Who needs a holiday?

I know, I just a had a massive one. I look at our trip as more of an odyssey. An adventure and now a wonderful memory. It hasn't for one second sated the need for another one.

How many of you would give your left kidney for a holiday.... right now?

The holiday is more than the destinations. In fact, I think the destination is the least important factor.

The anticipation of something different. The count down to the holiday, is one of the best parts. Thinking and planning and wishing and hoping about your wondrous break and knowing that it really is going to happen in exactly this many weeks, days, minutes and seconds.



The freedom, you know the feeling... when you step through the airport doors, or get into the drivers seat, the weight slides off your shoulders and you smile, knowing that you are going and for a little while you are free.

There are heaps of reasons not to go anywhere. The biggest of which is money, work and kids. The responsibilities don't go away...ever. They will be there when you return...always. Make that time and take it. Go, if you have a sniff at the opportunity to go...go.

If you really can't go. Take the time to make a little of your day like a holiday. Sit outside and watch the trees and the sunset. Go to the beach with a picnic. Light candles and drink nice wine. Pick somewhere within two hours of where you live, where you have never been to and go there just to see something new or just sit down for a few hours and plan your most wanted trip, down to the dollar. Maybe, just maybe you might realise you can go... and then just GO.

I Want To Leave A Pile Of Nothing

We have been back for 2.5 months. I am already searching for the next "thing". The next big adventure or move.
We are in absoloutley no position to do ANYTHING but I look and dream anyway. I am no longer able to just be content with what we had. I am not looking to aquire new things but more new experiences.
I am now an "exciting life" junkie. It is going to be a while down the track, but it will happen again, because so far it has happened anyway, but now I am behind the steering wheel.

Its been 2 months since Mum died, to the day. The "things" she had didn't matter, and amounted to quite a small pile at the end of the day. It didnt bother me though, because what mattered to her was the fact she could see trees and hills from her hospital bed. What mattered to her was the taste of the Orange juice after days of fasting. What mattered to her were her "babies". If Mum could have written a book about her life, it would have been 1000 times more interesting than anything I have written in this blog. I wish now I could have written them for her. Nothing matters more than family and the time we spend together.... at the moment I would like that to be in a range of exotic places. I hope the pile I leave behind one day is tiny.

The crazy... It's the best part

We have been back almost 3 months. I have had my world turned upside down.

I am currently watering the roses out the front of my house, no bra, no pants and a nice glass of red in hand.
Every 10 minutes or so the 72 bus goes pass, I toast them with my glass :-).

We try to go to the beach once a week. The kids aren't enrolled into any after school activities. It is so nice to just chill at home, with time to cook, time to do homework and relax. We are eating better as a family and are no where near as rushed.

I am trying to retain the magic. As much as possible, the whimsical, the beautiful. I light the nice smelly candles all the time. I put the fairy lights on in our bedroom, I am writing and creating. I haven't done this for years. The spark inside me for beauty and quirky and thoughtfulness has been ignited.

For the first time , in a long time, I am being led by my heart. Dave will come home and find me baking, sitting out the back watching the sun set, crocheting my blanket or hugging my wookie. I'm crazy and not even trying to hide it.

I now have time to look in op shops, to find something that makes me happy.
I like colour.

For the first time in 5 years we had friends over for a meal. We made the best of our awkward little house and entertained.

If I feel like talking, I talk. Feel like writing, I write. Feel like standing around the front yard in my knickers, I do it. I am drinking more than I used too, but I am allowing myself some grace in this department. Yay ... Wine.

I feel free. Sometimes at a loss, but certainly free. My time is mine, it is rich with opportunity as well as grief. "Cheers people on the bus, I'm in my underwear and I couldn't give a shit!"

Keys... Yes please

We are in the Hippo, our 30ft, 3 bed motorhome, a little dented and war wounded after having carted us from New Jersey to Niagra, through Pennsylvania, Carolina and Greogia  to Florida. We had a slight altercation with a metal safety barrier on a freeway in Jersey and we were all  a little worse for wear. Oh... And if anyone asks, it was a massive grizzly. 

We had been freezing our butts off in wintery Niagra, bored shirtless in the middle of "Camouflage, hunting and people of Walmart" America and we arrive in the Florida keys. It is a breath of salty fresh air and so quiet. There is only one place, one state park, you can stay in with a motor home.  It's in Long Key. It's not Key West, it's not restaurants and hotels, its not key lime pie and drunk girls. It's sandy car parks and beach, a throw back to 1960's motels with shell shaped little villas.  It's heaven. Quiet camp spots, right  on the beach. There is no wifi, no tv. We park up, get out our camp chairs, plonk them in the water and chiiiiiiiiilllllllll. Relax,the closest land mass is Mexico. 
Picture it, 
Warm, quiet beach, with no one really around and only a small threat of being stung and bitten from some small jelly fish. We are from Australia, you've got nothing that can kill us.
We are chilled. For 5 days, we do nothing. 
Wake up, coffee, sit on the beach. In the Hippo for nap when it's hot. After lunch we sit on our chairs in the water and stay there until after sunset. Naked frolicking children and the odd jelly fish and kayaker for entertainment followed by a spectacular sunset. 
The only negative was a thing called a "Noseeum" literally "no see them". A little invisible insect that bites like a Mozzie, But, the bite will keep itching days or weeks after you have been bitten every time you sweat or get hot. Resulting in head to toe redness and itchiness. So. God. Damn. Itchy. There is no repellent or cream that works. But it was worth it. We hadn't planned to visit the Florida keys and we saw nothing of the well known Florida keys, but we had our own private beach and our hippo and our family. Yes, I did sing the Beach Boys song "Kokimo" continuously for 5 days and we got to keep our "Noseeum" souvenirs. 



Oh and seriously, the rented camp chairs where already rusty and covered with seaweed, if anyone asks :)

Same, same but different.

I have never questioned my decisions and myself more than in the last three weeks.
Everything I do or think of doing is scrutinised tortuously by my brain in an attempt to work out if i'm ok or if i'm, at least, understanding why I may not be ok.

Under normal circumstances the core belief that I subconsciously carry in my gut is i'm ok, things are good and all is ok. It might not be in the moment, but the foundations of my life are good.

Let me just clarify, I have a wonderful Father, who is also dealing with his own grief of losing a wife of 36 years, an amazing Husband, who loved my mother like his own, Two children, who are strong and a joy to be around but are also dealing, in their own way, with the loss of their beloved VoVo and Friends with their own lives, children and challenges who have volunteered their time or their ears to help me. I am not alone, I am not even unusual. Every face that passes through my work or that I see on the bus has been or will be floored by grief at some point in their lives. Do they handle things like I do? Do they want to share their thoughts and memories or do they retreat to deal in complete privacy?

I get sad at night, i'll sneak away from the action of the household and lie down. I have a chewbacca wookie teddy bear, that Dave and the girls gave me for my birthday in December. Mum was already in hospital and really sick. I have been hugging this thing every night, for about two months. This isn't healthy, I don't think, but it helps.

I didn't want to write this blog yesterday or last night, I am struggling a little to do it now. I can't get the flow, I am tired, I don't want to seem like I am trying to make my grief the spotlight. But I think this is good for me. I am a sharer and never have I written like this in my life. I have a slew of journals that have one entry on the shiny first page and were never touched again.

In a conversation with Dad yesterday, I said "The experience of Mum passing and the memories I have are now more like a ball or a sphere, in the first few days, the ball was shoved up right in front of my eyes, it was the colour red and it was all I could see, so the ball seemed as big as the world, now its a bit further away, I can hold the ball in my hand at arms length and turn it a little, look at different angles, sometimes, without my heart exploding in my chest". 
I think that is a healthy progression, but is it too soon?

But, life goes on, right? The clocks don't stop, the cracks I feel in my own heart aren't showing on the pavement outside. There is nothing new here. 
From now on, its same, same but different. 

Italy the land of food, booze and ATTITUDE

I realise that there is a chance that I'm going to sound like a wanker now when I say that we have a "Love / Hate relationship" with Italy, like "Oh you know darrrrling, I loved Sorrento but just couldn't staaaand the atmosphere in Positano".

I want you to know, My family and I are not pretentious wankers and over all we are up for any adventure being it 1 star "street food and sleeping bag" to 5 star "fragrant oils in the bath tub" experiences, but Italy for us was like a punch in the face with a beautiful satin glove, and very honestly, after about 10 rounds in the ring, Italy won by K.O and we never really recovered.

Our trip covered, Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome and Pisa with side trips to Sienna, Bologna, Napoli and Pompeii. A very well worn tourist route and for good reason. There is just so much history and amazing art to see, When we could we would tell the girls to "touch the history" because they had never even comprehended, let alone touched, anything that old before, and may not get to again. The richness of history and the beauty was evident in nearly everything,  but, it felt like we had to fight every step of the way in order to see these things. 

Firstly, there is the never ending construction and restoration. I am not arguing with the merit of these things , just our unlucky timing. Trevi fountain? nope, under construction and restoration. The Colosseum , half under scaffolding, The Spanish Steps, nope, restoration and scaffolding, Rialto Bridge? Nope under scaffolding. So OK, that's cool, lets enjoy some other sites.
Then we have the baffling and often intimidating rules and the guards that enforce them. When you deal with 100,000's of people a day, and priceless historical artifacts, I get it, you need to have security and rules, however it went a little something like this:

"Yes you may touch the water in the fountain and drink from it, NO! you may not do that if you are a child!"

"Yes you may sit on that patch of grass. NO! you may not sit on the identical patch of grass right next to it".

"Yes, you may lean on this railing. NO! you may not lean on the railing now, only after 3pm".

"Yes, this is the line for the such and such Museum. No! it's the line for the such and such pass holder, or for all people but only on Mondays and Fridays. No! there is no information on where you should line up but if you pay 200 Euro, Ill take you".

Look, this doesn't sound so bad, but when you are confronted by purple faced, whistle blowing and screaming officials, armed and in scary official uniforms and all you've done is perch your butt slightly to the right of where everyone else is perched, it gets a little confronting. So, OK, they are very busy and under stress, cool, lets catch some transport and see other things.

Italian bus drivers are interesting creatures. Firstly you must never assume that just because you found the correct bus stop, that it actually ever stops there. Secondly, you must never, ever talk directly to a bus driver, especially if that conversation is to do with the bus trip you are currently taking. If you do manage to get to your destination, you are then required to play a game of "guess which door you may exit the bus by". The buses have three doors, but they will only open 1 door for the exit and it is never the same one, forcing you to rugby tackle your way out of the bus. So, OK, lets take the train.

On some occasions, in a foreign country, you may need to ask for directions. We were polite, we smiled and asked in the best way we could, be  it in English or in broken Italian. This was met with eye rolling, some not subtle boob perving, followed by some pointing and general directions. "Thank you so much!" we say and off we toddle. After 4 attempts and 4 different answers, the best course of action was to preform a seance, call on the ghosts of our dead ancestors and allow them to guide us to the correct train platform. 

After all of this, we did stumble on a great solution. BOOZE, FOOD and MORE BOOZE! There is so much cheap and wonderful drinking options for your pleasure and there are no laws against public drinking, you are allowed to wonder down the street with a drink in hand, pretty much anywhere. Campari Spritzers in Milan, Prosseco in Florence, Wine and Limoncello in Rome and all of the above in Pisa. After we discovered this secret and with the edges nicely softened we were then able to be properly gob smacked and amazed, all be it a little head achy in the morning.

No, Venice lady, we didn't steal your TV and other tales from AirBnB

The only way we were able to afford to travel through Europe and America for 6 months was Airbnb.

The.Only.Way.

As a group of four, two of whom valued privacy from time to time and two who were exhausted parents who needed their beauty sleep, we made the rule of no more than AU $200 per night and where possible two bedrooms or at very least one seperate bedroom and a lounge room with sofa bed. Also, NO house shares (meaning staying with other people in the same place).

As luck and providence would have it, we stayed in some really awesome apartments, met some very nice people and were only accused of theft and vandalism once.

We stayed in a few homes that were much the same and passed by in a bit of blur. These were all mostly ok, one bedroom places with lumpy sofa beds in sizes ranging from tiny to small, no air con and some interesting design choices. Like a toilet next to the front door, a loft bedroom with a roof so low we had to kneel to get up the stairs and decapitated ourselves promptly in the morning, an elevator which only fitted one small suitcase at a time and never people, never ever people, Oh, and with no locks. 

Which brings me to Venice. A little one bedroom apartment in a quieter part overlooking canals. No security and no locks. We stayed four nights and had a very good time getting lost in tiny streets. At the end of our time, we cleaned up, packed up, shut the door and left, like instructed. On Airbnb, as a visitor, you can leave a review saying if you enjoyed your stay. The owner can also leave a review of you, as a visitor.

"You Stole My TV!" was the review we received, publicly. Now keep in mind we still had about 2 months worth of Europe trip to go and another 8 places to stay and Everyone can see that we are apparently thieves. My calm and well thought out response was something like "Ah, no, we didn't. We are a family of four travelling by TRAIN, with SUITCASES! Where the F* would we put your bloody TV? I am at the point where I am throwing out shoes because I can't be arsed carting them around, but now I have room for a TV???? your F*n nuts!". Airbnb graciously stepped in at that point and removed the post.

The vandalism part of our Airbnb story occurred in Pisa. The shittiest apartment of all the ones we stayed in and also the cheapest ($65 per night). Let that be a lesson to you all!

It was a basement conversion into a mouldy, mosquito infested, concrete sweat box. In our attempt to cool the room from boiling lava to the devils arm pit, we apparently damaged the fan thingy and somehow or another unplugged the fridge. This apparently caused major damage. So much damage in fact that he was able to rent it out to some other unsuspecting schmucks the very next day.

It really wasn't all bad, in fact, mostly it was brilliant.

In Paris, our first Airbnb, we had a small, old beautifully appointed apartment. We could just see the top of the Eiffel tower from the kitchen window and you could almost fit one person in the shower (but you had to do the limbo in order to wet your head). An attic apartment in a converted old theatre with ancient wooden beams in Montpellier. A huge apartment in the funkiest part of Rome, a decent apartment smack bang in the middle of the red light district of Milan, a renovated little beauty deep in the heart of Dominican Harlem, New York and lastly a beautiful, light filled, arty and comfy place in the Jewish Orthodox area of Beverly Hills, where we, ironically, celebrated Christmas.

I loved the adventure of discovering each new place and the pot luck that is Airbnb added to that sense of excitement. Things I learned were:

If its too cheap, Don't. Really Don't.

Stay as central as you can or at very least as close as you can to subways/metros and a supermarket.

Contact the owners of the different places you are staying as much as possible. If they don't want to talk with you about your upcoming stay, your in for a shit one probably.

It is possible to negotiate a better rate when staying for a week or more.

Treat each place with respect and clean up when you go, at least dishes, floors and rubbish.

You can get a decent price for a second hand TV, ;-)

2 deaths, 1 illness, 6 months, 7 countries, 2 kids, 1 hubby and a hippo

"Caroline? You had better sit down. Joe* was found dead last night, looks like he took his own life".
He had worked for/with me, a troubled man with a young family. I was a real estate agent and managing a small office, with a smaller team. I can't say I knew him well, but I tried to help him. I tried to see that he got back at least close to the rails if not on them.

I rang Dave and told him. I didn't feel responsible, but I did feel a little neglectful, like I had washed my hands of him, and now  a while down the track, this was the result. This was only a month or so after another man we knew through our work had died in a tragic accident, again leaving a young family behind.

"Wow, thats terrible, I found out today that Matthew* is really sick, he's only in his thirties! Fuck it life is too short for this! I think we should just bloody do it!" shouted Dave.

For about two days we had been talking about IT. You know the dream that you talk about animatedly with your significant other after a couple of glasses. For the first and probably the only time in our lives we had the borrowing capacity to pull IT off. You thought I was going to say, we had the money.... trust me.... we will never have the savings for a huge trip, let alone IT, but we had the potential to pull it off. The incentive? A good deal of "Lets get the fuck out of here" followed with a smidge of "We will probably never be close to being able to do this again".

So we did. 6 months of travel with our kids (two gorgeous girl firecrackers aged 7 and 8) to all the dream destinations we could think of.

Once the decision was made, and the bank paid up, next came the fight. Dave wanted to leave yesterday, now, immediately. I, on the other hand was working through the logistics, we had to clean up our house and find some people to rent it. Organise some sort of schooling for the girls. Give notice to work, pack, put the rest of our stuff in storage... plan, book and pay, break the news to my parents and friends. I thought we needed at least three months to get our selves organised. I put my foot down! 2 weeks later we were on the tarmac and that is how it all started.