Toronto, Sydney. Principal. Deputy Principal. Head of Primary. You name it – always men. Lots and lots of highly qualified female teachers do the daily groundwork, yet not a single woman in any of the leadership positions of the German schools I had worked at. Coincidence? Maybe. I can only speak about my own experiences.

Flashback. May 1996. Düsseldorf, Germany. Hotel Nikko. 11am. My first job interview as a teacher. The position I was applying for: Primary School Teacher at the German Swiss International School, in Hong Kong.

My dad had found the tiny ad in the national newspaper. He knew of my wish to teach abroad and, having worked overseas himself, supported my dream. My mom tried to hide the newspaper clipping as she did not want me to leave. Too expensive to send letters and parcels to Hong Kong, she said. I knew what she wanted to say, was: Hong Kong was simply too far away for her youngest daughter to move to.

Yet I applied and received an invitation for an interview. This was 1996 and there were no zoom calls or online interviews. There weren’t even any computers or the internet, yet. Just an old-fashioned phone call from the Principal of the school, Herr Schierschke, inviting me to come to the Nikko Hotel near the central train station in Düsseldorf. With no internet around, I had no idea what kind of hotel this would be. But located right next to the train station, I pictured a dingy little love hotel. I decided to dress down, and wore a pair of jeans and a can of pepper spray in my pocket – you never know! And off. I went to the first job interview in my life.

Hotel Nikko turned out to be an upscale five-star hotel on the bustling Koenigsallee in Düsseldorf. I quickly realized that I was extremely underdressed when I walked into the gigantic foyer of the hotel. Beautiful people in beautiful little outfits. Expensive suits and elegant dresses. High heels and lots of make-up. And me in my washed-out jeans. At least I had thrown on my H&M blazer at the very last minute. I didn’t even need my pepper spray to make myself cry.

The interview went well until my potential future boss asked me about my partner.

“Frau Koehl, I am very impressed by your qualifications and I would like to offer you the position, but I have to ask: What is your husband going to do in Hong Kong?”

My first response must have been very polite, and well-rehearsed, I am sure. Probably something like him finding a job in one of the trading companies. After all – this was Hong Kong, an international business and trade hub. I was convinced he would find a job!

A couple of other questions were asked before the principal inquired once again about my husband’s plans on how to fill his time in the Far East. I paraphrased my answer and assured the interviewer that my partner would be fine, slightly annoyed by now.

Before the interview in the glitzy café at the best hotel in town ended, Herr Schierschke asked one last time about my spouse.

“You know!,” he explained in a condescending tone,” it’s not good for the husband to get bored. Then they get depressed, and the family has to return to Germany. A man needs to be busy. A man needs to work!”

I wanted this job. I always wanted to teach abroad and this was the perfect opportunity. But at that moment, I remember thinking: Screw it! I had had enough of this conversation.

“Herr Schierschke!”, I said, wiping my sweaty hands on my worn-out jeans.

“I appreciate your concern. And I can only assure you that my husband will be fine. But let me ask you this question: if I was a man, and we were having this job interview, would you ask about my wife and how she would feel not having anything to do while her spouse went to work every day? Would you be as concerned about her getting bored and sad and depressed?”

I don’t remember how the interview ended. I want to believe I turned around on the flat heels of my comfortable shoes, my messy hair, all frizzy from sweating through this interview, swishing through the air as I stormed out of the pompous reception hall of the Nikko Hotel. But I don’t remember.

I do remember receiving a phone call the next day, being offered the job. I started teaching at the German International School, in Hong Kong three months later. My husband worked for a Swiss trading company until we had our first son, born in 1998. He was the best stay-at-home dad there ever was. And the only time he was sad and depressed, was the time he was working nonstop 24/7. I loved being the sole breadwinner, supporting my little family.  A chance you don’t get very often as a woman on a meagre teacher salary. I was at the height of my career. I was woman!

Feeling like I had not acknowledged International Women’s Day enough, I decided to check out the All About Women’s Festival at the Sydney Opera House. A week-long event that celebrated extraordinary female thinkers, writers, and artists and posed vital questions about gender, equality and justice. I was interested in the Opening Gala hosted by Australian singer, actor and author Clare Bowditch. Sold out! I looked at the conversation with the American author Sloane Crosley. Sold out. Until I came across an event titled “Actually Autistic”. Intrigued by the topic and somewhat familiar with some members of the panel (Chloe Hayden, Australian actress in the Netflix show Heartbreak High as well as Grace Tame, Australian activist and advocate for survivors of sexual assault, named Australian of the year 2021) I purchased a ticket.

I was blown away  – by the event itself and the panel talk specifically. All four women on stage were autistic and listening to them speak – their experiences as neurodivergent women in a neurotypical world, their strategies, their struggles but also their strengths – was the most inspiring thing I had heard in a very long time. Ever. As a woman, I was touched by their struggles. As a teacher, I was mesmerized by their ways of explaining autism. As a human being, I was deeply humbled. I was moved by the sense of community in the room. I was energized by the overall positive energy of the event.

After the panel talk, lining up to have my newly purchased book by Chloe Hayden “Different but not Less” signed, I started chatting to a BIPOC woman behind me (and yes – I had to look up the term as well). We talked about women’s rights and equality in the film industry, which was her field of expertise.

“You know Cate Blanchett?” the woman asked.

I did. I mean – who doesn’t. In fact, I had just seen her lasted film “Tar” in what must have been one of the oldest theatres in the Northern Beaches. A local celebrity, Blanchett lived in Sydney – my friend even once spotted her at the Zoo!

“Yes!”, I said, glad to be able to contribute something to the conversation. “I loved the movie Tar!”

Silence. Had I said the wrong thing – again?

“Well, she is not very supportive of our cause.” 

The woman went on to tell me about “white feminism” and the call for a more inclusive and radical movement. Fair enough. I got that. I still liked her movie, though. And I was still concerned about all my superiors at school being white men. Did that make me a white feminist? I wasn’t sure and went quiet. Until the woman behind me nudged me and winked at me as if to say, “we are all fighting for the same thing!”

This week, someone accused me of always “turning everything into a feminist issue”. 

Maybe do, maybe I don’t. I don’t really know. It’s not my intention – I just feel strongly about certain issues and topics. To be honest, I wouldn’t consider myself a feminist, especially after my short conversation with the BICOP women in the line-up behind me. I often find myself rather naive and uneducated when it comes to feminist or political issues. 

Leaving your family and home to follow your dreams, as a woman, is unusual. Working abroad, as a woman, is unusual. Working on your career, after having stayed home for twelve years to raise five children, is unusual. It is unusual, but it is me. It comes at the price of guilt and loneliness and financial loss, but it is my goal. Always has been, and always will be.

And who knows – maybe one day I’ll be the Head of Primary. Or Deputy Principal. Or Principal. Not at this school, but somewhere else in this beautiful world. Who knows?

I am strong. I am invincible. I am woman.

You were riding your bike to the sound of “It’s No Big Deal”
And you’re trying to lift off the ground on those old two wheels
Nothing about the way that you were treated ever seemed especially alarming ’til now
So you tie up your hair and you smile like it’s no big deal

You can let it go
You can throw a party full of everyone you know
And not invite your family, ’cause they never showed you love
You don’t have to be sorry for leaving and growing up, mmh

Matilda, you talk of the pain like it’s all alright
But I know that you feel like a piece of you’s dead inside
You showed me a power that is strong enough to bring sun to the darkest days
It’s none of my business, but it’s just been on my mind

You can let it go
You can throw a party full of everyone you know
And not invite your family, ’cause they never showed you love
You don’t have to be sorry for leaving and growing up

You can see the world, following the seasons
Anywhere you go, you don’t need a reason
‘Cause they never showed you love
You don’t have to be sorry for doing it on your own

You’re just in time, make your tea and your toast
You framed all your posters and dyed your clothes, ooh
You don’t have to go
You don’t have to go home
Oh, there’s a long way to go
I don’t believe that time will change your mind

Matilda. Harry Styles

(April 2019)

“I must have been about seven when I decided to run away from home for the first time. I got my red-checkered cloth rucksack with the fake leather trim, packed a snack-sized can of fruit cocktail and a spoon from the kitchen, careful not to make any noise. The house was quiet. Mittagsruhe, midday silence and rest. A German peculiarity and sacred in our family. 

I carefully wheeled the orange folding bike out of the garage (Don’t scratch the car!) and started to pedal. Began climbing the hill ahead of me, eyes on the road, mind on the snack. How far did I want to go? How far could I go until someone would notice? How far did I have to go before I could stop for a break and eat my delicious snack? The top of the hill seemed like a good destination. 

The ride on the bike with its awkward frame and tiny wheels was cumbersome. The fact that I had to pedal backwards to shift into the lower gear took away from what little momentum I had going forward. I inched my way up the ascending road, slowly passing barren autumn fields on my right, leaving rows of grey apartment buildings on the left behind me.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally reached the top of the hill.  A weathered wooden bench on the side of the road, framed by two towering trees, dark and leafless against the grey sky. A good place to stop and have a rest. 

I never made it any further that day. Maybe I stayed on that lonely bench on the hill a little longer. Probably not. What must have felt like forever away from home had only been minutes. I packed up my finished snack, got on my orange folding bike, and descended the steep road I had climbed.

Small bicycle wheels turning faster and faster, feet off the pedals, my familiar neighbourhood flying by, cool November air in my hair. Freedom that felt eternal only lasted a short little while. Downhill all the way, my eyes teary from the wind, I could hardly see.

Until I reached my home. I returned the bike to its original spot in the garage (Don’t scratch the car!) and went back inside. The house remained silent. No one had noticed my absence. No one had been looking for me. No one witnessed the sad smile on my face. It was always about the journey. Never about the destination.”

My first blog post. Written in April 2019. I had just received a job offer from the German School in Sydney and decided that I wanted to share the exciting news by writing about it. And so I did. Wrote about a childhood memory that suddenly came to mind. A bike. Two wheels. Lifting off the ground. Leaving my family. Leaving my home. Leaving my house.

My house. Harry’s House. English songwriter and fan-favourite, Harry Styles, is in town. I had a ticket, and then I didn’t. Gave it to my friend to go with her daughter. Everyone remembers their first concert – for the right or the wrong reasons. Mine was Kool & the Gang in 1985 for 5 US dollars. Hers was going to be Harry Styles at the Sydney Olympic Stadium for a few more dollars than that. But I was sure that she would remember her first concert for the rest of her life. And not only because it was Harry!

So instead of putting on my feather boa and joining the over 80,000 pink-and-white-clad hysterical fans, I listened to his songs from the comfort of my little granny flat (Do people also remember their very last concert? Was I getting old?). I knew I wanted to write about “Home” and so I decided to see if good old Harry had anything to say about it. And did he ever!

When writing a blog post, I usually have an idea. Or a story to tell. Some pictures. Or I do some research on a topic that interests me. Sometimes there’s absolutely nothing and my creative mind goes blank. But sometimes there’s like a spark, an idea, and it all comes together all at once and seems to make perfect sense – at least to me.

Matilda was one of the songs on Harry’s newest album,  “Harry’s House”. Inspired by a friend who was going through tough times, Styles wrote the song to show he listened; Sometimes it’s just about listening. I hope that’s what I did here. If nothing else, it just says, ‘I was listening to you. Not only exercising empathy, but the lyrics also hold an empowering message of choosing your own life and happiness, and later on in the song, choosing your own family. 

And that was exactly what I wanted to write about! Coincidence? I listened to the lyrics, and it hit me: the opening line of the song, mirroring my very first blog post, almost seemed too good to be true. Harry and I – soulmates? I wouldn’t mind. Not sure how he would feel about it, though. 

But back to the concept of home. What was home? What was my home? And family? Being here in Sydney on a two-year visa, people often ask me if I’ll go back home when my contract is done in 2024. To be honest, I never quite know what to answer. For one, I don’t know what will be in a year’s time. Will I want to stay? Will I have had enough of this place? Will I still fit in at home? And what is my home? What will it be by then? Australia? Canada? Germany? Home is where the heart is, they say. Or where you put your hat, as Paul Young once sang. I usually lose my hats. I try not to read too much into that!

“Home is a safe haven and a comfort zone. A place to live with our families and pets and enjoy with friends. A place to build memories as well as a way to build future wealth. A place where we can truly just be ourselves. And whether our houses are big, small, fancy or modest, they are our shelters and our sanctuaries.” 

I believe that a person can have more than one home. More than one place in their life where they feel safe and comfortable. I believe that homes can change over a course of a lifetime. That you can feel at home at several places at once. Or nowhere at all. 

Germany feels like home because that’s where my first memories were made – like the one of me running away from home on a small orange bike. Memories of fries with mayonnaise on lazy Sunday afternoons. Going swimming with my dad early in the morning, the water so hot that the steam was rising to the grey sky. Memories of spending my entire allowance on Italian ice cream. Of walking to school. Stealing candles from church (I confess). Memories of the house I grew up in. Of my family. With time, these memories fade. The family gets smaller. Places slowly disappear. Someone else living in our childhood home. My school is no longer a school. The doors of the church are locked (I wonder why?). 

Home is movement. Home is a transitional state. The artist Do Ho Suh once said: “What I am really interested in, in terms of architecture, is transitional spaces – the space that leads you to your destination, rather than the destination.” Germany led to France, led to Hong Kong, and led to Canada. The home within the home within the home. In one of his paintings, the artist draws a person carrying several houses on top of one another on his head. “Home is what we carry with us”, he says. The picture to me represents my idea of home perfectly. My home in Germany. My home in Canada, where my children are. My home in Australia, where I can truly be myself. My home within my home within my home. Sometimes having more than one place that feels like home can be a blessing, and sometimes a bit of a curse. 

On my daily walk to the beach, I pass a large plaque on the side of the path entitled “Living Between Two Worlds”. This week I stopped for the first time to read the information given on the white withered board. Rock platforms, so the plaque reads, are the dynamic edge between two worlds – the land and the sea. They are magic places and the home of many animals. Including me.

So, if you ask me: What is home? I would answer: It’s a magical place between here and there. Between Canada and Australia. Between the land and the sea. “Home as both a physical structure and lived experiences, the boundaries of identity and the connection between the individual and the group across global cultures. “(Do Ho Suh) 

Home is not a final destination, it is all those in-between places of life. Like that lonely bench on the hill where I stopped as a child to have my fruit snack. Before it was time to get back on my orange bike to return home.

Why are there so many songs about rainbows
And what’s on the other side?
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions
And rainbows have nothing to hide

So we’ve been told, and some choose to believe it
I know they’re wrong, wait and see
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers, and me

Rainbow Connection. The Muppets

Sydney is painted in rainbows.

Host to the 2023 World Pride, the city is being transformed into a Rainbow City and the famous colours can be seen everywhere. The Sydney Opera House lit up with the Progress Pride Flag. A Rainbow Sculpture at Manly Beach, the Queen Nyani Gorilla at the Taronga Zoo draped in a giant rainbow cape flowing down his back. Streets and public places painted with the iconic symbol of hope and love.

2023 is a massive year for the Australian queer community and its allies. Marks year the 50th anniversary of Gay Pride Week in Australia, as well as the 45th anniversary of the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. It is the reason why all through the city, 45 free public artworks celebrating Pride can be found. And it’s an important year for Sydney, as it is the first city in the Southern Hemisphere tohost the event. So after two years of pandemicsand restrictions,thecity is ready to celebrate love!

Even in our small Newport in the Northern Beaches, the rainbow flag can be spotted: on storefronts, supermarket displays, and public buses… everyone is getting on the bandwagon, or should I say the parade float. Some for more honest reasons than others. Even the rain and the sun are playing along, forming a multicoloured arc in the sky. No matter where, how, or why. A rainbow stands for hope and love, and what can be better than that?

A big week for the city, a busy week for me. Parent meetings, class excursions, doctor’s appointments (I get to that later), pedicure sessions… By the time Saturday morning finally comes around, I am glad to be sitting at my favourite spot at Newport Beach, watching the sunrise and reflecting on the past week. Or weeks, I should say.

I have not written anything in a while (not sure anyone noticed, but I certainly did). Part inertia, part feeling uninspired and a bit frustrated with my writing. I was waiting for that rainbow to appear to inspire me.

And it did – that early Saturday morning, sitting in the slightly damp sand at the beach in the semi-dark, watching the sunrise before the sun rises – it came to me.

I watched the black night sky above the ocean, speckled only by a few tiny stars, slowly turn into a deep violet colour. Violet turned into indigo, and indigo turned into blue. Long before the sun even made an appearance, the colours of the rainbow were dancing in the sky in front of me. Yellow was next, orange, and finally – when the sun appeared above the ocean line, stretching its rays out to light up another beautiful day – a deep dark red.

And so I started to think about the different colours of the rainbow in my everyday life here in Downunder. Started to look at the past few weeks through my own personal kaleidoscope.

VIOLET. The violet of the gorgeous morning sky in front of my eyes. Deep and dark and rich. The violet of the Tibouchina flowers growing in the front of my granny flat, announcing the arrival of fall. Violet, the colour of the Sydney Olympic Stadium, where Ed Sheeran performed in front of 85,000 fans.

INDIGO. A bit of a sad story this week. Next to the gigantic wooden Mary statue I inherited from my mother, a beautiful engagement ring is the only thing that I have left to remember my mother by. I have worn the ring since her death 13 years ago. A simple golden band, with a deep indigo blue Lapis Lazuli stone in the middle of it, is one of the few pieces of jewellery I always wear.

Until I lost it last week in a pub. Not the whole ring, but the blue stone in the middle. The ring was still on my finger, the empty frame silently reminding me of what I had lost. Now and then. Part of me was devastated, as it felt like I had not looked after my mother’s memory well enough. The other part was wondering if this was a sign to let go of the past and to move on. If the ring had done its job?

In the end, the sentimental part won, and I brought the empty ring to a jeweller to have the stone replaced with a new one.

“Is it worth it?” I asked, wondering how much this would cost.

“It’s sentimental”, he said, “so it’s always worth it!”

Maybe he was just a good sales person, but I agreed and left the ring sand rock in his professional hands.

BLUE. I have never seen anything so blue as the sunny sky down here in Australia. We had a few heavy downpours in the last couple of weeks, with wet carpets in the classroom and little rivers running in front of my classroom door. When it rains in Sydney, it pours!

The moment the clouds start breaking up, shifting apart, and revealing the azure blue sky behind it, however, never fails to make me smile. The sky in Australia does look bluer than in the rest of the world, and I even googled why that is. The high density of Eucalyptus trees? The clean air? The reflection of the ocean (or was it the other way around?)? Many reasons can be found on the internet. I think it’s that rainbow magic doing its trick again.

GREEN. Watching the sunrise, I thought to myself: Green will be hard. There’s no green in a sunrise. But as I reflected on the past days and weeks, I realized there had been quite a few “green” moments in the last little while: the greenery surrounding me while I am writing this article.

The new green Swiffer that does a magical job at cleaning the wooden floors in my granny flat.

The shirt of the man sitting next to us at the Surf Club (who may have been insulted or confused – or both – when I asked him if he could turn around, so I could take a photo of his back).

The green Hot Mama Pickle in a Pouch found at Newport’s newest store, the American Candy Store (just what Newport needed)!

There was hope!

YELLOW. The song by Coldplay comes to mind.

“Look at the stars, look how they shine for you. And everything you do.”

The stars and the moon and yellow school hats bopping through the zoo. Each one shining its own little light and brightening up my days and nights.

ORANGE.

Knock. Knock.

Who’s there?

Orange.

Orange who?

Orange you glad I said orange?

Old joke. A new colour is on the horizon. The sun is slowly working its way up the sky, suppressed by the dense cloud cover in the morning sky.

On the weekend, I try to go for a long run around the lagoon. I have a half-marathon coming up in six weeks and for some reason, my times are not improving. Could be the lack of training. Or the fact that I stop every five minutes to take a picture of the sun painting the night sky a deep, rich orange. The other day, I received a notification from Google photos that my storage was almost full. I am sure that half of these photos are pictures of sunrises. Say what you want, Google! I keep taking pictures of the morning sky burning bright with a fiery light.

The 12 Days in Victoria

On the twelve days in Victoria, I got to see 

Twelve thousand bush flies a-nnoying

Eleven cows a-grazing

Ten sheep baa-baa-ing

Nine bloody galahs a-screaming

Eight koalas a-hiding

Seven parrots kweek-kweeking

Six kookaburras a-laughing

Five blue fairy-wrens (Five blue fairy-wrens)

Four wallabies

Three alpacas

Two kangaroos

And a fine tasting Rare Hare at the winery 

What’s your guilty pleasure?

Getting lost in cute animal reels? Spooning Nutella straight out of the jar? That song by Celine Dion that makes you sing at the top of your lungs?

Ok, all these are my guilty pleasures, but I am sure we all have something that we enjoy despite feeling and knowing that it is not generally held in high regard.

My greatest guilty pleasure is reality shows. Surviving. Cooking. Baking. Brunching. You name it – I have watched them all! And the guiltiest of all guilty pleasures: reality dating shows – reality romance without much reality to them. Indian Matchmaking, The Ultimatum, Love is Blind. I love them all and binge-watch them whenever I can. But I have to admit –  it affects my life! My language. For a while, I kept calling all my girlfriends “baby girls” because that’s what they say in Love is Blind all the time. I also learned important things from that show – for example, guess what, that love is NOT blind! Shocker! Should have asked the Face Reader from Indian Matchmaking. Now that’s real science if you ask me! Also, my dream job!

This year’s summer addiction was The Circle – Singles. Two seasons of the cringy popularity contest waged online through selfies, two-sentence bios, group chats and private DMs by competitors isolated in their own apartment units were not enough. The third season was meant exclusively for singles – or those pretending to be.

Take Marvin, for example. Marvin really wants to win the 100.000 Dollars but is afraid that he might get distracted by one of the female singles on the show. Or two. Or all of them. Marvin quickly falls in love with the blue-haired Raven because he feels “they have a real connection” and calls her “my queen.” Which, I learned, is the ultimate compliment for a woman these days and equivalent to telling someone you love her. Until Tamira joins the show. Marvin also calls her his queen. Needless to say, neither queen is too happy when they find out. They want the questionable title to themselves. 

But who says you can’t have two queens  – or more? Works in chess, works in tarot –  sure works when travelling Australia. 

In the last twelve days, we visited both Sydney and Melbourne, New South Wales and Victoria State. We often got asked which one we liked better. And I decided that instead of constantly comparing the two, making lists of pros and cons, I will just love them both and call them both my queen! Just like Marvin did – but without the repercussions!

We loved the beautiful beaches of Sydney. Loved the Iceberg rock pool at Bondi, the crystal clear waters of the ocean, the winding coastal walk to Tamarama Beach. Loved the surf and the sun, but not the sharks. Loved Bondi Beach in the rain when it’s deserted, and the seagulls were the only ones with whom you have to share this endless iconic beach. Loved fine-dining with a view and the art at the new wing of the Art Gallery of NSW. We loved the hazy Blue Mountains and grassy Southern Tablelands. My queen. 

And then there is Victoria – the other queen. The real Queen. The state was named after Queen Victoria of England in 1851 when Victoria separated from New South Wales to form a separate colony – founded on questionable treaties that took away the land from the Aboriginal people in exchange for food and trinkets. 

Victoria State has matured over two hundred years. The second-smallest state in Australia, Melbourne is close-to- second to Sydney, with almost 5 million people living in the city. Victoria is the most densely populated state, with 6.6 million people in the entire state. Also, a culturally diverse state, with 35% of all inhabitants being immigrants.

Both cities, Sydney and Melbourne, offer a unique Australian flavour, and the states they are located in are beautiful. And they definitely both deserve to be called Queen!

We enjoyed the sensational fine food and wine, the cafés, restaurants and bars of Melbourne. We were impressed by the seemingly never-ending nightlife in the city, especially when sharing one tram with all of Melbourne’s partygoers. We immersed ourselves in the Australian Opens with everything the event had to offer – the sport, the merchandise, and even the sausage, which, by the way, is called sausage on bread in Victoria and not sausage sandwich like in NSW. 

Yes, just when I thought I had some Aussie terms down, this state springs a new set of words on me. A bubbler is a drinking fountain (makes sense to me), swimmers are bathers (as in swimsuit), an ice block is an icy pole (aka a popsicle), and the nose bleed section we were sitting in at the tennis match suddenly turned into a blood nose section. I give up!

Victoria, my Queen  – that was the excitement of Melbourne, the beauty and the delicious wines of the Mornington Peninsula (which, I have to admit, reminded me a lot of Niagara-on-the-Lake, just with kangaroos!). Victoria is Philip Island with its rugged coast, lighthouses, and tiny penguins (though, sadly, the only penguin I saw was a dead one at the beach serving as lunch to a seagull). Victoria is the grassland of the Gippsland Region. Sitting on my deck of our Airbnb White House, overlooking the Australian Savannah, the wind playing with the field, the giant gum trees swaying along, I felt like Meryl Streep saying, “I once had a farm in Australia.” Maybe my sister had been right, and what we had seen on our train ride had been giraffes and not kangaroos.

Things I saw on our trip through Victoria: wallabies hopping through the bush, koalas hiding in the trees, a dead fox and a dead penguin, sheep and alpaca and lots and lots of cows. Dairy cows first arrived in Australia in 1788, when the First Fleet landed in New South Wales. Two bulls and seven cows made the long trip from England and escaped into the nearby bushland shortly after arriving. The nine animals survived, however; after six years, they’d become a herd of 61. 

Today, the region has a bit of a poop problem, as too many cattle produce too much manure! Which, in return, is the perfect breeding ground for the bush fly – which we saw, or better felt, thousands of! Bush flies are worse than snakes and spiders, and sharks combined! They go for your skin to get to your sweat and tears! 

As the local beetles are used to the dry poo of the marsupials, such as the wallabies, kangaroos, and koalas, they are useless in the battle against cow poo! Bring in the ex-pat dung beetle! Imported from abroad, these little fellas are supposed to help with the 500,000 tonnes of cow manure dropped on Australian pastures daily. Now, these brave beetles definitely deserve a title as well. Dukes of Dung? Or Prince of Poo? I digress.

Our journey culminated in a few days spent in Wilson’s Promontory. Wilson’s Promontory, also known as Yiruk and Wamoon in the Gunai and Boonwurrung languages, respectively, is a peninsula that forms the southernmost part of the Australian mainland, located in the state of Victoria. The promontory was first occupied by indigenous Koori people at least 6,500 years prior to European arrival. Its inhabitants subsisted on a seafood diet – no dung problem there. 

The Promontory, or the Prom as locals call it, is sandy beaches and rugged cliffs, bushland and mudflats. The white sands of Squeaky Beach that squeaks when you walk on it. The Prom is cockatoos and galahs, blue wrens and lorikeets. It is also campgrounds and snack bars, hamburgers and potato chips. It is the Australian flag hanging off a tent to celebrate Australia Day. 

As a visitor to this country, it is difficult to decide how to commemorate this national holiday best. Difficult to understand how you can have fireworks and parades to remember the invasion of a country and its people. 

While it seems wrong to bring up my queen in connection with this difficult day, I am going to use these words to express my adoration for the beauty of this country. Sydney, Melbourne, NSW, Victoria, Australia – my queen! 

As for Marvin from the TV show, having more than one queen didn’t work so well. The two queens got together and used their power to block Marvin. He got kicked off the show. Poor Marvin.

Hopefully, the same thing won’t happen to me, having all these queens.

Cheers!

Road trippin’ with my two favorite allies

Fully loaded we got snacks and supplies

It’s time to leave this town, it’s time to steal away

Let’s go get lost anywhere 

Let’s go get lost, let’s go get lost

Blue, you sit so pretty west of the one

Sparkles light with yellow icing, just a mirror for the sun

Just a mirror for the sun

Just a mirror for the sun

Road Trippin’. Red Hot Chili Peppers

“G’day, ladies and gentlemen. Boys and girls! 

This is your buffet captain David, speaking. Welcome aboard the XPT train with service from Sydney to Melbourne. Our buffet crew has changed in Albury, and we are super stoked to serve you from here on all the way to the great big city of Melbourne. 

Come and check us out – and don’t forget to get food and drinks! Hot meals and fresh sandwiches, hot drinks and cold. We got coffee and tea, water and soda. We even got beer! So come and drop us a cheer! 

That’s it for now from your buffet captain David. Now sit back and relax and enjoy your ride! But don’t forget to come by to say hi!”

We are aboard the XPT train from Sydney to Melbourne. An 11-hour train ride that covers the over 950 km distance between the two largest cities in Australia. Left behind swimming in the rock pools of the Northern Beaches, body surfing at Bondi, and museums and fine dining in lofty spaces, to make our way to Melbourne.

Sydney Central Station early in the morning – three women, five pieces of luggage. And the holy balloon. We settled into our somewhat dated but very comfortable seats in the First Class saloon and started our journey through the scenic countryside of New South Wales and Victoria. With a slow but steady clackety-clack, we were making our way South, passing through grassland, farms and numerous little townships along the way: 

Kilometre 134 (1 hour and 42 minutes) – Moss Vale. A town in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales, in the Wingecarribee Shire. Did someone say the Shire? Time for a second breakfast! A coffee in a tea bag? I go for a Coke and Australian Sea Salt Potato Chips.

Kilometre 168 (2 hours and 31 minutes)  – Goulburn. A small city in the Southern Tablelands of NSW and Australia’s first inland city, as proclaimed by Queen Victoria in 1863. I visit the saloon’s toilet for the first time. A compact little metal compartment that serves as a toilet and a shower at the same time. Fold down the toilet seat. Do your business. Flush. Fold it back up. Fold down the sink. Wash hands. Fold it back up. All the while, the shower head is looking over you and the plastic shower curtain whispers from the rhythmic movement of the train.

Kilometre 236 (3 hours and 47 minutes) – Yass Junction. Three hours southwest of Sydney, through the stunning scenery of the Southern Tablelands, is the picturesque town of Yass. The town’s name derives from the Aboriginal word for running water, yarrh. I don’t see the Yass Valley river, but I discover the water bubbler on board our train. I refill my bottle and return to my seat.

Kilometre 351 (5 hours and 47 minutes) – Junee. We are halfway between Sydney and Melbourne, and it is time for a hot meal from the buffet car! With a wide variety of meal options, we settle for a dry Spaghetti Bolognese and Chicken with Rice. Though clearly not very appealing to the eye, both meals taste surprisingly good. Or hours and hours of dried grassland swooshing by has numbed our senses. With no Wi-Fi or in-seat entertainment onboard this train, you begin to appreciate the little things. I read half a book. I look out of the window. I see two kangaroos. My sister says she saw a giraffe. She’s just jealous.

Kilometre 454 (6 hours and 13 minutes) Wagga Wagga. Another weird and wonderfully named Aussie town. The word Wagga Wagga comes from the Wiradjuri word waga, meaning a place to dance, a place of celebration. To commemorate the event, we order another round of tea bag-coffee and Mar bars for afternoon tea. We are crossing into Victoria State. The mood is celebratory. Only five more hours to go!

Kilometre 646 (7 hours 31 minutes) Albury. Located in the Indigo Valley at the state border to Victoria, this is where the NSW railway line and Victoria line first met in 1883. It used to be that all passengers had to change trains to continue their journey to Melbourne. Since 1962, the train’s passengers can rest in their comfortable blue seats and continue without switching trains. Since then, not much improvement has happened in the Australian railway system.

A high-speed train option to connect Sydney and Melbourne is being discussed regularly, but so far, with little success. In November 2022, the Federal Parliament of Australia passed the new High-Speed Rail Authority Bill 2022, marking the start of the establishment of the High-Speed Rail Authority and supporting and developing a high-speed rail network in Australia to connect major cities to significant regional locations. A high-speed rail network could allow passengers to travel between major cities and significant regional cities at speeds exceeding 250 km/h. 

Our train currently chugs along at a maximum of 160 km/h. Introducing a high-speed train that travels at 200 km/h would cut our travel time almost in half. And then there is the idea of using a bullet train. Travel time between Sydney and Melbourne across the proposed 900 km high-speed train line would be around 150 minutes. That would require an average speed of 360kph. The average speed of the Paris-Lyon TGV is 263kph. The Shanghai-Beijing service, the world’s fastest bullet train, averages 306kph.

But who wants that?  I wouldn’t be able to finish my book, see the horses and cows grazing on the pasture, and wouldn’t be able to go to the buffet cart to say hi to David and check out his hot and cool crew.

Kilometre 653 (9 hours 28 minutes) Seymour. A historic railway township located in the Southern end of the Goulburn Valley in the Shire of Mitchell, Victoria and 100 kilometres north of Melbourne. Seymour has a population of 6,569. And quite an impressive water tower. My sister wants to play Battleship. I pretend to be sleeping. Again.

Kilometre 866 (10 hours 50 minutes) Melbourne. After a day of dry grassland and lonely trees and cows hiding in the shade of the lonely trees, we slowly pull into the Southern Cross Central Train Station of Melbourne. With squealing wheels, we crawl beneath shiny high-rises and grey stone buildings. We are on our way to explore this beautiful city that we had last visited together in the final weeks before the lockdown in March 2020. We are here to explore the shopping in St Kilda, the beaches of Melbourne Harbour, the fine dining of the CBD and, of course, the excitement of the Australian Open. We are here to enjoy this beautiful city, and what better way to make an entrance than by slowly creeping into town by train? 

I have taken a few trains in my lifetime: from Germany to Greece, with a rucksack on my back and goats on my lap. Across the magical beauty of Canada in the winter. And I still dream of making the epic transcontinental crossing aboard the famous Indian Pacific from Sydney to Perth.

The XPT train may have no Wi-Fi or power. It may be dated and slow. It shows us a side of Australia that we would never have seen otherwise. 

And that kangaroo was not a giraffe! 

Cheers!