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No Gas

SarahAlderson

August 24, 2010

There is only the road. Long, dusty, hilly, deserty and deserted. Then there is the fuel gauge – red, flashing, beeping and 2 miles till empty.

‘Crap crap crap’

‘Don’t stress. It won’t help.’

‘But what if we break down out here.’ (I’m so not walking is the subtext. I’ll be like those people who break down in their cars in the snow and get found six months later dessicated inside them. It’s not snowing but that’s what I think of. I start thinking too of John hitching to find fuel and a lonesome truck driver pulling up and a whole Wolf Creek scene plays out in my mind.)

‘Coast. Don’t press the gas.’ I tell John.

‘We’re going uphill.’

‘Well put it in neutral when you get to the top.’

‘Where’s neutral? It’s an automatic. Do automatic’s have neutral?’

It would appear not because we coast downhill and the gauge rides to empty.

‘Pull over. No don’t pull over. No not here. No don’t stop in the middle lane what if we conk out right here at the lights? Look Look a gas station!’

We slide into the forecourt. I hop out jubilant and run inside (I hate this whole having to get out the car to pump gas – look at me sounding all American – I mean put petrol in the car – but this time I don’t care because they also sell ice cream inside and we need to celebrate our victory over the fuel gauge).

‘$40 of gas please,’ I tell the man.

I run my card down the machine.

‘Sorry we don’t take credit cards.’

‘Err, that’s all I have. Hang on. I’ll just get my husband….JOHN I need your cards.’

John tries swiping.

‘Is that a European bank card?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yeah, we don’t take those.’

‘We have no gas.’ We have no cash either. Only about two dollars worth of quarters with which I plan to buy my ice cream.

‘Sorry,’ the man says.

Turns out there is an ATM though and I thank God for overdrafts and Ben & Jerry’s for the invention of Cherry Garcia.

The scales are slowly tipping

SarahAlderson

3 comments

August 21, 2010

I’m not sure if you’ve seen Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs (possibly the best children’s film to be made in decades) but there’s a great scene in it when this fat bloke takes on some man-size roasted chickens and he ends up looking like this…

Well that’s what I wanted to do with my roasted chicken to the check out woman at Vons, Montecito.

Do I have ID?

I’m ambivalent to this question. Half of me is flattered that someone out there still thinks I look younger than 21. Half of me is just plain angry that someone is making me root through my bag for my drivers’ license which I’ve gotten used to carrying everywhere because at some point the highway patrol is so going to nab my arse but which is always hidden, crumpled at the bottom of my bag. Anyway I show the Vons lady my UK drivers’ license and she looks at it. Then says, ‘No, sorry. It has to be a US one.’

I stare at her and that’s when I imagine the chicken scene. I eye the chicken in my trolley and sigh and say to her, ‘And even though it says I’m 32 right there, next to the picture of me. And my four year old daughter is in front of you and I’m shopping in Montecito buying a weeks’ worth of groceries and I’m wondering how many 20 year olds you get in here doing that, and I bought a bottle just yesterday and your manager served me no questions, you’re still not going to let me buy this wine?’

‘No.’

Chicken image again. I got in the car with my alcohol free shopping and realized that whilst I love California – namely the sunshine, the beaches, the light, the wine (when I can get it), the smiles (except at Disneyland), the shopping, yogurtland, thriftstores, the fact that I’m currently living in the same state as Alex Skarsgard…there’s a few things stacking up on my not so fond of list.

Needing my passport not just to clear immigration but also to buy wine even though I am 10 years over the limit and clearly look like I could use it.
Having to stop at stop signs.
Having to give right of way to pedestrians.
Having to pump my own gas. Admittedly this is the case in most of the rest of the world. But not in Bali – land of the perpetually lazy ex-pat.

Family Planning my style

SarahAlderson

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August 20, 2010

‘Are you hearing this boys? Now always wear a condom.’

The boys laugh but I see their fear. I see it hovering at the back of their eyes like kids who don’t want to be chosen for PE. The fear – it is being generated by none other than my 3 almost 4 year old daughter. Who should know by now that 3 follows 2 follows 1 follows ‘You have three seconds to stop screaming and apologise before I take away your Barbie.’ She should know the outcome to this conundrum is always the same.

We had been on the beach until twenty seconds ago, now I am dragging her back to the car past scared/ bemused / horrified people because her howls were disturbing the beach, and the dolphins and migratory whales. John offered to take her for a walk to calm her down but the beach was crowded and I had the thought he might get lynched by people thinking he was abducting a child.

I drag the still screaming Lula past two teenage boys who stare at me and her (I imagine them thinking – but she’s so young how does she have a child? But probably they’re thinking God stop her making that noise. what kind of a mother are you?’). I give them a free family planning lecture.

So now I’m stuck with a child screaming for her barbies. I can keep the barbies and turn up the radio or I can give her the barbies and forever be the mother that gives in. I turn up the radio. I hope the boys are listening.

A strategy for life: vagabonding

SarahAlderson

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August 18, 2010

We did a 5 day roadtrip. We drove 1500 miles. Half of which were unnecessary and ending in three point turns. Having said that we saw most of southern California. We headed East first to Big Bear Lake through the Mojave. We kept Lula from going car crazy by telling her to look for Bears. She spent an hour with her face pressed to the glass in the growing dusk asking ever more desparately ‘where are the bears? I don’t see the bears.’

Cabins for less – a discount for the bedbugs. And having to make your own bed.

We stayed in a place called Cabins for Less and ate at a place called the Teddy Bear. I was so ready to leave. After that we did Palm Springs, Joshua Tree, San Diego, Oceanside (location for my book) and Disneyland before heading back to Montecito where we’ve been hanging out ever since doing precisely nothing but drinking Californian wine and eating. (Oh, and I started my third book which is why I’ve been quieter than normal. sorry) Oprah is our neighbour. And Michael Jackson. Or his ghost anyway, hanging out at his Neverland ranch up the road.

I spent about 1000 of the roadtrip miles contemplating whether we could live here in California. Most of the other towns we passed through, I would gape at and turn to John saying ‘Crap, who the hell lives here? I mean, what do they do? It’s the middle of the desert.’

But then you get to San Diego and the coast and suddenly it all makes sense. Plus they have Yogurtland here. Why have we not thought of that in Europe? It’s the future. And it’s year round 72 degrees with a lovely sea breeze.

San Diego…

Do you want to live here instead? John asks looking at me with his eyebrows raised.

I grimace and squirm. I know, I know we’ve just laid down a stonking amount of money for a house in Bali. But they have wine here, and cool breezes, and Yogurtland. And fashion.

Yes, yes of course I want to live here, I say. But we can’t afford it.

And then Johnny Depp comes to me. Unfortunately not literally. I remember reading an article in an in-flight magazine where he raved about his vagabond lifestyle and how wonderful it is for him and his family. And I realised that whilst I don’t own a Caribbean island nor a chateau in the south of France, that was always the life I was after. Ideally shoving Vanessa out the way and marrying Johnny to get there. But when life doesn’t take you down that path then you gotta create your own.

So here I am doing that. I’m going to vagabond for the rest of my life as Johnny advocates. Five years in Bali. Then five years somewhere else – maybe California. Then five years maybe somewhere else. Ad infinitum until I drive that RV off a cliff when I’m 62 (it’s been prophesied). It was an amazing realisation (the vagabonding one – not the dying one) because this whole time I was looking for somewhere we could stay forever and it was giving me silent panic attacks. But what about saying that’s not how I want to live my life? What if I want to live in many places and spend my life being a vagabond? What if home doesn’t have to be one place forever but wherever John and Lula are (and newsflash they’re coming with me).

Vagabonding: It’s the future. That and Yogurtland.

Disneyland: The fattest place on earth

SarahAlderson

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August 14, 2010

Disneyland – the happiest place on earth. Also the fattest.

I didn’t know fat like this existed. It’s not like the fat you sometimes see in the UK. It’s astonishing fat. It’s six belly folds fat. It’s humungous fat and it’s queuing in front of you at the ice cream place ordering a triple chocolate sundae.

The queues in Disneyland are so long because lots of the rides were designed in the 80s when America was thinner – now they can only squeeze one person in per row, when before three people could fit. Hence queues three times as long. I can say this with something like authority because I just googled it and 34% of Americans are officially obese. (compared to the UK where it’s about 17%).

Walking down Main St, trying to avoid being squashed, John looks at me, ‘This is your idea of hell isn’t it?’ he asks. He is smirking. He and Alula are both dancing down main street like they’re auditioning for Fame whilst I am covering my eyes and wishing there was a dark room nearby that I could lie in. Or a Margarita bar empty of all other people that I could lie in.

I am too busy scowling to answer John, but he is right. I hate crowds, I hate noise and most of all I hate smiley people (not fat people. I don’t hate fat people. I’m just astonished and intrigued by them and I actually like being amongst them because it makes me feel ok about ordering a sundae too).

I do kind of hate smiley people though. I think that’s quite British of me. There are many smiley people in Disneyland – the staff/ visitor ratio is about 1:1 and all the staff manically grin. That’s all they do. They just grin. It’s like they know Disneyland Big Brother is watching them and if they stop grinning they’ll get shot. Right there on Main street. I wonder whether when they wake up in the morning they have to swallow a bucket of prozac just to get up. Every night I imagine them going home and injecting muscle relaxant into their cheeks. It makes me depressed. It makes me want to cry.

Lula is in heaven though and this is the point John reminds me. Alula is silently worshipfully in awe of the Princesses. I try to look at Disneyland through her eyes. Instead I’m thinking things like, ‘Oh you poor dear, you probably graduated from Lamda and they have you dressed in that absurd Princess Jasmine get up’ and ‘ugh, sleeping beauty? Think not’ and ‘Tinkerbell looks like Kelly Osbourne’ and ‘Peter Pan bad hair’ and ‘if that animatronic of Johnny Depp is lifesize he’s really, really small. Like an elf’.

Disneyland should have made me nicer. It should have filled me with the spirit of celebration – it should have made me want to unite with all humankind – It’s a small world still rings in my head like a Guantanamo torture tune. But instead it just made me misanthropic and evil. And now I think about it, the only bit I liked and that made me smile was the evil Queen Malificent strutting her way through the crowds scaring the children.

John didn't think the Princess Jasmine get up was so bad.

see - Peter Pan bad hair no? And Kelly Obsourne right? Am I right?

Things I wish I had known before leaving the UK; part 2

SarahAlderson

3 comments

August 13, 2010

I think I did part 1 back in India and I probably talked about wishing that I’d packed an extra suitcase rammed with Percy Pig fizzy pig tails. Also I think I probably talked about wishing I hadn’t wasted valuable baggage weight by packing three shades of nail polish. My friend Cynthia was right. Even though I have bog all to do and have long since given up laundry/cooking/map reading I still can’t find the time to redo my chipping nail varnish.

So herewith, other things I wish I had known before setting off on this crazy round the world jaunt.

1. When choosing locations for your round the world trip factoring in countries that make wine should come top. Factoring in countries where wine is overtaxed, overpriced and / or illegal should also come top.

2. Seven months (and counting) of near 24/7 (let’s just ignore the full time nanny detail in Bali) parenting is harder than I thought possible. It’s relentless. I wish I had known to pack valium and I wish I had ignored John and bought that portable dvd player. I wish also that I hadn’t bought so many Starbuck’s frapaccino’s and had been able to afford an au pair.

3. I wish I had known that the pat myself on the back extra 20% I added onto my round the world budget was a joke. I should have added an extra nought.

4. I wished I’d packed more underwear to replace the pants lost in the Balinese laundry ether.

Things I am glad about however…

1. I am glad we’ve come this way around the globe – East to West. It’s enabled us to appreciate the contrast in cultures much more. Fat to thin (India) to Fat (Australia) and then Fatter (USA). It’s also enabled me to grow spiritually.

Oh who am I trying to kid? Not you guys, you know me better, rather it’s enabled me to follow the sun and get a really good tan.

2. I am oh so very glad to have left the UK at the height of the recession, to have said FUCK IT. To have taken the leap and to have wound up here (well not here here, here being a skank motel on route 91 just outside LA) but here, with a whole new life about to begin as a bohemian writer living in Bali with my own pool and a nanny (that last not for me). And if this blog has inspired just one of you readers to do the same then I am glad.

The view from over here is amazing

Our 3rd wedding anniversary goes well

SarahAlderson

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August 11, 2010

‘It is not my fault. It is the map’s fault.’

‘A-ha,’ John murmurs from the driver’s seat.

‘No. Seriously. This map is totally fecking shite. Joshua Tree could be 5 metres away, it could be 5 miles or it could be 500 light years away. Want to know why it could be any of those? Because this map that you bought from Target is so shit.’

‘Right, so it’s my fault that you can’t read the map?’

‘I can read the map. I can read a map better than you can Mr. turn it upside down to check whether to go left or right.’

‘You get us lost more than I do.’

‘I’m sorry? Did you or did you not take us on a 150 mile detour yesterday through the Mojave desert?’

‘That’s because the scale was off in the Lonely Planet. Anyway, it was fun. We got to see the desert.’

‘It was fun for you because you got to work on your computer. I was the one driving through the desert. Look. This map is shit. I am buying a new one.’

‘It’s a waste of money. We already have a map.’

‘We have a shit map. That is getting us lost a lot. If we spent $20 on a new map we would save that in petrol money for all the detours.’

‘Well you didn’t even buy a map. You couldn’t even find the maps in the store.’

‘Yeah well actually it wasn’t that I couldn’t find them. I forgot to look.’

[Silence]

[For 50 more lost miles]

A freeze frame moment on life

SarahAlderson

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August 9, 2010

I’m not sure how exactly we ended up here. It involves marriage. And step uncles and fathers and weird shit I’d rather not delve into. And less genetically it also involved John spending as long at the Alamo car hire place choosing a Ford Focus as it did to cross the pacific and that was something like 24 hour hours (I forget how many hours exactly because I was watching a lot of movies and we crossed the international dateline at the point I took several hundred painkillers and passed out watching Clash of the Titans possibly the worst film ever made despite Sam W wearing nothing but a dress in it). But here we are and I’m wearing a mask that I’ve decorated in feathers and glitter and I’m barefoot and the light is glinting through the trees in such a way that it makes you feel like you’re standing at the bottom of a wine glass filled with cabernet sauvignon on a late summer’s evening. And I exhale and want to freeze frame this moment on life. I’m standing in the wild flower garden of Frank Lloyd Wright’s first house in California and I’m watching girls dressed as butterflies lying in the drive dancing with their shadows and having to explain to Lula why she can’t join the party and I’m thinking yes, I’m thinking this is it. This is the most perfect vision of life ever given to me.

Except there’s no babysitter.

Perth: Can we Live here?

SarahAlderson

1 comment

August 4, 2010

Yes. I could live in Perth.

If the apocolypse was looming / and or I just been told I had six months to live. Or if the people whose house we’re staying in wanted to maybe say give us their house to live in. Because it is rather stupendously lovely.

Perth reminds me of that scene in Beaches where the dark haired woman who isn’t Bette Middler is dying. I keep expecting to hear John singing that I’m his hero and everything he wishes he could be (I’ll keep waiting on that). It is beautiful and peaceful and sedate. It’s the kind of place where you could sit on a veranda in the sunshine and listen to the Kookaburras all day and not do anything . And be perfectly, serenely happy. If I had to wait for death to claim me I would do it here. For sure.

Here are my other fascinating observations on Perth:

You could play What’s the time Mr. Wolf on the freeway blindfolded and not get hit by a car.
You get called a lot of things. Like Champ, darling, sweetheart, love, beauty, you beauty, darling and mate. It’s quite nice.
It is exceedingly expensive. I’m sure it wasn’t this expensive when I was 18 because I managed to enjoy myself quite a lot back then (ahhh Nimbin. Mr. Morgan if you happen to be reading, remember that?) But now it is the equivalent of eight quid for the cheapest bottle of wine and five quid for a bottle of Garnier Fructis. And I am not resorting to drinking shampoo as a cheaper alternative – that’s what meths are for.
Fashion seems to have entered a strange vortex here. Ripped jeans, mullets, sequinned tops, singlet vests over tight t-shirts, knee high stiletto boots with silver buckles (maybe she was Russian though – I couldn’t tell) everywhere I look. But if the apocolypse was looming I might not care about what I was wearing. Maybe. Though probably that is not true.
There are drive through liquor stores here called bottle shops. I mean why have we not thought of that in Europe?

So goodbye Perth, see you again, I hope. Or not, as the case may be.

Being Sarah Alderson

SarahAlderson

4 comments

August 2, 2010

I kept telling people that the one thing I wanted to bring back to Bali was my recipe books. That I really, really missed cooking. That I was going to excess baggage my way back to Indonesia with a suitcase filled with garlic presses, creuset pans, working can openers, my juicer and even a few cake tins. Except we get to Australia, to a house stocked with non stick pans and sparkling counter tops, with philippe starcke lemon squeezers and silver cheese slicers, with an oven, and a coffee grinder and six types of olive oil and a larder of delicacies and Jamie Oliver recipe books and you know what?

I cannot be arsed to cook.

Can’t even manage to melt chocolate in the microwave in a feeble attempt at dessert. I put it on for 20 seconds and forgot about it. Came back half an hour later and put it on for a minute. Came back when I smelt it burning. Gave up. Ate the strawberries as god intended.

Have had to hide the bowl with the burnt chocolate on it until I can figure a way of drilling it off.

I would argue that after dealing with ant infested kitchens for six months (we are talking so ant infested that you’d come downstairs in the morning and find a line of them walking off with the s-bend), I’ve lost interest in kitchens and cooking. But I think it goes deeper than that. I think that’s just an excuse I made up to cover up the fact that really I’ve lost any kind of interest in the domestic.

Tonight I watched our lovely host wash up. She looked at me standing there and said, ‘The tea towel’s over there on the side.’

I stared at her confused for full on ten seconds wondering why she was telling me this. My hands weren’t wet. I didn’t need to dry them.

‘I think you’ve gotten too used to having help,’ she laughed when I finally twigged that it was being suggested I dry the dishes. It is true. I have not washed or dried dishes in a very, very long time.

I then went into the bedroom. It’s rather messy. My excuse for this one is that we’ve been living out of a bag for six months and moving every few days so what is the point of unpacking? And if you do, Lula just comes and takes everything and rearranges it anyway into little shrines around the house. Best off keeping it in the bag. Or at least piled on top or around the bag.

‘You’re so messy,’ John said to me.

‘Oh my god,’ I replied, ‘what are you saying? Are you saying [pause for indignation] I’ve become a slob?’

John didn’t answer – kept his back to me.

‘Oh my god.’ I tried to sound appalled and outraged. But oh my god. He is right.

And there is no excuse. Except maybe to say ‘But my hand hurts. I can’t pick anything up.’

But we all know that’s an excuse because I can still manage to pick up my glass of wine. And lift that tub of ice cream out of the freezer.

So there we have it. I am a slob. This is making me wonder what use I am to the world. I am too scared to voice this outloud though in case John doesn’t answer and keeps his back to me.