Wanting

SarahAlderson

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August 2, 2010

The thing about being back in ‘civilisation’ is that it’s quite stressful. The capitalist gene kicks in and everywhere I look I see things I want to buy. Ok, not everywhere I look. When I look in the clothes shops the communist gene kicks back in. But everywhere else I see things I want to own, consume – pork belly, ludicrously priced organic skincare, a house with gables and a veranda.

It makes me stressed. So stressed that I can’t breathe properly. It makes me think about money. And the fact I am unemployed with only my book advance to sustain me until John manages to woo Singapore’s design companies into employing his genius. Wanting things is stressful.

In Bali and India there was little to want and what I did want I could generally afford – partly because back then my bank balance was still flush – a nanny? Check. A tuk tuk driver? Check. Tailor made clothes? Check. Ribs every night? Check.

There’s a lesson here in wanting. It’s certainly true that I was happier in Bali. But was that because I wanted less or because I got what I wanted (barring wine)? The Buddhists are right whichever way you look at it -wanting things is the root cause of unhappiness.

I gotta figure out a solution to that one.

Acclimitisation

SarahAlderson

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July 31, 2010

This is what 11 degrees feels like. I’m not a one for the cold. It is one of the prime reasons we left the UK. Re-entering climes of less than 30 degrees sent my body into the type of violent shock usually witnessed in car crash victims. My teeth almost shattered. The muscles in my shoulders locked from all the spasming. Luckily the house we are staying in, apart from being on the nicest street in the nicest part of Perth, has a bed with two quilts and an electric blanket. I feel like a hunk of cheddar lying under a grill when I sleep.

John’s response was to say ‘yeah, the cold. So over it.’

Lula’s acclimitisation has been somewhat different. For starters she tried to climb into the car through the front seat (after two months of jeep living). Then she stared at the child seat like it was an alien. When prodded to sit on it she freaked out at the seatbelt. In Bali we are not used to such safety measures. There are only two safety rules to the road there – own a four wheel drive and wear a bra.

Another big difference – the silence. At night. It’s silent. I miss the roar of cicadas and the howling of cockerels and the incessant barking of rabid dogs.

We are all however acclimitising nicely to the food. Yesterday I went shopping and ended up having a Breakfast at Tiffany’s moment outside the butchers. Then later a Harry met Sally moment over the wine. The wine. The wine. How I have missed you. An emotional reunion that began over the pacific (I almost asked the Qantas cabin crew to just park the drinks trolley next to our seats to save them bother) continues indefinitely. It’s like a honeymoon with Shiraz.

10 Free things to do at Changi. That don’t get you high.

SarahAlderson

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July 28, 2010

I’m hanging out at Singapore’s number one visitor attraction. The airport. Last time we were here I ruminated on why it was the number one visitor attraction and came to the conclusion it was because Sing Sing sucks so hard everyone’s rushing to Changi to catch the first flight out. Either there or to the lion enclosure at the number two visitor attraction – the zoo.

I’m here for 8 hours. On my own. With an overtired child who won’t walk and who has taken to crawling along the travelators. At one point she refused to budge from her prostrate position spreadeagled on the carpet tiles. Would have been ok but we were at the head of the security line. Even a man with a big gun couldn’t get her off the floor. She wouldn’t stop screaming even when his friend with a bigger gun joined in and the queue behind started tutting.

There would be shame but shame and I long ago parted company. Sometime in India I think it was. Or perhaps before then. I forget.

Anyway now she lies prostrate before Spongebob squarepants where I have deposited her. Japanese tourists keep stopping to pap her – I’ve given up trying to stop them but maybe I should charge them. Because here I am surrounded by the kind of shops that make you want to lick the displays and writhe naked on the counter tops before scaling the pyramids of Absolut bottles. And I can do no more than stand before them, longingly, achingly. Until Alula screams at me to get moving. Because the ATM still says NO.

I am starting to hate the ATM machine.

Being here is like standing before a naked and willing Askars and not being able to move or nod yes please. It’s like being dead and watching everyone get drunk and high at my own wake.

However, being a resiliant and resourceful kind of girl I have tried to see what kicks I can get for free.  Apparently economising is in vogue (urgh). Here  is my list of free things to do at Changi. (in case you ever happen to be at Changi with 8 hours to spare and find the ATM is no longer your friend).

1. Free internet

2. Free massage chairs

3. Free perusal of Grazia magazine

4. Free perfume squirts (Lula and I now smell respectively of eau de Barbie and a brothel)

5. Free SKII slatherings of $389 moisturiser, liberally applied six times. Do I want to buy that? Er, no lady. Why would I want to buy it when I can slather it on for free and not have to worry about remortgaging to buy another jar? Dur.

6. Free Elizabeth Arden 8 hour cream (see above)

7. Free lesson in gun control / toddler control from security.

8. Free Fox’s Glacier mints stolen from immigration

9. Free pen also stolen from immigration (take that Singapore – what you gonna do? Jail me for ten years?)

10…

Oh who am I kidding? It sucks. Free stuff doesn’t get you high. There’s a mac store just ten metres away and gleaming things called Mac Book Pros are calling to me like Sirens and the best bit is I have no idea what $1691 means in English. Could be twelve quid. Could be five. But I must own one. I MUST.

ou est le husband and his plastic?

How much money does it take to travel around the world?

SarahAlderson

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July 27, 2010

So it turns out there is a point when the ATM decides to say NO.

Or in my case

NO. NOW BACK THE HELL AWAY FROM THE TERMINAL, TURN AROUND AND GET OUT.

Could be that withdrawing thousands of dollars worth of rupiah (which runs into the billions so high that I can’t even count it without getting vertigo) over the course of 5 days is not such a wise thing to do before checking your bank balance. The little minus sign next to the big number. That apparently means something.

Then John goes and hops off to Singapore taking his plastic with him and leaving me with a stinking jeep which now ain’t getting a clean, a small child who is going to be dining on fruit mentos tonight, 2 episodes of Man Men till the end (hmmm what would Joanie do?) and not enough cash it would turn out to pay for the taxi to the airport, the exit visas, the small issue of our rent and our return visas (and if I don’t pay that one I don’t get our passports back).

It’s time for a glass or five of wine whilst I reflect but oh, I forgot, wine here costs $20 and I HAVE NO DOLLARS. I have no money.

There you go. That’s how long it takes to travel the world before going broke. 6 months and 9 days.

And to think planning used to be my forte.

One time in Greece when I was about 20, I ran out of money on my last day. I called my dad reverse charges and begged him to wire me some so that I didn’t have to sleep on the streets of Athens and prostitute my way back home. He told me he was busy in a meeting and hung up.

So the path to daddy is closed. I’m going to have to man up and figure this one out all by myself.

Excessive use of the word dude

SarahAlderson

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July 23, 2010

For those of you who don’t know me so well, I use the word ‘dude’ quite a lot. I use it occasionally as a term of endearment as in ‘hey dude’ meaning  ‘hello my friend’ but more often I use it in lieu of the words ‘for fuck’s sake’

I figure that by using the camaraderie of the d word no one will be able to haul me up on the subtext and punch me. Examples:

‘dude, you just cut me up’

‘dude where are the keys?’

‘dude where have you been? I’ve been waiting in a hot car with a screaming child for hours.’

The funny thing is that until now I never figured what the subtext was. It took an episode with our friend Jay to realise. He and Natasha, parents of Lula’s crush Egg and her nemesis/conspiritor Noah (it’s like baby vampire diaries watching them all together) have just moved into a stunning jungle top house perched over the champuan river, complete with maid and cook. But no pool. Which is why we decided to go swim in the river. I’m thinking all natural essences and run off to don my bikini and grab my shampoo bottle. I flip flop my way down the slope with Jay.

The first dude occurs within 60 seconds.

‘Dude where are we going?’ I say.

‘Just down here’ Jay says.

I frown at the tangled undergrowth and follow after him. A flip flop gets sucked into the abyss. My foot is covered in slime and coated in mosquitos. I am Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone.

‘Dude, where’s the path?’ I yell surveying the sodden, dank ground – haven for cobras and pythons. My heart rate is upping frantically. A friend’s daughter got bitten four times by a python not two weeks ago, very near to here.

‘I’ll go ahead and see if we can get down,’ Jay shouts over to me and off he goes, leaving me with just my panic and the mosquitos for company.

A minute later he calls to me that he has found a way down. I take a breath. He is not my husband so I cannot go hysterical. I cannot swear or yell or turn back. No I have to act all Nancy Drew about it. I follow until I reach him and when I do I look around at the foot deep undergrowth and the twenty foot drop to the brown, churning river below and then I look back at Jay and say, yeah you guessed it, ‘Dude, where is the path?’

Jay hacks a way down and I slip and slide after him until I come to rest on a rock overhanging the muddy rapids. Acollection of rubbish has dammed the river in front of us.

‘So you coming for a swim then?’ Jay asks.

I look at him carefully, ‘Dude, you have got to be kidding.’

postcards from the edge part deux

SarahAlderson

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July 21, 2010

Today a  lady called Bobbi hammered my hand, arm and neck with a chinese instrument of torture, involving six sharpened needles and a whole lotta pain. Now it looks like this.

this is after she wiped the blood off

looks like John got a little hungry? Nah. that's from a hammer. Does it work? Don't yet know. It hurts. It bled.

The day my arm stopped working (strained ligaments from all the atm withdrawals) my keyboard also stopped working. Universe trying to tell me something? Anyway, the acupuncture seems to be working.

But typing one handed bores me. So here in photo form is our day yesterday…be prepared.

recognise this place? that's right. M&S. Sans Percy Pigs however. And for some reason selling woolen snoods. Just what I need. The underwear was also $50 a pack so I guess I'm commando for a few more weeks. So to vent, I let Lula run around in a pair of high heels. Actually I didn't let her. She helped herself.

busted by security outside the shop of top. I know I went all righteous following India and vowed not to shop there again blah blah convictions wane you know...

How cute is this little number? I was going to have a J Crew style one made up for me but then I saw this for 15 dollars and thought I'd give my tailor some time off. but my boobs have shrunk to such a state of nothingness I need to get it taken in. so back to the tailor's today (I have another Missoni dress being made up shhhh don't tell John). but this is why I'm looking like I'm about to do the chicken dance. I'm holding it to avoid giving you a page three experience. A microscopic page 3 experience.

All my lovely new clothes. and a my little pony for lula. because the world needs more purple plastic. and I needed silence. Thank you Centro Mall.

Lula rockin her new t-shirt. I made her take off the matching shorts. She still doesn't get co-ordinating. Instead I clashed her with her green batik shorts and red fake crocs. Pure class. I then accessorized with two flowers and a ceramic tiger which I feel adds a certain je ne sais quois to the outfit. I should style for vogue. undoubtedly.

I totally needed pyjamas too. It's getting cool at night, lately dropping below 25. And here I am running in our garden away from all the ants.

oh and I almost forgot. Today we bought this too. The view I mean. This is the view from the balcony of our house in Ubud. We will be decorating with a few ceramic tigers and then renting it out to holidaymakers in search of Javier Bardem come 2011. Come stay for free before then. Did I mention the pool? And when I say free I mean 2 bottles of duty free vodka and some percy pigs is the rental for one week.

Food is the new fashion for me

SarahAlderson

2 comments

July 13, 2010

It starts with a profiterole of happiness. And finishes like this.

Food never made me cry before but food made me cry with happiness last night. We went to the only Michelin starred restaurant on the island for a slap up celebration. Once more sartorially I made a statement. This time with my red plastic flipflops accessorising my topshop satin number. But enough about fashion. This one’s about food.  About food so good you don’t want to swallow. Food that makes you shudder from the inside.

It was all about balsamic jasmine reduction, vodka foam and guiness glaze. About milk-fed lamband citrus ceviche and spiced passion fruit broth.

‘What does Milk-Fed mean?’ I ask John, ‘is it opposed to the absinthe-fed lamb?’

‘It means it’s been pulled away from its mother,’ he says eyeing my plate with what looks suspiciously like food envy.

‘Shuttup shuttup shuttup’ I yell shovelling another tender morsel into my mouth

He tries the same with the rabbit, ‘Are you sure you’re happy that it’s got fois gras in it?’ he asks. I have always gallantly refused to touch fois gras (no problem with the milk-fed lamb though).

‘Fuck yeah,’ I reply swallowing mouthful after mouthful until there’s no more rabbit left. ‘I want to marry the chef. No offence. I want to divorce you and marry him.’

John isn’t offended because he wants to too.

‘It’s like watching another man take your wife for a spin and being totally ok with that,’ John remarks as I start groaning at the mangoustine sorbet with milk rice tuille. Again with the no swallowing.

‘I could die happy now.’  I say pouring the contents of my fifth glass of wine down my throat.

John nods.

I have always said money isn’t important. That I don’t need to be rich. But I take it all back. I want to be rich. I want to eat here every day for the rest of my life. Forget new dresses. Give me food.

this is how happy the food made me

THANK YOU

SarahAlderson

5 comments

July 10, 2010

Almost three years ago John told me that the future was full of outrageous potential (he wrote that in his wedding vows –ahhhhhh it’s like a Nicholas Spark’s movie). I believed him. But I never knew he meant this outrageous.

I’m not sure even he envisaged a two book deal from Simon & Schuster.

Thank you for the vibes people. It paid off. My book, Hunting Lila, is going to be published. And the sequel too.

I guess there’s a lesson here – never stop believing in outrageous potential. And never give up on the story you want to write.

Ok. Enough of the Eckhart Tolle-ising. I’m going to make myself puke.

I’ve had about 4 hours sleep in 72 hours. The water ratio in my body is about 50% vodka. And a small child is trying to show me the wand she has just made.

Just one more thing though.

Thank you John and Alula for the adventure (and the three weeks alone on a beach in Goa to just write – your wand is really good Lula), thank you Vic for being the best friend and best reader a girl could hope for, thank you Nic – I love you and miss you quite a large amount. Thank you Tom for your support and being my big brother, thank you Sara for that first phone call letting me know I could write. Thank you Tara – Goan roomie and American editor – I owe you for explaining the difference between a vest and a tank top (and a few other things like that). Thank you all my blog readers – the kindness of strangers is quite an amazing thing. Thank you Amanda, agent extraordinaire, for loving Lila and Alex as much as I do (he is pretty damn hot – are we happy to share him?). Thank you Susan Miller – you are so on the money (shuttup Andrew).

Oh and finally thanks to all my Ubud buddies for celebrating with me. Same again tonight yeah?

(She weeps and clutches Oscar to her chest. Exit stage left).

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