Shaddup you face

Living in Western Australia is like attending a glorious Victorian tea party in the middle of the desert. Your hair must be styled, your pinky must be aloft, and you probably received an engraved invitation just to walk next door, but to deal with the savage surroundings you might be wearing workboots, mosquito netting, very gauzy clothing and not able to move for the three hours surrounding midday due to the heat. Oh, and don't forget to hang some raw kangaroo meat from a nearby tree to keep the snakes/spiders/dingos away from your nice tablecloths and bone china, and remember to subjugate a few natives to grow your tea and sugar for you. It really is a strange mix of high Continental machinations and rough-n-ready determination to survive. I blame the British.

Though everyone I've met so far has been a law abiding citizen, (the lying, sniveling, petty theif who stole my wallet excepted) the convict culture of Australia's beginnings are not that far removed from the national consciousness. **Nerd Alert! I have yet to tour the Fremantle Prison, but REALLY want to because it's allowed! It was one of the last operating convict outposts in the country, having closed only a couple of decades ago, and it's a block away from where we attend church.** It seems as though instead of creating a counter-culture where the wrongs those first Westerners committed were "rights" and the law was chaos, the Australians have recreated a strict English society and bent time and space to make the inhospitable hospitable, using the wit and grit that got them convicted in the first place.  Google "Ned Kelly" and you'll see what I mean. I have a lot of respect for the people here, but boy are they a bag of contradictions.

For instance, there are still night clubs in Western Australia that conform to a strict dress code in the evenings--no thongs (flip-flops for US readers; don't panic), no singlets ("wife-beater tshirts" for Alabamian readers; panic) and no shorts on men. These same places, however, before that magic hour of 6pm, allow barefooted customers.  As do banks, grocery stores, gas stations, etc.  This is a developed country where it is still acceptable to walk around with no shoes--on the up side, it's still pretty safe to walk around without shoes because the place is SO clean.  Dichotomy. The reason the place is so pristine leads me contradiction number two: everything closes at 5pm. EVERYTHING. You decide at 7:22pm that you want to bake a cake and then discover you don't have any eggs?  Too bad! No cake for you! (Unless you find that rare IGA that's open until 9 OR if it's Thursday and it's late-night-shopping....which again means 9pm.) I find that both endearing and frustrating; like living in Mayberry on Mars.

I guess like anywhere on earth there are trade-offs here: no Downy Balls, but you can still by powdered fabric starch for ironing; no Double-Acting baking powder or cornmeal of ANY kind, but carrots the size of your forearm, sweet potatoes the size of your torso, and better coffee than if Starbucks fell asleep and dreamed you a cup. No sparrows, but flocks of parrots. No mountains and little rain, but beaches to die for. No shopping or eating or respectable entertainments after 9pm, but all conveniences and daid entertainments are centrally located--they have grocery stores inside shopping malls!  And police stations, and libraries, and post offices (Oh, but the post offices do not pick up at your home, they only deliver. In order to mail anything you must take it to a designated location. Seriously.) and beauty salons and homeware and hardware stores all peacefully co-exist under one huge roof! You just have to be out from under that roof before the sun goes down.

And I couldn't leave off talking of Western Australia, abbreviated WA, which the locals half-jokingly say means "Wait Awhile," without discussing the place names that have made me giggle since I got here. There are the Indiginous ones (from Aboriginal words) like Nangebup, (NAN-jee-bup), Wattleup, Warnbro, Toodyay, Wooroloo, Gidgegannup, Mundijong, and the twin gold-mining towns of Kalgoorlie and Coolgardie. Then there are the street names around here--here being Rockingham (slang term and local tavern called the Swinging Pig...get it?) that sound like English words have been put in a blender: Armadale, Brindabella, Properjohn, Meckering, Orelia, Parmelia, Calista, Medina, Kwinana--it's a feast for the ears.

So, in honor of not having another post like the last one (pure self-pity) and in celebrating some of the differences and wonders and fortitude I find in the people and places here, I am providing a link to a song from an immigrant. Superhusband introduced me to this song which was popular here in the 80's, but was written by an Italian-American born in Ohio who had lived in Australia for many years.  I think it about sums up my attitude; this IS "a nice-a place" and I am blessed to get to live in it for a while.  I will now shaddup my face.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sFacWGBJ_cs