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I left Warsaw at 6.25 in the afternoon on a chilly day, after weeks of warmth. I had no seat choice: only middle of the row left. I slept all the way to Heathrow, head sagging, mouth open, sleep my familiar, a defence against misery.
The Heathrow turnaround was short and by the time I reached the departure gate via bus, train and brisk walk my flight was already boarding. On the way to my seat – 35D: the same one that brought me to London 7 weeks ago – I picked up a New York Times, international edition. I settled down for the 13 hour flight, pulling on my pressure stockings, creating a playlist of 40 pieces of music, and folding the broadsheet into manageable segments.
Unexpectedly, an article contained a summons back to my Australian life, the life in which geology featured large. An article recounting the ice-age origins of the New York landscape and although I have no knowledge of New York, it offered a template of desire: I want such an account of city landscapes I know.
I dozed on the London – Singapore leg, and somehow managed to lose my headphones. I only listened to two things on my playlist- Beethoven and Steve Reich’s Music for pieces of wood. The rest of my waking time I edited, discarded and collaged photos, and read junk on my kindle.
In Singapore there was barely time to get off the plane and back on for the final 7 hours. I watched a very atmospheric Murder on the Orient Express, with Kenneth Branagh as Poirot.
Just as I was ready to doze off we crossed into Australia somewhere near Port Headland, and I was riveted by the landscape on the flight path screen. That beautiful landscape of home: pale blue, green, ochre, darker green, khaki: the sinuous bends of the Shaw River, and the low contour lines: Mt Edgar, 373 metres; Mt Madley 534m; Mt Beadell 530m; Scamp Hill 594m; Mt Talbot 623m; Mt Rawlinson 605m. There were other waterways – rivers, creeks, lagoons, washes and lakes – and a few deserts: Little Sandy Desert and Gibson Desert. An intriguing large blue patch turned out to be Lake Disappointment, hinting at the travails of European explorers. There was even a trace of Polish footsteps in a name: Lake Gruszka. This is my country, but I’ve never been west, so for half the continental journey places named were as alien as Turda, Cluj-Napoca, Zalau, Alesed.
Bland Creek gave me pause for thought. Is that what my life will be back home, without the endless colour and delight of twins?
Suddenly we’re skirting the southern edge of the continent – Smoky Bay, Denial Bay, Saint Peter Island, Point Brown, Streaky Bay, St Francis Islands, Nuyt’s Archipelago. Place names become more familiar: Port Augusta, Whyalla, Murray River, Darling River (weekend camping when I was in Broken Hill, and a holiday with the family on a houseboat); Mildura (where I behaved very badly), Lachlan River (where once we were attacked by squadrons of mosquitoes); Murrumbidgee River (followed on a road trip after floods); Griffith (where J picked oranges the year our youngest son finished high school, and I began cementing my friendship with Annette); Wagga Wagga (where my first flight ever had to turn back and where I bought my Noritake dinner service in the late 1960s.)
By now the height of mountains is increasing: Mt Minjary 762m, Sugarloaf Mtn 774m, Mt McAlister 1033m, Yumatbulla Mtn 1485m, Bimberi Peak 1912m, although not so neatly sequential.
As the mountains get higher, the plane begins it’s descent, and soon we’re taxiing at Kingsford Smith airport. I activate my phone. While I wait at the carousel for my bag I text family to let them know I’ve arrived. And guess what? All messages are delivered.
It’s a cold Sydney pre-dawn. As the sky lightens I sit on Wolli Creek station after a friendly encounter with the guard on the airport train. I’m inadequately clad and the cold attacks my bottom in stripes through the metal slats of the seat. I’m tired now, and doze as the train heads south: sombre bush spins past and grey ocean heaves gently. A grimy man gets on and surrounds himself with his plastic bags and ripped backpack. He pulls out a mobile and I eavesdrop: he’s off to spend time with a friend who’s lonely.
Finally we pull in at Bomaderry, and there’s J rugged up in beanie and Warsaw jacket. I kiss him through the train window, and we make our entwined way to the car.
By the time we reach Moruya I’m dropping in and out of sleep. At home I greet son and dog, spread a piece of Australian bread with peanut butter, and fall into bed, freshly made by H who has a horror of spiders taking up residence in unused bedclothes. I sleep round the clock and then some, with a brief awakening to talk to my Australian daughter and eat satay chicken: my son knows my favourite food. He’s also stocked the frig with all my necessities: soy milk, orange juice, grapes, frozen yoghurt.
I went to Warsaw with the hope that I’d change the pattern of my days, establish a new routine, and come back virtuous in every way. I’d forgotten the lesson of Cavafy
You won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore.
This city will always pursue you. You will walk
the same streets, grow old in the same neighborhoods,
will turn gray in these same houses.
My hope for the tripartite tourist day was forlorn, as was my determination to wean myself off my addictions to blogging and Netflix. My energy was limited. I was happiest when I was being entertained which is why the visit was one of museums rather than explorations.
What did change was the depth of grandparental delight and my relationship with twins who are no longer kidlets. Forget museums and failures. Remember only chatter, mischief and little hands in mine.
I relive the seven weeks as I skim my blog and process my diary chronicle. I glue a few odds and ends into my commonplace book, and contac the notebook Maja covered with stickers so they don’t peel off.
I read the latest edition of The monthly: a profile of Helen Garner, challenging as everything to do with her is; and an article by former Greens Senator Scott Ludlum about Rohingya refugees and the Australian government’s indifference. I’m back in the perplexities and horrors of the real world beyond the euphoria of travel.
At night I hear the continuo of the ocean and the flop of the dog at the end of my bed, and know that I am indeed home.
I’m linking this to Cathy’s wanderessence blog in response to July’s invitation to write about returning home.
Pingback: on returning home from south korea – ~ wander.essence ~
Lucid Gypsy said:
I love the journey as much as arriving, whichever direction and yours is great to share. Tell me about Mildura – right now please!
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morselsandscraps said:
I too enjoy the journey, and I’m used to long hours of sitting.
Probably not an account of Mildura. You’re asking me to relive a whining trauma that dominated my life for at least a year. Suffice it to say I lost my temper with a difficult friend and found her suddenly and completely unbearable, to the point of quite vicious thinking.
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funnymentalist61 said:
Yes ridiculous moustache to the extreme!
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Suzanne said:
Welcome home. It must have been great to fly over the desert. I’ve never done that. It is odd when the little grandkids start turning into children one sees from time to time. Hard too when they live on the other side of the world. Your post shows you have had a busy and full life – and that, like most of us, you aren’t always totally honourable. You wouldn’t be human otherwise.
Your love of liffe and your curiosity will carry you forward. I think though, it is also necessary to have some down time to reflect on your recent past and to gather strength for the road ahead. You said you are going to Adelaide in August so fresh adventures aren’t far away for you anyway. All the best – take care. Suzanne
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morselsandscraps said:
Unfortunately I only saw the desert on the screen. My ageing bladder and lack of agility prevents me from enjoying a window seat – and this flight was in darkness anyway. The closest I’ve come to seeing the desert from the air is in Fred Williams paintings, although in the distant past I did fly in a 6-seater from Broken Hill, next to the pilot. That was a treat!
Down time is, as you say, necessary. I really need to sit and do nothing daily, a habit I’ve yet to form. Also listen to music without doing anything else at the same time.
Adelaide is the endpoint of a three-week road trip to Alice Springs with the Warsaw mob.
Thank you so much for welcome home, thoughtful comments and good wishes.
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funnymentalist61 said:
Meg, recently saw on the news, Lake Eyre filling up again for its 10-year flooding. Louise and I got to fly over it sadly towards the end of its “wet” time and not much wildlife left on there by then in September, 2000.
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Suzanne said:
You certainly have an exciting life and close family. Sounds like you are off on another family adventure very soon with the grandkids from OS. How wonderful for you all. My life pales in comparison andd I feel quite depressed reading your incredible adventures. Youvseem to live a life of highlights. Good luck to you
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morselsandscraps said:
Just remember! You only see the highlights. Plenty of pallor in between. And my inner life seems pallid in comparison with yours.
I remember getting really excited watching football on TV years ago – goal after goal after goal. Then my son pointed out it was match highlights.
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Suzanne said:
Ah! That explains it.
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restlessjo said:
Virtuous in every way sounds so boring! And you will never be an inhabitant of bland because you are so interested in everything. You are a remarkable woman, Meg. My life is enriched by you.
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morselsandscraps said:
You’re extraordinarily generous! And my life by you.
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funnymentalist61 said:
A bunch of great responses Meg.
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Heyjude said:
The horror of that long haul flight holds me back. But the thought of sticky hands and warm cuddles urges me to make that booking. A lovely return Meg. Hope the body settles back into a normal routine soon. Jet lag is not pleasant.
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morselsandscraps said:
When are you contemplating a trip? I don’t mind long-haul at all: it’s time out, and time between. Although my daughter was determined to make me dread it. She does, but then it’ll be hard on the kids and therefore the parents.
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Heyjude said:
Crammed in and cramped in tiny seats, with no leg room and having to fight for an arm rest; trying to sleep sitting up; having the person in front of you tip their seat back so you can’t see your screen, let alone have your tray open; having to queue for the two toilets available to you despite the fact that the business class toilets are empty; eating crap food because it’s all you are going to get; nose and throat drying out because you are breathing recycled air; having someone next to you with a heavy cold that you know you will get once you reach the other side… I am not a fan of long haul!
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morselsandscraps said:
I’m glad I didn’t read this before I emplaned!!! 35D was two steps from a loo withmore leg room into the aisle which was wider at this point. I never had to queue, and I quite enjoyed the food – my palate must not be as discriminating!
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Heyjude said:
😀
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wanderessence1025 said:
This is an excellent piece, Meg; it captures so wonderfully the nuances of returning home from travel. Seeing the strange place names in the parts of your own country you haven’t visited, as well as the places that bring back memories — I want to know more about Mildura (where you behaved very badly)! Seeing the mountain names and elevations and the colors of your homeland on the flight path screen. I love that perfect quote by Cavafy. The music you listen to reveals something about your reflective soul and the news articles that capture your attention tell so much as well.
I also love what changed in your “grandparental delight” with your growing grandchildren. Of course as they change, your relationship will change, as it will continue to as they grow. You’ll grow and change in parallel. Maybe the visit to Warsaw isn’t any longer about the place as it is about the dear people in your life. It really has become like a second home, maybe? But still, your love for home shines through, with your son and daughter and dog and family and that beautiful landscape.
Your writing is really wonderful and the details you use to tell of your return are spot on. You’ve given me a lot of ideas!
I don’t know why, but this didn’t appear in my Reader, even though I checked and I’m still following you properly; neither did it appear in my notifications since you linked to the “category” of returning home. The only way I saw it was as I subscribe by email under my old blog nomad, interrupted. I don’t want to miss any more of your posts and it makes me wonder how many I’ve already missed!
I’ll link this wonderful piece to my returning home post on July 2. Thanks so much for your inspiring post!
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Heyjude said:
Cathy, I am having issues in the Reader too. Posts don’t appear until up to 24 hours after they have been posted, Every morning I have to scroll down the Reader to see what I have missed, and it is not only posts from other countries either.
Aside from that, you are right, Meg is the most wonderful wordsmith (along with Tish) who takes you with her on her journeys.
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wanderessence1025 said:
It’s very annoying, Jude, these posts not appearing in the Reader! How are we supposed to know what’s out there? And I keep getting things on there I don’t even follow. How do those things get there?
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Heyjude said:
I agree the ‘discovery’ things can be annoying. Well I’m assuming it is that, their way to introduce us to new blogs!
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morselsandscraps said:
You will never know about my bad behaviour! It really rocked my self-concept and terminated a friendship. I still shudder and cringe when I think of it.
Warsaw is a second home, and one this time where I felt relaxed and had a number of friendly language-less encounters. I’m so glad I caught the kids at this point. It’ll make preparing for them on the road trip easier.
I always relish your responses to my posts. Thank you.
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wanderessence1025 said:
We’ve all had our own bad behavior, Meg. I certainly have had my share. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to write fiction. Most of the stories of bad behavior are really interesting, but we’re too self-conscious, or embarrassed, to share them as our own. When I write fiction, I can use those stories and attribute them to my fictional characters. People can ask, is that you? But I can always deny it! It’s fiction, after all! I think this is fun. Many writers do just this. I’ve been to many author readings where the audience asks the author about autobiographical aspects to their books and most of them deny there is any connection to their own lives. But people who know them may know otherwise. The process of fiction weaves together reality and imagination in mysterious ways.
When is your road trip with your grandchildren? That will be a fun adventure! I’m glad that Poland now seems like a second home. It’s nice you were able to meet Jo and Gilly on this visit.
Thanks, I’m glad you enjoy my comments on your posts. I truly enjoy reading them. You are quite a talented writer and are good at observing details, which makes for fascinating tales. Keep writing! 🙂
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morselsandscraps said:
Good observation about fiction as the repository of stories of personal bad behaviour and other autobiographies. Road trip is from about 10th August for three weeks. We get a verdict on the second car bought for the trip today.
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wanderessence1025 said:
That will be a fun road trip. Will you be camping? What did you find about the second car?
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morselsandscraps said:
Camping – and sleeping underground at Coober Pedy. The second car was a great buy – gave the Warsaw mob who’ll be driving it a guided tour last night to acclamation
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wanderessence1025 said:
That sounds interesting, Meg. I had to look up Coober Pedy because I didn’t know what you meant by sleeping underground. The dugouts look very cool! Have you been before? I’m glad the car met the Warsaw clan’s approval. 🙂
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funnymentalist61 said:
Stayed in the Mud Hut Motel at Coober in 2000.
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morselsandscraps said:
What was your itinerary that trip?
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morselsandscraps said:
I’ve been through – on a nightmare bus trip where there was only one driver, and s were rostered on to keep him awake. I have slept underground at opal fields at White Cliffs in western NSW – where someone else behaved badly!!!
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wanderessence1025 said:
Oh, now that sounds like a good story!! It sounds like a fun trip all around. I’m excited for you. 🙂
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funnymentalist61 said:
Welcome hope Sis in law. hope you recover from the jet lag soon. We just finished watching same Murder on Orient Express but I so want to get the original. COmment in reviews on Imdb notice lack of warm clo9thing outside the train supposedly in the “snow?” I missed that, too. Cheers.
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morselsandscraps said:
Jet lag’s no longer an excuse for still being abed in the warm at 8.30! I didn’t notice lack of warm clothing either: too busy enjoying the atmospherics and Poirot’s ridiculous moustache.
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Sue said:
Enjoyed this, Meg, despite your love of finding out about new places, home is definitely where the heart is! “The beautiful landscape of home..” and the Lessons of Cavafy….
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morselsandscraps said:
And the heart can have two homes! In fact I’m a bit promiscuous I think – where I am is always (nearly always) where I’m content to be.
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Sue said:
Sounds a good plan!
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Tish Farrell said:
Pain and pleasures of leaving and arriving in body and spirit. I admire the way you make to re-root yourself in home territory, tapping into memories of particular places and times. The loss of small hands is palpable – so is the fear of spiders lurking in ready-made beds. The home-coming – perhaps not quite the home it was – which can be both good and bad, a chance for change (?) Travel may broaden the mind, but it can also be very challenging to the spirit and one’s sense of existence on the planet. A very fine piece, Meg.
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morselsandscraps said:
The fear of spiders isn’t mine. Apparently J used to have paranoid fits about funnel webs with the boys and rout them out of bed in the middle of the night to check in damp weather. Thank you for a lovely understanding response.
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