nostalgia

Ejo #176 – A Love Letter To Dubai

August 31, 2024Good Life, Learning About Dubai, Learning About Me, My Dubai, My Thoughts, PhotographsDubai, farewell, love letter, moving, moving on, My Dubai, nostalgiamisschryss View all 4 comments

A little over 16 years ago, David and I were swimming in the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Ancient Korinth, Greece. We’d swum out a fair distance and were in deep waters. It was a little bit scary, a little bit exciting. And as we bobbed around in the warm water, we debated the finer points of a decision we’d been mulling over for the previous six weeks while gallivanting around Spain, Italy, France and Greece. Are we doing this? Are we actually moving to Dubai? David had been offered a three year contract at Dubai International Airport, and I’d been promised a job at (the yet to open) Al Maktoum International. We’d already weighed the pros and cons of taking the plunge before setting off on our epic European adventure, so as we treaded water in the glittering blue sea that afternoon, all that was left was to decide.

*^{This is the correct way to make an enormous decision of life-changing proportions}*

Obviously we bit the bullet and made the move, and I’m glad we did. But my life in Dubai has been a dichotomy, the city simultaneously giving and taking so much from me. Shift work has wreaked serious havoc on my physical health. And living in such a harsh and indifferent city has really fucked with my head over the years, exacerbating my social anxiety and intensifying the feeling of isolation and disconnection from my family and friends. On the plus side, I’ve made some pretty good coin (tax free, thank you very much), bought an apartment in Amsterdam and a cottage on the Greek island of Kefalonia. We’ve travelled the world like jet-setting globetrotters with PhDs in cross-continental exploration. Oh, and it’s also allowed me the singular luxury of retiring at the tender age of 53. So, you know, swings and roundabouts.

But all good (and bad) things must come to an end, and after nearly two years of letting the idea roll around in our brains like a very persistent marble, David and I recently decided to take the plunge, bid farewell to ATC and embark on a brand new life adventure. Coz after a combined 60 years of air traffic control (36 for David and 24 for me), we’re tired (so very tired), and more than ready to turn the page and start anew. So, four months ago we pulled the trigger and submitted our emails of resignation to our employer. Our final transmissions as air traffic controllers were broadcast on 24^th July 2024 and we’ve spent the last few weeks lounging around our apartment waiting for someone to please buy it so that we can get the hell outta here!!!

So, the question on everybody’s tongue seems to be “What are you going to do?” And the answer is nothing! Everything! Whatever the hell we want!!! I want to write more. I want to read all the books, and listen to all the podcasts. I want to make short films as mementos of our far-flung travels. I want to sort the thousands of songs in my playlists, and organise the thousands of photos in my computer. I want to take classes, and learn. About economics, art history, Bitcoin, Hamas. All of it! I want to volunteer and get into activism and advocacy, I want to be a voice for the voiceless. I want to get up every morning and watch the sun rise. I want to regulate my fucked up circadian rhythm. Be in nature, get strong, and stretch my horizons even more. I want to travel around Europe by train, by car, by boat, by bike and by foot! Trust me, I will not run out of things to do. And David? I’m not sure what he’s going to do with his time, but I know he’ll figure it out. He’s got 36 years of air traffic control to shake off first, and that’s no small thing.

I once made a list of all the things I liked about Dubai in an ejo, and it consisted of only one item: leaving Dubai. I famously copped a bit of flack about that from one of my readers, Flo, who rightly pointed out that my negativity was kinda shitty. It was a watershed moment for me, one which forced me to introspect and turn inwards. And ultimately it was a moment that changed my life. I started a practise of sharing daily gratitudes with my friend Melinda, I killed my “Things I Hate About Dubai” series and I promised myself I’d find a way to make peace with the city I’d chosen as my home. Though I still don’t love it and probably never will, I have developed a sense of acceptance for Dubai after nearly 16 years of living here. And while there are still plenty of things I hate about this city, there are also lots of things about it that I am grateful for, a few things that I love and lots of people that I’ll miss.

ZIMMY
Zimmy, you are absolutely, hands down, the number one person I’ll miss the most when we leave this place. It’s difficult to capture in words just how much you mean to me, both as a therapist and a friend. I’ve often said that your therapy saved my life (and I mean that quite literally). We met over 14 years ago, when I was at my lowest point, desperate and in despair. You reached your hand down into the darkness and offered me a lifeline that helped me regain my footing and slowly rebuild my life. Your extraordinary legacy was giving me the tools to face any challenge with courage, confidence and grace, all on my own. Even so, it is as my friend that you have made the most impact in my life. You love me for who I am, and this unwavering acceptance is a gift I will always treasure.

MARISSA
Marissa, I remember the first time you came to our apartment. It was between 2-6pm on Sunday, 4^th April 2021. And by the time you were done, our house was absolutely sparkling. You might be tiny, but you have a big heart (and a ridiculous work ethic) and I could see that you were special on that very first day. Before we met you we went through a rotating cast of cleaners, but no-one ever came close to you. No-one ever cared as much, or took as much pride in their work as you do. You are simply amazing and I am in awe of you. You’re a serious person, thoughtful and responsible, which are great things to have in a cleaner. And you are kind and generous and have a beautiful smile, which are great things to have in a friend.

It’s always a bit tricky navigating an employer/employee relationship and I’ve never wanted to push that boundary. However, I’ve always felt so ridiculously grateful for the fantastic job you do cleaning our home, that I always tried to make it clear that if you ever needed anything in return, you could count on us. So it meant a lot to me that I could lend you an ear when you needed to vent about the drama with your family in the Philippines. And I was humbled that you asked us for help when your brother died and you needed to get back home. I was so happy that I could support you during the court case you filed against your former agency, and I was thrilled to be able to celebrate with you when you finally got your independent work visa and were a free agent. Marissa, you’re a good person in a city full of crappy people. I wish nothing but the best for you, and I sincerely hope that we stay in touch.

SHAWNA
Hey hot stuff, some people might be surprised to learn that I’ve been having a passionate love affair with a very sexy chick for the last four years. Your name is Jean, but a lot of guys call you Shawna (if you know, you know). You, my stunning Jaguar F-Type R-Dynamic, with your three-litre V6 engine and a breathtaking 380 horses under the hood – you are a masterpiece. You corner like you’re on rails and you’ve pulled me out of more sticky situations than I can count (even if you are the one who got me into them in the first place). These last four years have been one hell of a ride.

I only paid you off a couple of months ago, and now, the thought of letting you go? It hurts Shawna, it hurts. Every time I’ve settled into your leather bucket racing seat, you’ve given me such a rush, and a sense of joy that few other things in life can match. People say that cars depreciate the moment they’re driven off the lot, but you, Shawna, have only gained value in my eyes. Every fast drive we’ve taken together, every moment of pure exhilaration, has been worth every penny I spent on you. And as far as mid-life crises go, I wouldn’t trade one single second of ours. Thanks for all the thrills, spills and speeding tickets, Shawna. No other car will ever come close.

FIVE GUYS TEAM
OK, so it might seem weird that after living here for sixteen years, some of my favourite people are a group of anonymous fry cooks from a burger chain, but the team at our local Five Guys won my heart, one bite at a time!

Eating regular meals as a shift worker is really difficult (especially when you’re trying to stick to a meat-only diet), so David and I found a quick and easy alternative for when we didn’t feel like cooking lunch and/or dinner to take to work. Cheeseburgers (hold everything but the meat) from our local Five Guys burger joint. These kids make the tastiest burgers, and they’re so consistently good. Like damnnn! Maybe I’m becoming pathetically grateful in my old age, or maybe it’s just that most things seem to be pretty shit these days; so when I’m nourished by food that other people regularly make for me, I actually feel love in my heart for them. LOVE, I tell you! So I started writing them little thank you notes on my order, hoping that they were well, wishing them a great day, a couple hallelujahs every now and again for how tasty their burgers are – that kind of thing. After a while, I started getting notes back, handwritten on the brown paper delivery bag. Which totally makes my day, every time. Jay, Joanna and the rest of the team at Five Guys at Nakheel Mall, thank you so much for being such a delicious highlight of the last couple of years. I’ll miss your mouthwatering burgers, and I’ll miss you.

COLLEAGUES
When you work so closely with people, doing shifts around the clock in a very confined space, you develop a uniquely close bond with them (after all, that’s how David and I met – nudge nudge, wink wink). This doesn’t often translate to a friendship outside of the tower, but sometimes it does. Doug (yes, Dangerous Doug) was my first tower husband (and don’t worry, David had his own tower wife to keep him company at his work). Doug and I talked about everything. We also argued a lot. In fact, we almost got divorced when he filed a patently absurd safety report against me during a particularly rough patch. But we made up again when the case was dismissed by the Safety Department (as being patently absurd). He obviously just needed to get it out of his system, and I forgave him for that. Because that’s what work spouses do. Doug and I were partners for a decade, and I feel lucky that our friendship was strong enough to withstand his adamant support for Donald Trump, and his relocation to Canada after he retired in 2019.

Since around 2012, Doug and I were also part of a group of work colleagues that used to get together for illegal poker nights (shhh, don’t tell anyone). There was also Kevin (a Maltese air traffic controller), Rickard (a Swedish air traffic controller), Leewin (a UAE-born Indian air traffic assistant, turned corporate administrator) and of course David. Let me tell you, trying to schedule a poker night with six people that are working opposing shifts is nigh on impossible, so we didn’t play as often as we would have liked. But when we did, oh boy, did we have some fun! Over the years, our numbers dwindled as Rickard moved back to Stockholm, and then Doug retired to Canada. Now that David and I are also leaving Dubai, there’s almost no chance we’ll ever be able to gather the whole crew together again and that does make me feel quite sad. But the poker gods smiled upon us in June of this year and the six of us got together at our place for one last drunken hurrah of The Desert Aces! Trust me when I say, we made it count!

*^{On the couch, from left: Leewin, Doug, Rickard and Kevin – September 2019}*

*^{The Desert Aces Farewell Tour, June 2024}*

Over the last few years I also developed a wonderful working relationship with my team, Khalid, Mark and Brad. Around the clock we talked endlessly, laughed heartily, and complained about work even more heartily. But above all, we had each other’s backs. We genuinely cared for each other, like a weird little family. We checked in on each other when someone was sick, shared tips on what to expect in simulator exams, and even negotiated who got to use the sleep room on those gruelling morning shifts. We shared food, brewed endless cups of tea and coffee, and always covered for one another. When someone needed an urgent toilet break in the middle of the night (it was me, I’m the one who needed an urgent toilet break in the middle of the night), one of the guys would always run up from his sleep break, without hesitation, no questions asked, and no fuss about it. You can’t put a price on that kind of solidarity.

And when you sit next to the same people for eight hours a day, every day, you learn a lot about each other. Not just the names of pets and family members, but what their wives had for breakfast, what issues their kids are having at school and why they have a doctor’s appointment later that day (hint: sometimes it’s a vasectomy). You learn about each other’s phobias, prejudices and fears. Dreams, morals and life experiences. You hear about each other’s childhoods, witness personal milestones and share in the ups, downs and details of their daily life. These shared moments build a deep and unique bond, creating a sense of family beyond mere colleagues. In a rare rostering miracle, all three of my guys were in the tower for my last transmission, making the moment even more meaningful. I’m not going to lie, I became emotional. There were tears, and hugs and goodbyes. And then I left. I walked down the spiral staircase for the very last time, and I went home. They were like brothers to me.

*^{From left: Brad, Mark, Khalid (my second tower husband), Bader (an infrequent B-Watch member) and me. Queen of my domain!}*

SHORELINE GYM
Our apartment has a gym, but it’s a ten minute walk away, across a busy road and in another building. So, being the lazy sods that we are, we never used it. I mean, it’s a ten minute walk away! Across a busy road!! In another building!!! But that all changed in November 2023 when David and I decided to get strong, goddamn it. In the past I was always obsessed with losing weight so I stuck to cardio. This time I’m obsessed with gaining strength, so it’s the first time I’ve ever done weights. And from the moment I walk in the door and start my 30 minute full-body workout, alternating between arm and leg machines, I’m absolutely fucking loving it! I can feel myself getting fitter and stronger, and more physically powerful and resilient and it makes me feel like Xena Warrior Princess. And what’s not to love about that.

AL ITTIHAD PARK
Our apartment overlooks Al Ittihad Park, a beautifully landscaped oasis that features over 60 varieties of native trees and plants, as well as a 3.2km walking track that winds through the lush greenery. People jog, cycle, walk their dogs and do wanky personal training sessions at the many fitness stations dotted around the track. There are lawns and children’s play areas and nearby cafés and shops. It’s really quite delightful. Considering the harsh Dubai environment, Al Ittihad Park is a beautiful escape from the city.

*^{A verdant oasis of tranquility, in the heart of the desert.}*

Since retiring, David and I have developed a lovely ritual of walking a portion of the track after we finish at the gym, and then stopping at the dog park to sit on a bench, talk about stuff and, if we’re lucky, meet some furry friends (yes, we’re the dogless weirdos loitering in the dog park!). We’ve met Masha and Muffin, Harvey and Ginger and Winston and George. And my favourite dog, Terry, and his new brother Koda. The first five years in Dubai we lived in a 24 hour construction zone. I am talking non-stop drilling and jackhammering and excavation and bulldozing and pile-driving. Al Ittihad Park is such a refreshing antidote to that. It’s a place I cherish, where I can unwind and enjoy a little bit of nature right in my backyard.

SHOP & SHIP
Like so many others, I made the transition to full blown online shopping addict during covid lockdown. I’m talking multiple deliveries per day. And thanks to the bizarro-world postal system in Dubai where things don’t get delivered to your house address, but to a post office box (which most online retailers won’t deliver to), I had to find a way to get my hands on my merchandise. Enter Aramex’s Shop & Ship, a clever way to spend a shitload more money on online shopping from around the world. Just have your order delivered to one of their many courier addresses in over 30 different countries, and then a lovely man on an Aramex motorbike magically delivers it to your front door! Convenient as fuck! I regularly get stuff flown in from New York, Paris, London, Sydney, Frankfurt and Ontario, and yes I do have a problem. Now that I’m no longer earning any money, I know I should just go cold turkey. Or maybe, just hear me out, I could investigate, you know, hypothetically, if it’s possible to change my delivery address from Dubai to Amsterdam, and just promise to try really, really, really, really hard to not shop as much.

*^{He gives me my package, and I give him a tip and a bottle of cold water, because its hot outside. Everybody’s happy!}*

TIPS & TOES GIRLS
I’m not really a girly girl. I don’t wear makeup very often, I don’t get my hair coloured or blown out, and I don’t really do high heels. But bitches, ever since I moved to Dubai, you better believe I get my nails done. I’m lucky to live about a three minute walk away from a really nice salon where I have, over the years, assembled a crack team of beauticians to pamper me every few weeks. Susan does my pedicure, and Girlie does my mani. And while those two are working on my nails, my darling Desi melts away the knots in my neck and shoulders with her small, but deceptively powerful hands. It’s indulgent, I know (don’t hate me coz you ain’t me).

Even though it’s super nice, I don’t think I’ll miss the indulgence all that much. But I am going to miss my girls. They all light up and run over to give me hugs when I walk into the salon. We chat, and I try to make them laugh. I recline in my seat and give myself over to them so they can look after me, so full of care and kindness. There is an intimacy involved when someone touches your body to nurture and attend to you. When Girlie tenderly holds my hand to paint my fingernails, when Susan gently exfoliates the bottom of my feet, when Desi massages oil into my shoulders, there is affection and tenderness and warmth in those touches. There is real human connection. And that’s what I’m going to miss.

*^{My girls!!! From left: me, Desi, Girlie and Susan}*

#806
Our two bedroom apartment on Palm Jumeirah is absolutely amazing. And yes, I’m house-proud as fuck! In 2016, we bought our peaceful hideaway from the relentless grind and chaos of Dubai, and over the years we have completely gutted and renovated the kitchen, and all four bathrooms (yes, I said four bathrooms). We have meticulously shaped and transformed our place into a beautiful, light-filled sanctuary adorned with art and flourishing plants and books and freshly cut flowers and music. We turned it into our own little world, a delightful microcosm, from the Greek mikros (little) and cosmos (world). If we could somehow transport our entire apartment intact to anywhere but Dubai, we would do it in a heartbeat, because it truly feels like home. Sadly though, constrained by physics and reality, we must leave it behind, along with most of our beautiful furniture. I will miss this place, but as we embrace our new beginnings, I’m already looking forward to infusing our new homes with the same warmth and charm that made this one so special.

*^{Welcome! Please make yourself at home.}*

MY PLANTS
Plants, plants, plants!! I love my plants. They bring joy and fulfilment into my life, and they fill the house with oxygen and beauty. And sure, sometimes they give me a little bit of grief but all children do that, don’t they? One of my only regrets about moving from Dubai is that we’re going to have to leave our beloved green kiddos behind. From the baby of the family, Aziz (three and a half) to our oldest teenager Shane (15), each has their own unique personality, preferences, sensitivities and, of course, their own name. The thought of abandoning them breaks my heart, but I do hope to find good, stable homes for each and every one of them with the foliage featurette I’ve made, showcasing all their good looks and undeniable charm – because even plants deserve their moment in the spotlight!!

Ejo #170 – The Farm

February 29, 2024Australia, Good Life, Learning About Me, My Thoughtschildhood, farm, Good Life, memories, nostalgia, summermisschryss View all 2 comments

I was recently leafing through a Condé Nast Traveller magazine and came upon a page where contributors were asked to share their favourite summer holiday memories. As I sat on the toilet contemplating all the far-flung destinations my travels have taken me to, my head filled with countless pleasant memories created since David and I moved to Dubai fifteen years ago. As a lot of you know, I do not like living in Dubai so much, but I do acknowledge that residing here has given me a pretty remarkable life, full of travel and adventure and the opportunity to make friends all over the world. With a faraway look in my eye, I smiled and reminisced as I tried to settle on just one favourite sun kissed memory.

I thought of our three pilgrimages to Burning Man and in particular that one glorious morning when my friend Marya, David and I all woke up before dawn and cycled a few miles out to the trash fence in skeleton bodysuits to watch the sun rise majestically over the playa. Rubbing our sleepy eyes, we squinted at the champagne coloured clouds from which a dozen or so large black dots appeared to magically materialise.

*^{Waiting for Daft Punk’s trash fence gig to start}*

As we blinked incredulously at the golden light, the dots seemed to get bigger and develop brightly coloured tails. Marya and I glanced at each other, a little alarmed. What was happening? Were we hallucinating? NO! It slowly became apparent that what we were seeing were a number of daring parachutists who had jumped out of a plane at daybreak and were now painting the sky with their rainbow coloured chutes, gracefully trailing beautiful long flags in a wondrous tapestry across the heavens. It was such a beautiful moment and I’ll never forget it, but was it my favourite summer holiday memory?

^{After searching for months I found this video of the people that we saw dropping out of the sky that morning.}

I didn’t think so, but the floodgates had opened. I remembered wiling away long hot Ibiza days drinking sangria and eating tapas, followed by misspent nights dancing to our favourite DJs. I remembered the simple, but delicious seafood lunch served to us by the captain of a Turkish gulet we’d hired off the Turquoise Coast of Antalya. I remembered hiking the wild and windy coastline of southern Corsica, staying in some random Moroccan billionaire’s summer home that our friends Gwen and Didou were managing for the season. I remembered trekking through vast mountainous canyons to explore the ancient Jordanian city of Petra, and then a few days later bobbing around the Dead Sea, smearing its healing and beautifying mud all over our faces and bodies. And I remembered countless summer days drowsily contemplating the hypnotic cicadas in a tiny ancient hamlet called Adine in Siena, Italy, one of my favourite places on earth. Occasionally we’d summon the energy to drive into town to eat pici served with locally caught wild boar. And afterwards we’d devour nocciola and Amarena gelato while sitting on the cobble stones of the town square, watching toddlers awkwardly chasing pigeons and teenagers awkwardly chasing each other. Later that night David and I chased fireflies in the hamlet’s olive grove.

*^{Late summer days in Siena’s Piazza del Campo}*

I remembered trips to Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Vietnam, Hong Kong, Japan and Taiwan. Mostly just to eat the street food, but also to lounge around on beaches or pools or in izakayas and rooftop bars, kicking off the day-drinking with breakfast beers and seamlessly graduating to lunchtime cocktails and then bottles of wine at dinner. I remembered evenings wandering narrow backstreet warrens looking for the perfect place for a late night meal, and somehow always finding it.

And of course I remembered Greece and her beautiful islands, which I discovered relatively late in life. First Mykonos, and then, in quick succession, Santorini, Milos, Sifnos, Naxos, Zakynthos, Skiathos and Kefalonia. Distinct memories of wandering down overgrown sandy tracks to discover completely secluded beach coves, with the bluest and clearest water I’ve ever seen in my life. Enjoying the simple but delicious food of my childhood, chased down with surprisingly good wine by the kilo. Always followed by the obligatory afternoon siesta. Balmy fragrant nights laden with the promise of a good time floating on the sound of a bouzouki being strummed somewhere. Everywhere. These are all gorgeous memories that I will keep forever. But are they my favourite summer memories? I realised that no, they were not. To access those, I had to go back to Australia. I had to go much further back in time, to my childhood. I had to go back to the farm.

*^{If sheer perfection was the criteria…}*

When I was about 12 years old my parents went into cahoots with my aunt Dimi and uncle Alex to buy a plot of land in the Victorian countryside. I remember being dragged around with my sisters to endless real estate inspections of properties on the Mornington Peninsula, about an hour and a half drive from Melbourne, until they eventually found the perfect one. Lot 3, Boneo Road, Cape Schanck was a hilly ten acres of overgrown tea-tree shrubs and native grasses. And that was it. It was wild, it was untamed and it was magnificent. For the next five or six years, we spent most weekends and summer holidays at the farm. And even though it was, in no way, shape or form an actual farm, that was what we called it.

In the beginning, we camped in tents. Later on my Dad laid the foundation for what would come to be known as The Shed. And of course, because it was my Dad, it wasn’t built out of wood or steel or bricks. He built it with materials used by NASA. And I am not even joking about that. The stuff was basically slabs of Styrofoam enclosed in a bright green metallic casing. The shed was four walls and a roof. Our family of five had a tiny bedroom to sleep in, and my aunt and uncle had an even tinier one. My Dad built us all bunk beds. The rest of the shed was an open space kitchen, living, dining area. The floor was a concrete slab. And that was our holiday home. It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours.

Our days and nights were filled with adventures, accompanied by a rotating roster of friends, children of family friends, cousins and even kids off the street. One morning while my sisters and I were playing at the bottom of the driveway three young girls on ponies materialised in front of us and asked us if we wanted to go for a ride. Hell yeah we wanted to go for a ride. Other times the three of us, and whoever happened to be around at the time, would explore the property, trying so hard to get lost, going so deep into the dense tea-tree shrub that we sometimes had to fight through the thickets on our hands and knees, our arms and legs covered in bloody scratches. We were always so disappointed when we hit the fence-line and had to retreat back to the clearing. But that never stopped us from trying again.

I learned how to drive on the farm, in an old unroadworthy Land Rover that needed a crank to start the engine. The same Land Rover that we would all pile into and be jostled around on the 2.5km dirt track down to a secluded, rocky beach that was essentially our own private paradise. I don’t remember seeing more than a handful of people in all the years we spent on that beach, and when I recently tried to find it on a map, I discovered that it still doesn’t even have a name. If you want to find it, it’s somewhere between Gunnamatta and Fingal beaches, but good luck getting to it.

*^{Driving lessons on the farm, being herded by Joshua.}*

Oh, that beach. It was ours! It was ours! We’d drive down in the morning and stay all day, carrying down platters of homemade food for a sumptuous feast sprawled on the rocks. We’d recline for a while in the shade of a rocky overhang, and afterwards we would fish, always hooking a bounteous catch of butterfish to cook on the BBQ later that day. Sometimes we would search for elusive abalone in the many tidal pools, and sometimes we would be lucky. My Mum would tenderise and pickle it, and cook it up in a stir-fry with rice, the thought of which still makes my mouth water. My sisters and I would confidently leap from rock to rock, like agile little mountain goats. We trudged up massive sand dunes, just so that we could tumble back down them, and then do it all again. And we dove and frolicked in our very special, swimming pool-sized rockpool for hours, exploring every single nook and underwater cranny, trying to catch the little fishies that had been washed in with the previous tide. But they were always quicker than we were, and they were always somehow able to dart away, out of reach of our prune-fingered grasp. This is what favourite summer holiday memories are made of.

Back at the farm we zoomed around on my uncle Alex’s three wheel motorcycle. Oh what a thrill it was to wrap my arms around his waist as he floored it up what felt like an insurmountable summit. The wind whipped my hair around, because it was the 1980s and helmets weren’t a thing. I was always scared that he would rev it just a little bit too much and the two of us would flip backwards. But facing that fear and always reaching the crest and landing those three wheels back on solid ground was an exhilarating experience that I’m fairly sure not many other 14 year old girls were lucky enough to have.

Our hobby farm was right next door to an actual, working farm with a couple of horses and a paddock full of grazing sheep. There were also ducks and chickens and a pigeon coop and a small corn field and a gorgeous black and white Border Collie called Joshua. Every time we drove up the driveway to the farm, Joshua would be there waiting for us. And apart from dinnertime and bedtime he spent every waking minute with our family. He would even chase the Land Rover to the beach, whenever we drove down there, and he’d spend the whole day with us. I don’t know if Farmer Murphy was aware of it or not, but Joshua was our first family dog. We loved him and he loved us.

My sisters and I developed a routine of knocking on the Murphys’ back door every Sunday night, collecting large hessian bags filled with stale loaves of sliced bread and heading down to the pastures to feed the sheep. I remember the first time we did this. We entered the enclosure and clicked the gate behind us. It felt like every single sheep in that three acre pasture stopped what they were doing and looked up at us. And then, the sheep started running. A hundred sheep stampeding towards three nervous young girls holding sheep food. I’m pretty sure we all started screaming, and I’m pretty sure I thought the three of us were going to die. And as they approached us and the fear escalated, somehow, we started running back towards them and the killer sheep dispersed. And we laughed and laughed, mostly as a release to the fear, but also because it was just funny. And we started throwing slices of bread all over the place and the sheep lunged at it like ravenous wild animals. And when we ran out of bread, the sheep just disinterestedly sauntered away. As if nothing incredible or mind-blowing had just happened.

The Murphy’s were really nice to us, letting us feed their sheep and steal their dog. They sometimes even let us chase around the cute little springtime ducklings and chicks that had just hatched. But the truth is that they probably didn’t love us being there. We were a rowdy bunch of Greek immigrants who would often be up until the wee hours of the morning revelling and carousing and generally being festive motherfuckers! I remember one particularly merry night, my Dad was playing guitar and Alex, taken with the spirit, grabbed a drawer from his bedroom dresser, theatrically flipping the contents on the floor and, with his leg up on a chair, started using it as a drum, rhythmically banging the shit out of it. My Mum, inspired, grabbed a coffee jar full of rice from the kitchen to use as another instrument in this unhinged jam session, and everyone danced and sang along. We kids watched in wonder as our normally mannerly relatives just rocked the fuck out. The carefree exuberance and unbridled high spirits of moments like these stay with me, and fill me with joy decades later. These are what favourite summer holiday memories are made of.

Sometimes the singalongs came at the end of the night. Sometimes they were the opening act. Depending on the tides, sometimes my sisters and I would be woken up at one or two in the morning and then we’d all drive down to the Fingal Beach hiking trails. A dozen of us carting buckets, torches and gardening gloves, we traipsed down the steep, sandy steps to the rocky beach below to catch crabs. As the tides started going out, the crabs would emerge from the rockpools in search of food and we would be there to grab them. We were young kids running around in the middle of the night in gum boots on jagged rocks catching crabs as the tide went out into an inky black, and sometimes wild, roaring sea. Hell yeah!

The cliff path might have felt like a thousand steps going down, but it felt like a million steps climbing back up with buckets full of salivating crabs. We’d drive back to the shed, put a huge pot of water on the stove to boil and enjoy a glorious supper of the most ridiculously tasty, freshly caught seafood bonanza you could ever imagine. The memory of cracking open a thick leg to pull out delicious, tender, meaty morsels of crab at 3 o’clock in the morning, bleary eyed and surrounded by my loved ones has to be one of my favourite summer holiday memories in a life filled with them.

I spent those years on the farm being a free and feral child, living a wild and precious life. Whenever David and I go back home to visit Australia, my sisters and I always make sure to get together at Fingal Picnic Area where we used to barbeque the butterfish that we caught on our private beach all those years ago. We gather now to reminisce about those good old days, and to pay our respects and to honour the memory of the wonderful childhood our parents gave us.

*^{My Mum, my sisters, fourteen year old me and a family friend at the Fingal BBQ}*

We were there just a few days ago and on our drive to the picnic area, I asked to stop off at Lot 3, Boneo Road. A gorgeous new house has since been built on the highest point of the property, but the old shed is still there. A little nervously, we walked (trespassed?) up the driveway to the shed which is now being used as a garden shed. The exterior has been painted black, but inside it’s still bright green. The old grape trellis my father built is in total disrepair, and the garden my Mum cultivated is a riot of wild grape vines, passionfruit plants and lemon trees. But, most notably, nature has fiercely taken back what was once hers. The natural world that we constantly had to fight off to build the shed, and to live in the shed during our summer holidays, has won the battle. Mother Nature, biding her time, grew back with a vengeance, surrounding the shed, enveloping it and ultimately reclaiming her space. My Mum and Dad are gone. Alex is gone. One day Mary, Pieta, Dimi and I will be gone, and every single memory of those summer days down at the farm will be gone. But as we stood there the other day, looking at this familiar, cubic building that somehow seems to have become part of the landscape of what used to be the farm, I found that there was something really beautiful about that. The farm now belongs to someone else. The shed, still standing nearly 40 years after my Dad built it, belongs to someone else. And yet somehow it still all belongs to us. It will always belong to us.

*^{The top of the shed felt like the top of the world.}*

Ejo #118 – Our House

October 31, 2019Learning About Mefamily, history, home, home sweet home, house, nostalgia, parentsmisschryss View all 2 comments

On the 25th October 2012, David and I were crouched down, in the dark, in my sister Mari’s bedroom at our parents’ house. We were hiding. It was her 40th birthday and we’d flown to Melbourne to surprise her. And when she walked in and turned on the light and saw us, the ecstatic expression on her face as she jumped up and down, shouting “OH NO, YOU DIDN’T!!!!!” was absolutely fucking priceless. I relive that joyful moment often.

Another moment that has stood the test of time harks back even further, to around 1985 or perhaps 1986. I was in the exact same room, lying in wait for my youngest sister, Pieta. It was the middle of the day and I’d been sitting in her closet for about 45 minutes, patiently waiting for her to come in, close the door and make herself comfortable before jumping out of the closet and scaring the living shit out of her. She tore through the house, screaming like someone whose pants were on fire, and when I finally caught up to her and showed her it was just me and not the bogeyman, my ten year old sister collapsed in shock and relief. It took an hour of comforting her in my arms before the tears finally abated and she stopped shaking with fear. Good times.

Recently, I’ve been reliving many memories from my past. Memories inextricably linked to the house I grew up in. As you know, I recently spent several weeks in Melbourne, preparing our home for sale after my Mum died. And on a rainy day, in the first week of September, it was sold to the highest bidder at auction. Just six weeks later, on Wednesday, 16th October 2019 the keys to our family home were ceremoniously handed over to the new owners, and the front door to a massive part of my life was irrevocably slammed shut.

Before I go on, let me tell you a little bit about my parents. Both of them came from very poor families in Greece. But, while Dad grew up in a joyful, loving home, lavished with kindness and affection and praise, my Mum was raised in a hard, sterile environment bereft of love. Despite this, my mother’s ability to give love remained unscathed, and when she met my Dad her heart finally found its real home. When my sisters and I came along, the five of us created the sense of family and home that Mum had never experienced as a child. We all lived happily in a two bedroom flat in Elwood until I was twelve years old. And in 1983, after years of struggling, scrimping and saving, my parents achieved the great Australian dream of finally owning their own home – the house at 1 Anthony Drive, Mount Waverley. I remember the pride on their faces as my sisters and I ran around the “fixer upper” four bedroom house, on the day that we moved in.

Over the years, as my father put his talents to work transforming it, the house became not just somewhere for us to live, but a place that defined our family. Over a 20 year period, my Dad plastered and whitewashed the house, he knocked down walls, tore up the carpet, constructed staircases and decks, installed floor to ceiling windows and built a small scale working version of the fountain he’d been commissioned to create for Government House. He remodeled the bathroom and the kitchen, installed a sauna room for my Mum, paved the driveway and front courtyard, re-tiled the roof, insulated the whole building, re-stumped the foundations and, to my great consternation at the time, built a magnificent arched wall that ran the entire length of the front of the property (a massive nod to our wog heritage). The house we moved into was pretty great, but the house my father died in, in 2003, was something else. He had not built it from the ground up, but he might as well have, and everywhere you looked he was there. In every corner, in every room, he had left his mark on the Stathopoulos family home.

My Dad single-handedly built the fountain at Government House. Go check it out on Australia Day – the only day of the year it’s open to the public.

Mum and Dad. ❤

My sisters and I all moved out of home around the same time but our house was a place we could always return to, whenever we needed somewhere to stay, and I actually moved back home several times over the years – after every major breakup, after my year living in the United States, in between share households and for a few months after Dad died, sleeping on a foam mattress on the living room floor. It was a place I knew I could always come home to, and David and I always used it as our base whenever we visited Melbourne. Mari felt the same way:

It was a place that, no matter what I did or where I went, was always there. That welcomed me back into its folds after break ups and break downs, like a revolving door of love, sending me back out into the world stronger and with a fresh reminder that I was welcome back any time.

When our Dad died, everything changed. Mum was robbed of her partner, her lover, her companion, her rock. She desperately held on to all she had left – her three daughters and the house. For my Mum, those four walls had come to represent more than just a place to live. The house was how she defined herself, as a wife and as a mother. The house was our family history. It was security, and comfort and love – tangible things to a person who had grown up without them. It was her safe space, the only safe space she had ever known.

Sadly, like everything else, our house weathered the ravages of time, showing signs of decay in the years following my Dad’s death. The house got older, and so did Mum. Maintaining it, and the huge garden, became more and more difficult for her. I tried several times to convince her to sell it and move into something smaller and more manageable. I hated seeing her struggle, and wanted to make her life a bit easier. I never understood why she resisted, or exactly what I was asking her to sacrifice. Until my Mum died, I always thought that the house I grew up in was just a house. It was only afterwards, living there with my sisters as we cleared it out, that the enormity of selling it actually struck me. The magnitude of it punched me in the chest every night when I went to sleep in my old bedroom, and every morning when I woke up and looked out the window at my Mum’s beautiful garden. And every day, the memories came flooding back.

My amazing Mum and her amazing garden.

In that very bedroom, I got my first period (and incidentally, quite possibly my last). A few months later, after countless failed attempts leaning up against my bedroom door, I successfully hammered in my first tampon. And around the same time I discovered the joys of masturbation. It was in that room that my fifteen year old friend Tina and I would turn out the lights and talk about sex for hours on end. It was where my first love finally, drunkenly kissed me, at my 18th birthday party. And where, a year later, I lost my virginity to a younger man I snuck in through my bedroom window in the middle of the night.

The rest of the house holds equally strong memories. And not just for me. Mari remembers:

Any time I needed someone to talk to, whether it was about a boyfriend, my work, my studies, my hopes and dreams, just life, whether the conversations were whispered in bedrooms with one sister or the other, hatching plans and keeping each others’ secrets, it was in our house. If it was a long meandering conversation over cups of coffee in the dining room with my Mum, or life lessons in the sunroom with my Dad, it was in that house. And you can bet any time there was joyous, chaotic yelling or singing at the top of our lungs in the lounge room, it was in that house, with my family, the people I love the most in the world.

My memories include our next door neighbour ringing the doorbell to complain to my parents about my horrendous singing (while I was still actually in the shower murdering “Fiddler on The Roof”). Endless summers tirelessly practicing dance routines with Mari and Pieta. And birthdays (so many birthdays, so many sparklers). I clearly remember the Holden Gemini filled with lanky teenage boys careening out of control and crashing into the side of the house while our parents were out, the three of us terrified that they were all dead and too afraid to go outside to check (they were fine). Roasting a whole lamb on a spit every single Christmas, and the obligatory family pic in front of the fountain. Endless VHS video hours of our parents entertaining friends – tables laden with food, live music, Greek dancing and thunderous, thigh-slapping laughter. I remember Mari dramatically throwing a plateful of spaghetti Bolognese at me when I pushed her just a little bit too far one day at lunch. And I remember grudgingly helping my Dad build that damn fucking wall, hating every minute of it, but still, knowing that I was helping him to achieve something remarkable.

Xmas, 1999. The wall… in the background.

Our house is where our dogs Barnaby and Subby lay buried in the backyard (shhh, don’t tell the new owners!!). It’s where David asked Mum for my hand in marriage. Where my father took his last breath as we held onto him, crying for our loss. In July of this year, the three of us moved back into that house, together for the first time in 25 years. For the last time. It was where Mari, Pieta and I mixed our parents’ ashes together. It was where we spent two months scrubbing our home of all the markers that had made it that. Mari remembers:

In clearing it out for sale it I felt like we looked over and contemplated every part of the house in a way we had never done before. It would have been so easy to just pay someone to do it, but that time of working through every item together, the questions of will we keep this, who will keep that, why are you keeping those? was a process of grieving for the house.

Even after methodically emptying out 36 years’ worth of belongings and memories and cobwebs and junk, even after it no longer looked or felt like my home, it was hard to let it go. My last day in Australia, we drove to the house one more time. I tried so hard to say a proper goodbye to a place that actually feels woven into my DNA, but I don’t think I did a very good job. That night I had to get on a plane, and five days later the house was sold. It was goodbye, whether I liked it or not.

Our house being sold is only a symbol of something greater being destroyed. With our parents gone, the selling of our home represents the fragmentation of the cellular walls of our family. My sisters and I are now like three untethered electrons, spinning around each other in ever greater orbits. Our family tree ends with us. In a weird way, I’m OK with that. Knowing that when we die, our family dies with us, gives me comfort. Nothing will be carried forward into the unknown. Our family was something that existed only in this lifetime. We will have had a beginning, a beautiful middle, and an end. In a way, it will have been perfect.

The End.

Chryss In Dubai

The Adventures Of An Australian Expat Living in Dubai, UAE

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Ejo #170 – The Farm

Ejo #118 – Our House