Travelling as we age and cope with varying degrees of health problems is harder. While this is not rocket science, a new dimension is added when you start life in one country then choose to live in another, as I did. Most of my family still live in Australia where I am also happily in touch with friends from high school and teachers’ college days, the planet’s largest ocean separating us for the past 50 years. Visits back and forth have happened during that time, but lately I had been wondering if I would ever be there again, the last time being seven years ago.
A “Best Bets” offer on TV before Christmas suggested a solution, for it included three weeks in an apartment at Queensland’s Gold Coast with its miles of beaches included for free. Since this was close to Brisbane and many of the people I wanted to see again, we made the booking and spent most of February in Australian summer sunshine.
One sister generously loaned us her car for me to keep on the other side on the road, and another thoughtfully loaded our apartment with useful items and piles of books, including ones written by family members, and old photo albums which got lots of attention. Thirty-two family members gathered for Family Day. My brother and sister-in-law drove over 1,200 km from Canberra to join us all. The mobile (cell) phone he “donated” was in constant use to confirm arrangements and more.
Since my youngest sister was unable to be there as her husband is suffering from lymphoma, John and I flew north to Cairns for a few days to join them and their son and his family. Juicy home-grown mangos, sweet bananas and passion fruit were on the menu daily. Folks came by car, train and plane from north and south, making good use of the second bedroom we had arranged, while the locals spent time with us as often as they could, some staying in nearby accommodation.
I met three great-nieces and nephews for the first time. I swam and splashed with some, cuddled and read, shook hands or did Hi Fives where appropriate, and received hugs galore. Two musical families entertained us royally: violin, flute, piano, cello, double bass (towering over its eight-year-old music-maker), singing, clarinet, and guitar. While we made these lovely connections easily, too many years might pass for these youngsters to remember us “next time”.
Our apartment was picture perfect: we gazed on a Dutch Lake-sized salt water lagoon and the Tweed River flowing into the Pacific Ocean; another view between well-spaced buildings tempted us to a golden beach where swimmers and surfers played on waves rolling in to shore. To the south we saw the mountains of the nearby section of New South Wales. Happily, we were taken on several short trips into that hinterland to be welcomed by rain forest, colourful birds, and cafes serving delicious Aussie food.
Cooling breezes wafted through that ninth storey apartment, spacious and convenient for greeting and meeting.
“Would you consider moving back here?” I was asked a few times. But I’ve now lived here twice as long as I ever did in OZ, and B.C. was, and still is, my chosen home.
Our roster kept us busy every one of those 21 days. It was a heady, emotional, delightfully crowded time. As soon as we said “Hello”, the years and miles disappeared. The hardest was seeing well-loved people, young and old, with debilitating health problems. Every goodbye heralded the thought: “Will we meet again?”
