You Know You’ve Gone Native When…

We recently visited Houston. It was a whirlwind affair, only two weeks including 2 days travel time each way. Most of the time was spent with family. I needed several hours of baby-holding to fill up my grandma love-tank! There were several special moments, including a walk with Owen to the bus stop and watching him take the bus to kindergarten. I must have taken a thousand pictures during the visit. I am very grateful for digital cameras, which let you delete the “oops” and “almost” moments, resulting in printable pictures to match my beautiful memories. I even squeezed in a quick trip to Tennessee to spend some time with my Dad. His Alzheimer’s is progressing more quickly than any of us would like, but he’s still independent and still remembers his daughter who’s gone off and moved halfway around the world to live in Aw- stray-ell-ya. “How much longer are you going to be there?” he always asks.

We celebrated two years in Perth last November. While our American counterparts were savouring turkey dinners and watching football, Vince had a birthday and we golfed our brains out during the long days that didn’t turn dark until nearly 9:00pm. Since then I’ve noticed – or rather stopped noticing – the differences between Perth and Houston. It was especially evident during this trip to Houston. Here are some examples.

As we were packing for the trip, Vince asked if we needed to take an extra suitcase to bring back some of our favourite foods and spices. “No need,” I said. “I can get everything I want right here.” It’s really true. I’ve found a source for maple syrup, corn tortillas and Ritz crackers. Everything else I just make from scratch, eliminating the need to cram multiple boxes of Betty Crocker Brownie, Jello pudding and Jiffy cornbread mix into my suitcase. And it didn’t seem odd to pack only a few outfits. Australians tend to buy fewer clothes and change wardrobes less often and now so do I. Black top, white top. Black pants, brown striped skirt. Done.

Turning out of the rental car place, we noticed that cars seemed to heading straight for us. Why were they doing this, we wondered? Then it hit us – we need to drive on the right hand side now. Oops. It took a few tries before I could negotiate a left turn correctly. I accidentally engaged the windshield wipers instead of the turn signals at least three times, and I couldn’t believe how fast everyone was driving. They’re all doing 110 and I’m used to 80. The weather is beautiful, and the radio says it’s about 68 degrees. I immediately translate – that’s about 20.


We went shopping and I forgot that they add sales tax at the register here instead of incorporating it into the price of the item. Went to Starbucks and had to ask for an extra shot in my latte. We ate at a restaurant and while the prices were wonderfully low (a family of 6 could eat on what we pay for 2 people), we had to remember to tip the waitstaff. We don’t do that at home. Home – where we live across the street from the zoo and hear the cuckaburras call every morning. Where we look out our windows and see sail boats and swans. Where we drive on the left, drink strong coffee, and think in kilometres and centigrade. When did I cross over?

So we came back with only 1 box of Pioneer biscuit mix and a new pair of jeans. I call friends on my moh-bile (cell phone) and remember to get my shopping done before 6pm. Chicken cooks best at 150 and when we’re feeling fancy we drink wine from a screwtop bottle like everyone else. And I say vive la difference, mate. It’s good to feel like one of the locals. :->