Expat Life: Australia
Claire, Patrick and Christine, first day of school, Sydney, Australia
Landscape of Memory
The Expat Years
And so it begins…
January 1999
Snap!
And just like that, we started a new life in Sydney. A few months earlier, I asked Mr. H to find us a house while I packed our home in Connecticut. To be on the safe side, I gave him a list of what we needed. The number of bedrooms, bathrooms, size of the kitchen, proximity to schools, and shopping district. In hindsight, it may have been a tall order. There were only three houses that nearly fit the bill, rental inventory was tight. Photos arrived in my inbox, sailboats dotted panoramic views of sparkling Willoughby Bay on the North Shore of Sydney and jacaranda, eucalyptus, and palm trees gracefully swept the perimeter of a swimming pool. It looked idyllic. (see below)
“I found a house, the kids will love it!” he wrote.
I wrote back “Nice view! Tell me about the house” to which he replied, “Don’t worry.”
I was nervous the whole car ride from Sydney airport to our new home. I still wasn’t clear about the house. We moved to the suburb of Cremorne along the Lower North Shore of Sydney. Off the highway we descended down a long winding narrow road towards the water. I often think of San Francisco when we drive up and down the sweeps of Sydney hills. Australian bungalow homes, reminiscent of the California bungalow in their open verandahs and sloping roofs, stood snuggly, one next to the other, lining both sides of the street. As the car neared our soon-to-be neighborhood, Mr. H could hardly contain himself “We are getting close!” The kids shouted out “Is it that house Dad? How about that one?” Peels of laughter and excitement filled the car.
We arrived.
Claire joyfully yelled out “Ohhh, cool, dad! Is this our new home?” We all stood side-by-side, two adults, three children, luggage stacked around us, looking down into what I could only describe as a sub-tropical jungle with a hint of the house in the midst of it all.
We descended timber steps, three levels, one after another, our luggage clunking down the steps behind us. The house was a furnished three-bedroom split-level bungalow, c. 1960’s, set into a dense understory of the wild Australian bush. Expansive windows featured both bush and water views. Mr. H was right, the kids loved it. Below the pool, we discovered a little boathouse and fishing dock along the shoreline. The trills and hoots of the Kookaburras thrilled the kids. The cockatoos, galahs, and lorikeets filled the trees on cue. It was a microcosm of the Australian bush we had experienced in our previous Australian home. I wondered how the contents of our five-bedroom house in Connecticut, now en route on a container ship, would fit into this small three-bedroom bungalow. I held that thought for another day. The adventure was in full swing.
Moving to Sydney in 1999, the second time around, was easier, it was familiar. We had friends from our previous experience living in Sydney ten years earlier. Mr. H and I picked up the rhythm of life quickly. The only difference was that we had three young school-age children ( five, seven and nine years old) transitioning from an American school system to an Australian one. We left in the midst of a school year in winter and arrived at a new school year in summer. The biggest dilemma was deciding if they should jump ahead one grade or stay behind. They all moved ahead. A decision I would reflect on years later.
First day..
When I took a photo of them in their new school uniforms (above), about to embark on their first day of school, I thought of just how far we had come in one month. Our world flipped upside down, literally. Northern Hemisphere to Southern Hemisphere, new home, new school, new friends. I cheered them on as we piled into the car that first morning, holding my breath as I walked them into their new and unknown school. I waited for the tears to come, the tug on the hand, the whispers “I want to go home.” Instead, they let go and ran off. A new schoolyard awaited them.
The class sizes were larger, up to thirty kids in some, a big change from their previous class size of eighteen. Uniforms were mandatory, sports and music compulsory. Rugby, cricket, sailing, netball, trumpet, violin, piano, singing-they did it all. They took to it like ducks to water. They were too busy to think about anything but life in Australia.
For me, it was a different matter. I slipped into the car after school drop-off those first few weeks and held back the tears. I would be lying if I didn’t say that I missed our life in Connecticut. I hid my feelings from the kids. If they sensed my unhappiness, I knew they would question their own. Mr. H had been through this before with me, he knew I would come around in my own time. An eternal optimist, always looking for the bright side of a situation, I knew I would get there in the end too. I was just uncertain how long it would take.
3-6-12 rule
The three, six, and twelve-month rule had yet to come. I generally find that any new experience shifts in increments of time. When you become a bit more familiar, settled, and content. The kids often remarked how they felt the change too.
Weeks later, our furniture arrived. We pushed and squeezed our five-bedroom American home into our three-bedroom Australian house, cardboard boxes surrounded us for months. Then it happened. One day, I despaired over the smell of everything, especially cardboard. I remember thinking “It can’t be.” But it was. It was April, four months into our Australian journey, I was 42 and I was pregnant.
People say Australia is the “lucky country”. Mr. H said it was indeed the lucky country and the “lucky” Sydney drinking water. Two boys born in Australia, ten years apart. Either way, there was no doubt in our minds that we were blessed. By December, our son, Connor, was born. My obstetrician, Dr. Hugh Torode, delivered our older son, Patrick, ten years earlier at Royal North Shore Hospital in Sydney. The day Connor was born, all three children, still dressed in their school uniforms, bounded into the hospital room like kangaroos, excited to meet their baby brother. They cooed “Oh, he is so cute. Look mom, he has my nose.” Claire thought it was the best gift ever, she had asked for a baby brother a few month earlier and there he was. I was super mom in her eyes.
Two years working in Australia became three and with it an offer for Mr. H to take on a permanent role in Australia. I recall the conversation happening over many months. It was a serious decision to make. It meant departing expat life and making Australia our everlasting home. By this point, we had a full life. The kids were settled in school, Connor was an active toddler and I was embracing my forties with a lovely friendship group. We agreed to stay, he took the job and we applied for Australian citizenship.
I set out to find a home, one that would reflect the new life we were creating. It came in the shape of a double brick, five-bedroom, 20th century Australian Federation style house ( see below) with sweeping views to North Harbour and the headlands at the entrance to Sydney Harbour. Shortly after we welcomed a six-week-old English Springer Spaniel puppy, Tika. I named the house “Windswept” for its windy Southern exposure and as a reminder of my childhood home by the sea. Australian native plants filled the courtyard gardens in the upper and lower levels of our four-level property. It took in the sunny northern exposure and the shady southern exposure, one of the many charms to living in the Southern Hemisphere.
Dual citizens
In 2002, on a sunny day next to Manly beach, NSW (New South Wales), we stood before our MP (Member of Parliament) Tony Abbot and later Prime Minister of Australia, for the Australian citizenship swearing-in ceremony. We became dual citizens, with American and Australian citizenship. Once again, our life had spun around in extraordinary ways, ones that would we could never have imagined when we left JFK airport three years earlier.
Citizenship was a turning point in our lives. An international life provided the opportunity to travel extensively, to deeply appreciate other cultures and allowed our children to stand as a citizen of the world, opening their eyes and hearts to other cultures and nationalities.
Personally, this was an enriching and exciting time for me as well. Seeing my children and husband happily embracing this new life, I set off to do the same. I took it as a time to step out of my comfort zone. In short order, I joined a newly formed hiking group of women, Wild Women On Top. Each week, we set off in the evening, head lamps ablaze and backpacks growing in weight as we trained for upcoming hikes in the countryside. With a fear of heights, I winced at their idea of climbing to the top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge to watch a full moon rise up and over the Sydney Opera House. They were with me every step up and down. I was so in awe of what was above and in front of me, I forgot about what was below me. At that moment, we were, without a doubt, Women on Top.
Watching my mother paint as a child, I wondered if I had the talent. Words, paint and paper filled my days as I attempted to create abstract work on canvas. I met an Australian artist, Sonja Georgeson, who offered private instruction in her studio. I told her what I had in mind, she helped me find my talent.
In 2004 my world shifted dramatically when I woke to a phone call to say my dad was in the hospital and I needed to come home. Connor turned five years old that day, we had a houseful of boys ready for a big rambunctious super hero party. In between filling the piñata with candy and blowing balloons I booked my flight home and counted the minutes and hours until I could get to my fathers bedside. I was on the next plane to Boston twelve hours later, flying 24 hours door to door. They say this is the worst part of living so far from your family, living life abroad, and I have to agree. Although he never regained consciousness, he waited for me. My steady rock left this earth two days later. He was 72 years old. In shock, I bordered a plane back to Australia, hung my painting Collage of Life, one I previously created to remember my father, our secret garden and our house by the sea. A door closed that day, an emotional void that could not be filled. I never painted again.
Life carried on as it always does, friendships and experiences continued to blossom. We were deeply rooted in our Australian life. With my dad’s passing, the roots felt deeper.
I was surprised and not surprised when Mr. H came home one day in 2005 with a look I recalled from the distant past. It was thoughtful and considered. He has a quiet reserve by nature, one we both share. We are sensitive to shifts in each other’s rhythm. We liked to sit in a sunroom at the front of our house, with views of the harbor. The motion and sound of the ferries crossing past the headlands was a soothing end to a busy day. Quietly, he turned to me and said “What do you think about moving to Auckland, New Zealand?”
I had to sit with the idea of returning to expat life, turn it over in my mind the way one would turn over the soil in a garden bed, prepping for new seeds. I thought of my father and what he might say if I were to call him, as I often did, with big decisions. His never-ending optimism towards seizing opportunities was the first thing that came to mind. Perhaps it was a door that needed to be opened again, a fresh change, a new step. We had traveled to New Zealand in the past, it is a beautiful country and we knew we could make a good life for our family there. Days later I called Mr. H and said “Let’s do it.”
A greater challenge awaited us. The “family meeting.”
The family meeting
When we called a family meeting, the kids knew something was up. Their first inclination was to say “What? Are we moving again?” We sat down with them and explained the opportunity, an adventure that would now include New Zealand.
Patrick, about to embark on his junior year of high school said “It works for me, I can move into the boarding house.” We secretly hoped for this response. We knew changing schools during those emotionally charged teenage years would be challenging for him and us. Christine was excited about the idea of moving and a having a new set of friends. Claire was reluctant to move, she was clear in her feelings. Once was enough for her. Connor was more concerned about Tika. “What will happen to Tika, can she come with us to New Zealand?” I could see his six-year-old mind imagining a plane seat with our full-grown dog sitting next to him. This would be the first of four flights and four continents she would take with us around the world.
Within months, two containers of our belongings headed to New Zealand. Patrick settled into boarding school and the part I really don’t like, the tearful goodbyes to our friends, began. They were there when we celebrated our Australian citizenship and the commitment we made to living in Australia. I am the biggest baby, sentimental in many ways, it doesn’t take much for me to get teary and this was full on. To our friends I said “this isn’t goodbye, we will be back soon.” But still, we knew it meant the end of our usual routines, long chats over cafe coffees, lunches, dinners and family gatherings. For this we cried and never said good-bye.
The choices we make
People ask if we regret the choice we made all those years ago, leaving America to take our children on this expat journey. We have few regrets. For the most part we think back and marvel what we were able to experience as a family. We often reflect, ask each other “What if? What if we never left America? What if we stayed in Australia? How different would our life have been?” I never have an easy answer. I know it would be vastly different and yet we all agree and are grateful for the choices we made as a family.
There were many more to choices to come in the years ahead, more on that next time.
Life in Australia
Landscape of Memory
THE EXPAT YEARS
Note:
Dear Friends,
Thank you for reading Part Three of Landscape of Memory. If something resonates with you, I would love to know. I often feel we are kindred spirits, you and I. Writing and reading along over the years. I am hoping this might spark you to do the same. To think about your story, perhaps write or record it. The joys, the challenges, where you have been, where you want to go. How to make the changes to shift the narrative, to step in a new direction. Or…to stay just where you are, happily.
Best wishes for a wonderful weekend,
Jeanne xx
PS… Stay tuned for more of the The Expat Years plus book recommendations and my summer shopping list. :))
