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Out of Here
Scott is now a permanent resident of Australia, so, naturally, one of the first things we did on hearing the news was book tickets to New York City. Have to get to WisCon, don't you know?
We've had a fabulous time here in beautimous Sydney, which has put on an extraordinary display of georgeousness the whole time we've been here. Crystalline clear days, blue, blue skies, ridiculously warm weather. Of course a lot of the great weather is on account of there being an epically long drought on. But, hey, we came from a wretched NYC March and chose to enjoy the sun, but we were good, honest, and danced when it rained (in the hopes that the precipitation would spread further west and end the drought.)
We caught up with almost all our friends, spent heaps of time with my family, did a shitload of rewrites, had some fabbo authors' photos taken (thank you, Sam), collected two sprained ankles, five stitches and a black eye (hey, health care is free here), improved our tennis (thank you, Chris), and as mentioned above racked up some permanent residency for Aussie Scott. Pretty productive eight weeks.
I also managed to get caught up on Sydney. Well, sort of. I've come to doubt that I'll ever be fully caught up. Moving back and forth between two places means you're almost permanently out of sync. The only people I'm ever truly up to date on is Scott and me. How tragic is that?
I'll go out to dinner parties with friends and they'll all be talking about political scandals I've missed (Wilson Tuckey did what?), or about their new jobs/friends/lovers/spouses/babies/books that somehow—"Didn't I tell you about that?" they ask—they've forgotten to mention in emails. They'll be best friends with someone they weren't talking to last time I saw them. They'll have discovered God or Elvis or lawn bowls and it'll all be news to me.
I sit listening to conversations raging around me and have no point of entry. I recognise and enjoy their accents (which are just like mine), their venacular (no one looks at anyone funny for saying "ma-a-ate" or "ropeable" or "squizz"), but little of the content. I'm home, but I'm not home. It's what happens when you don't live in the one place all the time: you miss the details of your friends' lives. Their children growing, their gardens, their careers. Toddlers who adored you last time you were here have doubled in size and don't recognise you. Their dogs who used to lick your toes now bark.
After eight weeks back here, though, I'm starting to be on top of the content. I've heard everything that could possibly be said about Clarion South, Clover Moore, the latest state and federal budgets. I've met the babies born while we were away (hello, Marlowe). I'm all over the dinner conversations. My friends' kids and dogs aren't barking at me anymore.
And now, naturally, we're out of here again. Back to New York City for a different set of kids and dogs to not recognise us.
And repeat.
Sydney, 13 May 2004
© 2004 Justine Larbalestier
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