{"id":2808,"date":"2020-11-09T07:10:17","date_gmt":"2020-11-09T12:10:17","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/?p=2808"},"modified":"2020-11-09T08:31:11","modified_gmt":"2020-11-09T13:31:11","slug":"duetting-memoir-41","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/duetting-memoir-41\/","title":{"rendered":"Duetting: Memoir 41"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Duetting:<\/a><\/span><\/p>\n

Marika\u2019s Australian scrapbook is filled with names and words. Excited scrawls strewn over the pages: \u201cSuki wishing well\u201d and \u201cWishing Tree.\u201d \u201cFlying foxes.\u201d \u201cFloating stage.\u201d It becomes a game, a scavenger hunt. Her words are clues that set me loose fishing for what she saw. I canvass my way all over Sydney, and question people in the streets to find what Marika found.<\/span><\/p>\n

Which of the countless statues of dogs was a wishing well that reminded her of Suki? She wrote \u201cHot Sake,\u201d so I feast in Asian eateries, imagining her delight at being able to drink legally in Australia. She wrote \u201cseagull and Big Mac.\u201d Could she have seen the same seagulls and egret punching around the MacDonald\u2019s bag that only the long-beaked egret could successfully reach into? \u201cWeddings!\u201d she\u2019d written, and I could feel her joy. Words are no longer just words. They are stories. \u2018Weddings!\u2019 is a story. \u2018Wishing\u2019 is a story. And the word \u2018ashes\u2019 is now my tour guide who tells me, \u201cMom, you hafta go to the Queen Victoria Building,\u201d and \u201cGo to Darling Harbour.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I pounce on this city like a young child attacking a pile of presents. At Taronga Zoo I follow koalas, quokkas, and rabbit-eared bandicoots. At the Aquarium, I stand in awe, surrounded up and down and on all sides by fish that swim serenely to classical music. Hanging out near the University of Technology, I find exotic Chinese Gardens and flocks of colorful parrots. I follow my nose through aromatic Asian and Italian neighborhoods, and pick out a live barramundi fish to feast on in Chinatown. I scarf down fish fries on the wharf and stuff myself with mashed pea-and-meat pies at the Harry\u2019s Caf\u00e9 de Wheels truck. Hot on Marika\u2019s trail, I eat ice cream and crepes for breakfast at Pancakes on the Rocks.<\/span><\/p>\n

The streets are lit up when I go to see The Marriage of Figarro<\/em> at the famous Sydney Opera House. A huge chandelier is suspended over a floating stage on Sydney Harbour for the next evening\u2019s performance of La Traviata<\/em>. Loud funky music blasts out of shops along Elizabeth Street where everything is young and full of life and light, all day and long into the night. For four full days I ride the buses and walk endlessly in and out of markets, shops, museums and parks. I hop on a ferry and toss Marika\u2019s jewels into the water at Darling Harbour and off the Harbour Bridge. Dropping her bracelets into deep water, it feels like I\u2019m planting her here.<\/span><\/p>\n

On the evening of my last day in Sydney, I am on a ferry I took out of the harbor in order to get free Internet access. I need to be in touch with my support squad. It is time to leave Sydney, the easy part of my trip, the first part of my four-part journey, where I\u2019ve gotten comfortable and now feel safe. I send out a message to my friends: I\u2019m emailing you from the middle of Sydney Harbour! We just passed the Opera House. Looks like we\u2019re headed for the Pacific now \u2026 connection could quit any time \u2026 hope this ferry returns to the wharf eventually\u2026 more to follow.<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m kicking myself for assuming the boat would return to the same place. Like home, I don\u2019t expect I can really get back, not like the way it was. And what can one assume in a place where you don\u2019t dare drive because people drive on the left and pass on the right? As it turns out, I can\u2019t even walk properly in Australia. For four days I\u2019d bumped into people and done a do-si-do dance with them in the street trying to figure out who was supposed to move over, and where, to let the other pass. Until some BIG guy coming from the opposite direction grumbled in his adorable Australian accent, \u201cYer in \u2018Stralia now, yer not in America, darlin\u2019. Stay lift!\u201d I got it. Just in time to leave the crowded streets of Sydney, the city that whispers to me, \u201cIt\u2019s okay, your story\u2019s no sadder than anybody else\u2019s here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

And in Sydney Airport once more, headed for Melbourne, I\u2019m coddled as if there\u2019s a sign on my front saying \u2018delicate.\u2019 I\u2019m told I don\u2019t have to take my box of ashes out for inspection. I don\u2019t have to remove my shoes. And in a state of disbelief, I completely forget to take out my plastic-ziplock bag of liquids. So forgiving is Sydney. She purrs, \u201cWe\u2019ve seen it all before.\u201d And at the airline counter, the agent offers, \u201cSince you\u2019re here two hours early for your flight, we can send you on the earlier flight, no extra charge.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Sydneysiders\u2019 they call themselves proudly. What a warm, sweet beginning to my journey. Doing Sydney first was like starting a meal with dessert.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Marika’s Australian scrapbook is filled with names and words. Excited scrawls strewn over the pages: “Suki wishing well” and “Wishing Tree.” “Flying foxes.” “Floating stage.” It becomes a game, a scavenger hunt. Her words are clues that set me loose fishing for what she saw. I canvass my way all over Sydney, and question people […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1998],"tags":[708,2164,1656,247,1202,2159,2152,784,388,2157],"class_list":["post-2808","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-1998","tag-childloss","tag-duetting-memoir-41","tag-facing-fear","tag-grief","tag-grief-journey","tag-grief-support-group","tag-grieving-moms","tag-healing","tag-loss","tag-mother-daughter-travels"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2808","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2808"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2808\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2808"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2808"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2808"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}