Scooter Nation on Vacation: Brisbane

Whatever you do, don’t pronounce Brisbane the way you think you should pronounce it or you run the risk of getting laughed at and called an ignorant Seppo. In local parlance, it’s Briz-b’n. As far as Seppo, that’s short for septic tank or Yank, which is what everyone from the US is to your average Aussie, whether you’re from north of the Mason-Dixon or not.

We landed in Brisbane after a 13 hour flight from L.A., during which time I watched Ratatouille, Nancy Drew, and Shrek the Third on the in-flight, on-demand movies before falling into that long-flight stupor that inevitably overcomes you when you’ve been awake and moving from airport to plane to airport to plane to airport to really big plane for more than 20 hours. This time, upon landing, I did not make the mistake of intently watching the seductive and hypnotic baggage claim go around and around the way I had five years ago after my first Ridiculously Long Flight, which meant that this time, my center of gravity did not suddenly slip away and I did not suddenly pitch backwards into the wall. I took this as a good sign and felt very much like a Wise and Seasoned Traveler. And this time, I got to go through the Australian and New Zealand nationals customs line with Expat (a.k.a., the Short Line) because after five minutes of waiting alone in the Other Line, the nice man in front of me pointed out that, since I am now Expat’s wife and not the girlfriend, I count as family and therefore get to reap the benefits of Expat’s nationalness.

We are visiting Expat’s family for the Christmas holiday and Brisbane was the first stop. Expat’s grandmother—his dad’s mother and Expat’s only surviving grandparent—lives in Brisbane. Expat’s dad, the German Australian Father In Law (GAFIL), was coming up for the few days we were in town before we went to visit Expat’s mom in Melbourne. Oma is a tiny woman—both Expat and I have tiny grandmothers on our respective father’s side. Tiny and active. Oma’s house is built in the traditional Queensland style: elevated by one floor with the garage underneath. Initially, Queenslanders were told that this was to prevent flooding, but really, it’s to make repairs from termites (or white ants as they call them) easier and less costly. It’s a lot cheaper to replace a stilt than it is to replace a whole wall. As a result, everyone walks up a flight of outdoor stairs to get to the living area of most Queensland houses, which means that Oma walks up and down a flight of stairs many times every day just to get from her garage laundry room to her living room. Like I said, active.

A brief geography lesson: most Australians live on the Australian east coast (the side that faces the Pacific, closest to California). As we all know, Australia is in the Southern Hemisphere, which means that going north in Australia is a lot like going south in the US—the climate gets more mild and more moist as you get more towards the equator. Granted, moist is a relevant term for a country that’s been in severe drought for the past six years, but you get what I mean. Anyway. Much like the Southern US has a reputation for producing uniquely odd residents, so does the northern part of Australia. Of course, this doesn’t exactly apply to Oma. For all that she likes to say “This is an Australian household,” Oma herself is German.

Expat’s grandparents immigrated to Australia after World War II when the GAFIL was only 5 years old. Germany was a wreck, job prospects were few and far between, and after serving for more years than anyone cares to remember, Expat’s grandfather wanted to put as much distance between himself and the German army as possible. I’m a little fuzzy on the details as to why they chose Australia—I think it was simply a case of opportunity and means—but they arrived, they settled, Oma and Opa found work, they bought land, they built a house, they merged old German traditions with new Australian ones. Still, at no time is the family’s German heritage more evident than at Christmas. As Expat likes to point out, only a stubborn German would crank up her oven and bake 12 different kinds of traditional German Christmas biscuits (cookies) in the middle of a 100 degree Australian summer in a house that does not have air conditioning. But Oma does. Every year. Last year, Expat asked Oma for the cookie recipes, which she wrote down on three sheets of paper and mailed to us. I tried making a few. Expat said they were good but not quite Oma’s. This year, I got to try Oma’s Christmas cookies myself and I had to agree: last year’s attempts were pretty good, but Oma’s . . . Oma’s are perfect.

FYI, even though it’s balmy and in the upper 70s to mid-80s in December, the major shopping areas in Brisbane still decorate for Christmas with snowflakes. Despite the abundance of palm trees, they truck in live evergreen trees. They do take advantage of the climate and plant the poinsettias right in the ground, and they do get around in brightly colored sun dressed and flip-flops (thongs), which are, also FYI, not allowed in the new casino that’s taken up residence in the old, historic Treasury Building. Gambling is 100% legal in Australia—well, “pokies,” as they call the computerized slot machines, are legal in all sorts of bars and the retired services clubs, which are like the VFW halls in the US. Expat and the GAFIL like to take $10 each and go play the 1 or 2 cent machines and drink beer, which is exactly what we were headed to do in Brisbane at the Treasury Building casino when the security guard stopped me and told me “No rubber thongs allowed.”

My first thought: What underwear am I wearing today and how does he know and surely it isn’t rubber?

My second thought: Wait, these flip-flops are suede, thank you very much. And beaded. And they match my dress.

The Treasury Building casino.

But no, it didn’t matter. In the end, all I got to see was the outside of the historic Treasury Building because some fuckwit concerned citizen of the world decided that clearly, all people in flip-flops are bums and don’t deserve to see the inside of the Treasury Building. For the record, Expat was wearing shorts and a T-shirt (untucked) and boat shoes. The GAFIL was wearing his usual uniform of sneakers and baggy, sporty khakis, and some work-affiliated polo shirt. I was wearing a very nice, calf-length, empire-waisted sundress with said matching fancy suede beaded flip-flops and a lovely Vera Bradley handbag and make-up, for crying out loud. As we left, I tried to find a woman on the street who wasn't, in fact, wearing flip-flops. I couldn't. Maybe the Treasury Building casino is just sexist.

Still, there were plenty of flip-flop friendly sights to see in downtown Brisbane and the suburbs beyond. Expat’s grandmother actually lives in the somewhat southern suburb of Yeronga, which boasts all sorts of lovely houses; fascinating plant life (I actually got to see a mango tree—a mango tree! In somebody’s front yard! With real mangos on it!); interesting birds; and very nice local cafes which serve all manner of tasty pastries and pretty coffee. Fact: all Australian cafes (and there are a lot of them) serve pretty coffee. Beautiful coffee. Positively brilliantly made, espresso-based coffees with the perfect balance of rich espresso, fresh milk, and delicate foam that make me want to weep when I consider what I have to go back to. Drip filtered coffee as Americans know it simply doesn’t exist in Australian cafes. When you ask for a coffee, they ask what kind and yes, you pay $3.60 every time but with the exchange rate, that’s more like $3.05 and anyway, it’s brilliant so who cares?

The Yeronga Bakery.

The mango tree on the way home from the bus.

Pretty coffee!

When Expat and I left for Melbourne 3 days later, Oma sent us with $100 for spending money, a tin of her Christmas biscuits lovingly wrapped, and most importantly, her love.

If the rest of the trip is anything like this, I may never come home.

The GAFIL, Oma, and Expat. What a cute family!

Black Warrior Files: Fall Comes . . . And Goes . . . And Comes . . . And Goes . . .

So back in, oh, September when the fall foliage reports started coming out for New England and the upper Midwest, I started getting ready for the fall that would surely come south eventually. I hauled out the sweater boxes and checked that the sweaters we all there and clean and ready to be worn once we finally got that first fall day. I dug out my knee-high men’s tube socks that I started wearing under my jeans that first winter I moved back up to the Frozen North in 2002. I found my favorite scarf. I was ready for Fall.

But like a bad date who leaves you waiting on the porch for 35 minutes, Fall didn’t show.

As some of you may recall from my last winter in northern climes, I am not one to necessarily cherish temperature extremes that tend toward the negative. Trust me. Back in February, when Expat made the decision that the job in Alabama was The One, I did a happy little gig in my snowboots in my cubicle right there under the roof of my former Very Corporate Employer in front of God and everyone (read: the industrial Cannon laser printer that shared my cube). Still there is something of merit to the way the air snaps in those first fall days, to the way the sky looks So Blue it almost hurts. I knew that in coming to Alabama, I would be sacrificing a few things, I had just hoped (quietly) that one of them wouldn’t be fall.

And then, just as my heart was laid low by the endless string of mid-to-upper 70s weather the start of November, just when I was truly running out of fall-ish T-shirts and was about to resort once again to springy aquas and limes and sleeveless dresses, Fall showed up one day wearing Rainbows, a Hawaiian shirt, and a slightly sheepish grin.

“Where’ve you been, man?” I asked him.

“Oh, you know, around,” Fall said and scuffed his toes in the dirt.

He brought with him the scraps that had fallen to the bottom of the fall foliage bag and started scattering them judiciously around the Flagship State U campus. One week before Thanksgiving, just in time for Indian corn and pumpkins and my Grammy’s open-faced apple pie, a few trees erupted in a riot of color. It was subtle, elegant, and all the more impressive because it was so selective. Unlike a New England fall, the Southern fall doesn’t inundate you with color. The Southern fall is all about the second glance, the quick double take, the rounding of a corner only to have your breath knocked out by the one, lone, fiery maple.

I turned to Fall. I was impressed. I said so. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Neither did I,” he said. “I’m all out, though.” He gave the bag one last shake and folded it under his arm. He reached into the breast pocket of his Hawaiian shirt and pulled out a pair of Ray-Bans. “Think I’ll head to Destin. I’ll send you a postcard.”

It was true. The fall foliage map on the Weather Channel’s website didn’t extend past Birmingham, as though the rest of the state was simply boycotting anything other than brown that year.

Today, we had our first truly fall day, temperature-wise: down into the 30s at night, the 60s during the day. The students are running around in hats and Columbia jackets and those unfortunate Ugg boots that don’t seem like they’re going out of style down here anytime soon. Expat used it as an excuse to finally break out one of those sweater vests that make him look particularly English-professory. I finally unearthed my little red coat with the hood and put on a pair of knee-length socks. Sure, it’s odd for Fall to wait so long, but he made it in time. Just in time for the holiday sales. Just in time for Christmas.

This weekend, the city of Tuscaloosa will host its annual Christmas Afloat parade, where residents along the Black Warrior River light up their boats and parade down the river after dark and spectators side out on the banks on lawn chairs and huddle under blankets and drink hot chocolate. And maybe by then laid-back Fall will have sent me that postcard from Destin. One of those ones with a palm tree lit up with colored Christmas lights, or a girl in a bikini wearing a Santa hat. “See?” he’ll write. “Aren’t you glad I waited until December?”

I sure am, Fall. I sure am.