Vaudevillian Halloween

There has not been a performance in Ontario’s Masonic hall since the closing days of Vaudeville, or so the story goes. That was until husband had the bright idea of hiring it for the day in order for us to try out my one woman show for the second time. Our first attempt was in a tiny space of Detroit’s downtown run by the almost toothless Chris and his kindly one man-one eyed crew. His 100 seat venue home to my moustache’d Mariela chortled at by the 50 or so audience of cast and crew of Young Frankenstein.

This time my producer (I call him husband for short) had coerced 40 or so Walworthian friends and family into giving up their Friday night for a dose of my Sardinian creations. He laid out pizza before hand. They thanked us for our generosity post-show. I was quick to explain the food and beverages were merely bribes to make them laugh.

The “brother” who showed us around zealously described his ghostly encounters in the place. I clock myself checking over my shoulder more than once during rehearsals, wondering whether any vaudevillians would watch my show from the wings flanked perhaps by the apparition of a small Victorian child from the days when the hall was a school house.

Come “opening” night my nerves were such that I had little energy to expend on looking for spooks, spooked enough as I was by my own terror. Boy struts to the front of the stage and booms out the introduction, preceding my first entrance which was greeted by the sorts of confused-repulsed looks I had been frightened of. When husband runs back stage to help me with my quick change into the main character’s daughter (a crazed vision in muddy wedding dress and pregnant belly) I tell him I ought to quit now. He tells me the audience is enjoying themselves, keep up the good work, chin up and get on with it. I do.

By the time I make my entrance as sheep-woman (bunny girl meets lamb chop) their reassuring laughter means I actually begin to enjoy myself. At curtain down (you know you’re doing a one woman show when you have to operate it yourself) I delay crowd-greeting by de-rigging the hung bed sheet and flag “set” till I have summoned enough courage to go out and thank everyone. I am greeted with warm embraces and giggles and find myself grinning with gratitude from beneath my painted facial hair.

At the English family reunion next day, husband is unsurprisingly mugging at the camera as a four year old ham in the projected 16mm home movies. Boy discovered the joys of trick or treating following day, at the end of the legendary Englert’s long darkened drive, where he sang full voice to earn his candy (full size!). So the tradition goes. British Halloween is half hearted in comparison. Our November 5^th celebrations often upstage, commemorating the day Guy Fawke’s plot to blow up the houses of parliament in 1605 was foiled. Every year it is customary to “burn the Guy”, literally throwing a patched together dummy on a bonfire. We even let off fireworks. Sort of like building two cardboard towers and throwing burning toy planes at them for a September 11^th party in the year 2401. Sardonic British humour isn’t infamous for nothing.

Pa is in Milwaukee, my folks have returned to home turf and ma n’ boy recover from their week of theatre making. Just hoping I did those Vaudevillians proud.

On The Run

Running through the early morning mists wafting above the rolling hills of Wayne County is a beautiful way to start the day. Burnished golds of the fall about me a perfect distraction from my huffing and puffing up the inclines of Gananda Park. I have succumbed to peer pressure and, after Nicole (spotlight operator) and her convincing rhetoric, I too have joined the ranks of the Young Frankenstein troupe who will be running Cincinnati’s 10K Thanksgiving run.

I maintain my training whilst on our quick jaunt into New York City last week. Boy, Ma, Leopard Skin Coat and I strutted into Penn station of a Tuesday morning leaving Dad behind upon the beautiful Proctor’s Theatre boards in Schenectady. On day two I set myself the challenge of crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, joining the army of lithe disciplined New Yorkers overtaking me, speedy cyclists in the opposite lane racing to and from Manhattan. I dodge the tourists committing the bridge and it’s views to digital memory. The autumnal sunshine dancing on the waters of the Hudson, Ms Liberty in my peripheral and beyond, Ellis Island, whence my great greats moored ashore all those years ago. Here I am, sweating to Brooklyn and back for a slice of their dream.

Back at TriBeca HQ I find grandma on ground control patrol trying her best to make sure our son’s incessant mid air flips are executed with safety. Boy delighting in watching his upside down world swirl about him. I continue my blossoming love affair with the city; playgrounds, shops, more shops, more playgrounds - things to keep a three-something and sixty-three something happy. My Leopard Skin Coat and I fitting in perfectly with the uber trendy mamas and papas of downtown. My father arrived mid week, and, after a few minutes on the maze that is Google we tracked down an old friend from 40 or so years ago. Within ten minutes we had found his contact details, sent emails and left messages. A beat later and our day in New Jersey with him is planned.

Next morning I watch, moved by the warm reconciliation of two dear friends who have lost touch over the years. There are hugs, stories, the feeling, as with true bonds, of having been apart for a heartbeat not years. Turns out the man in question has done incredibly well, even been nominated for Man of the Year in England against the mogul Richard Branson. He explains that I am to contact him should I need help of any kind. Not the first time on our travels that kindly folk like this have openly reached out with helping hands. He questions me about our plans, citing the importance of stability for growth. I listen carefully - the man is paid highly by huge corporations for consulting work. When he describes his own life long yearning for a home, being a child of traveling parents, I turn to our boy, mouth covered with ravioli, holding court at the other end of our lunch table and consider.

Next day, surrounded by visiting former cast friends, back in daddy’s Schenectadian dressing room, boy twinkling with delight, reunited with both his dad and once-babysitters, I reflect upon how our journey is nurturing this bright young soul. We will give stability a whirl for the next few weeks - though I would argue the true meaning of the word does not necessarily mean living in one place. Sam is in pre school. Mama will be warbling with the choir.

Time methinks for a run at real life. Not just those photogenic hills.

From a Sardinian Corner of Miami with Love

The deco delights of South Beach are as delightful in all their wedding cake pastels as I had hoped. Easy to imagine this town in it’s roaring twenties as the American Riviera. The villas lining the back-waters, complete with private moorings, odes to Italianate grandeur. One family homes, once uber modern apartments blocks with alternate angular and undulating deco lines. In stark contrast, the new sprawling towers on the opposite side of the street jutting up along the oceanic landscape, resorts and condos, sparkle like urban dinosaurs in the bright Miami sun.

South Beachers are partiers. By lunchtime a palpable lilt to the promenaders, many of which clad in little more than incy wincy teeny weeny bikinis. After inhaling half a chicken wrap big enough to feed a family (South Beach diet anyone?!) I slunk into the granite bathrooms of The Clevelander, to transform myself into my Sardinian alter ego, a comedy character I am developing into a one woman show, filming her American adventures alongside ours. I catch a pair of sun lizards lounging poolside in their shimmery two-piece beside DJ’s podium where revellers will likely welcome the dawn. Back at the table a nearby customer excuses herself, explains she is nosey (takes one to know one) and asks me what on earth I am doing and why. I describe my project then coerce her and her holiday attired girlfriends to be filmed making friends with my strange Sardinian woman.

My boys and I (big on camera one, small on camera two) hit the streets coercing other revellers to dance, hit volleyball, throw football and generally cavort. South Beach-ers are good sports. One chap, Jamaica cool in tight white vest and ironed jeans insisted on taking several photos amongst the passing rollerbladers. A veiled muslim lady gives me a complicit nod of recognition. I think she has mistaken my headscarf for a veil. I feel like a fraud. At the waters edge it took no more than a moustache’d grin to persuade the lifeguards to pose. Just before I dove in. Fully clothed.

Later I strip down to my swimsuit, wipe off my painted facial hair and take in my surroundings, boy flip flapping in my peripheral at the feet of the mostly African American/Caribbean crowd. Much as it saddens me, I have never been around a group of Caucasian women so obviously happy in their skin. Of the gamut of body shapes I spy none tugging at their suit, hints of negative body image leaking out of their movements. Instead, laughter. Lots of it. Carefree beach behaviour I find deeply affirming. The Caucasians, inconspicuous not so much because of their taut frames (some on that diet after all), but more for the way they carried those frames along the beach.

Boy and I then make a mad dash to dad, who is holding up traffic on Ocean drive, jump into our car (along with half the beach) and pick up grandma at the airport. I waited eagerly at the arrivals window, my hair doing a fine impression of seaweed, whilst she patiently sat behind me, farcically looking in the opposite direction. Family tradition. Off Dolphin expressway, we then stop to snap a picture of Dad outside Joe Allen’s (favourite London/New York haunt) and stumble across a Sardinian restaurant on the opposite corner. Antipasti, pasta and myrtle liqueur later we have our Mediterranean fix. I have decided to take me some of that Miami buzz in my case to upstate New York next week. Along with as many mangoes as care to fall at our door.

The Playoff's the Thing

Playoff season heralds several things. Husband is permanently distracted, engineering our movements on the basis of where he will be able to catch the game. Luckily for him this appears to be almost everywhere, from the Mediterranean bistros lining sunny Las Olas boulevard Fort Lauderdale, to the local bar in our new home town of Schenectady. Secondly, perhaps more disturbingly, I too on several occasions have found myself clocking the scores on TV screens, thus beginning a complete immersion into the culture that has welcomed this Brit.

Friends back home wonder whether I am missing the British eccentricity. The kind of quintessential madness that can only be truly comprehended, loved and loathed by native Britons. Waves of this warped nostalgia are easily washed away when we meet people like Pedro, the half Belgian half Spanish waiter at our favourite haunt in Fort Lauderdale. Over our seafood linguini Pedro spoke at us for roughly half an hour (without commas) about his journey to Miami, becoming an accidental antique dealer. His first container load, of what he described in his Hispanic gesticulation and thick Flemish twang as 1960s Belgian junk, sold for $15,000 more dollars than which it cost him. Several years of similar sales and he was living the American Dream. Not so for Palm Man, as grey in pallor as Pedro was suntanned, hair clinging melancholically to the sides of his head baseball cap stuffed with the rest of the nesty locks, who comes to our table and begins a demonstration. Two folded palm leaves later, now looking remarkably like roses, we learn this gentleman has copyrighted the alphabet. On the back of “E”-sure and Ebay launches he set about securing rights for the rest of the letters. Must be a long term investment plan, what with the palm tricks supplemental income.

These folk are in the pink sun-setting distance. We have propelled through time into upstate New York’s fall. Descending through the clouds, hazy glimpses of rainbows, rolling forest covered hills undulating below us, rusty coloured fall foliage glowing in the late afternoon rays. The smell of crisp woody autumnal air greeted us at Albany airport, where driver Bill, took us through a stand-up version of Schenectady history. I have a new found joy in travel days surrounded as we are by bon vivant actors - bleary eyed on account of a middle of the night dip in the sea, crew – propping up the bar next the gate and wide eyed three year old - magicking the furniture into pirate ships. Troupe suddenly burst into a perfectly harmonised rendition of Happy Birthday to honour the company manager, spontaneous applause from all the nearby passengers at the final flourish.

On our first tip toe around Schenectady, deserted of a Monday night but for the odd passing SUV, we found a restaurant/bar on a picturesque main street. The brick buildings in their terraced turn of the century glory a world away from the swishing palm tree lined bungalow streets of last week’s tropical lands. Boy is now getting his beauty sleep, grandma much the same, husband has those worry lines upon his brow (top of the ninth and the Yankees are struggling) and ma tries to make her deadline before heading down to the big smoke tomorrow. We are deserting husband for the Big Apple because a. it is but a three hour train ride away (boy is very very excited) and b. my ma looks like she would enjoy a spot of shopping.

Have also, under oath, promised to bring husband back a Yankee win.

Lederhosen to Lizards

The crickets in the fern brush outside our white shuttered windows are singing their hearts out to the Floridian moon. Beside our front gate a mango tree is heavy with its dangling fruit. There are oranges on our license plate. So begins our stay in the sunshine state, so far very much living up to its name.

Arizona has been left in its dust. The last few days a flurry of fun filled days highlights including the ubiquitous Oktoberfest - the only one in the world to my knowledge that takes place in the middle of desert lands in an unforgiving 40 degree heat - and the Hawaian pool party thrown by the crew.

Cory arrives after work to announce the theme. I scrunch up my forehead looking at my colourful but Hawaiian free wardrobe then he throws me his palm tree shirt with the retro bikini clad ladies posing on it (given to him by one of the local stage hands in Michigan) I pop on some leggings and heels no less, scoop up our sleeping boy and head downstairs. Next the pool is Nicole's room in which she has made space for the Sam-man to rest whilst we mingle with the crowd. As we reach the pool we are garlanded. Cory is fitted with a coconut bra. Ukelele player croons out tropical ditties and chicken is on the grill. At the other end Austin's travel-bar is lit up and pumping out cocktails faster than you can say zombie on the rocks. I stop drinking after one seeing as by the end of it my heels suddenly feel very high. And wobbly.

When we take it in turns to check on the boy we intermittently find a slightly delirious chap who insists I return to the party and asks me why I have Dad's girlie shirt on and the plastic flowers. On my final visit in I find him sitting up singing and he launches into a middle of the night stream of consciousness at which point I scoop him up and bring him out to the party. It takes a minute or two before he lands into our reality but when he does he is the life and soul, right up until mum is thrown in the pool, fully clothed at which point he looks down from the edge, a mix of worry and excitement until he sees me smiling reassuringly back at him. Then it is a matter of minutes before he decides he will go in also, urged on by those of the party still bobbing about in the water. The crew gather around him and help him onto a huge inflatable turtle and takes it in turns to glide him across the pool to each other. Dad is dripping dry nursing a caiprinha at the waters edge. Mum is beginning to flag under the weight of dad's drenched shirt. We eventually make it back to bed around three after a hefty midnight snack for the boy who is convinced it's his breakfast.

If someone had told me that come the weekend I would be clinking steins at Oktoberfest in the midst of the surrounding desert lands of Tempe I would have accused them of delusional behaviour. Come three o’clock that Saturday afternoon however, boy and I were doing the polka (well one of us was, the other was doing an impression of a jumping bean) to the umpahs and yodels of The Sauerkrauts - German musicians squeezed into authentic lederhosen crooning mountain serenades, show stopping cow bell solo to boot. About us German looking descendants nodding their heads to the beat sipping their gallons of once cold beer. Even the rubber ducks at the carnival were suitably attired. Almost totally reduced to a puddle of sweat I lead boy to the splash park of Tempe Beach Park (minus beach on account of a leak and subsequent empty lake) where, demented with delight, he slid, splashed and cavorted in the water. Mum held out, like most of the grown ups, demurely side stepping the water, till I could bear the 106 heat no longer. Calling boy to watch our bag I put my fully clothed self under a suspended bucket and gasped with relief as it spat its contents down on me – and the gaggle of screechy five year old friends about me. Once drenched, my brain rebooted.

As the park cleared around what I presumed to be Arizona siesta time (only mad dogs and Englishmen stay out in this afternoon sun) I notice a couple of brothers brandishing huge plastic water versions of fire arms. The father, a Mexican fella with a pencil moustache and the kind of brooding gaze perfect for Westerns, approaches Sammy and offers him one to play with. Coaching session ensues, teacher and student fierce with concentration, the latter dwarfed by the sheer enormity of his chosen weapon. Water war breaks loose, up until Sam gets it straight in the face and bursts into tragic tears. I almost resist a live-by-the-sword-die-by-the-sword speech. When Dad joins us after his matinee we inhale Bratwurst, all the way from almost German Wisconsin and then polka once again. Sun dips down into the horizon and we notice the malevolent green grey clouds looming towards the festivities taking our cue to leave. Hopping into the first rickshaw at the exit a heavy-set African American chap has the tough task of cycling us home. I keep him talking on account of his velveteen accent and learn he is the sixth child of thirteen, born and raised in South Carolina, currently an ASU football scholarship student. He explains his strengths are his size and, surprising speed. Knowing he is of an athletic mind lightens my guilt for asking him to go on an almost 2 mile ride to the hotel under the ever darkening skies, wind shaking the gangly palms, flashes of lightning illuminating the heavy clouds. I catch sight of an African American busker dressed in a cowboy’s Sunday best, letting rip with almost country tunes on an electric guitar amongst several salubrious characters drifting about the sidewalks with that faraway look of folks who have spent too much time in the desert. Much like the man who sold me his homemade incense at the farmers market the other evening.

Desert living at its end, I write from our Fort Lauderdale home. When we first arrive at the bungalow our landlords greet us and show us about. The words lizards and racoons are bandied about. I perk up waiting for alligator and snake but thankfully in vain. Our new pad is a glorious two bedroomed home complete with a big kitchen, cosy living room, two bathrooms and all the amenities of real life living. The tiled floors, the shutters, the coconut trees swaying in the warm breeze set the scene for our tropical stay. On our first evening we drop our bags and despite a four hour flight, we are high on our usual first night excitement and head to Las Olas boulevard to soak up the street buzz about the open air restaurants and cafes. Moments later we are inhaling wood fired pizzas and sipping chianti. Homemade gelato finishes it off. Nothing about the street suggests anything but a Mediterranean summer's eve. Mafioso type (sssshhhhh) on the table next to us makes conversation, heavy new york accent, hard of hearing I supposed on account of his booming voice and the way he craned forward with a forehead of strain every time I spoke. He and his columbian wife, glittery in baby blue rhinestones tell us we are have our handfuls having a scorio boy. I would never have assumed the man to be interested in astrology. Just goes to show, you never can tell.

When the boys leave for the loo I notice a local leaving the establishment, high five-ing the brazilian waitress on his way, ironed jeans and thinning but highly coiffured red hair swept back. I find myself inadvertently edging forward on my seat as he negotiates the steps somewhat shaky on his feet. Then he totters on down to his enormous rolls royce and with a few manoeuvres safely makes it onto the road. The rest of the parked cars are of a similar style. The streets surrounding this main drag are lined with the kind of homes to match. And yachts. Hundreds and hundreds of them, each bigger and sleeker than the next. Prize for most foreboding goes to the oversized black number moored beneath a huge block of upscale condominiums. Something Batman would sail made entirely from black fibreglass and darkened windows. As we drive our heads tennis match from each side of the street three of us competing in volume with our ooos and aaahhhs. After dinner we did a brisk supermarket sweep on account of our bodies believing it was late afternoon and eventually we slipped into sleep.

Not for too long for the following morning mum had found a gymnastics class around the bend in Holiday Park. Sam, his usual easy going self was barely awake but at the mention of gym sprang into action like a limber chimpanzee. Miss Kelly and Miss Katy put the gaggle of three year olds through their paces. Sam tumbling down and around with gusto. After refuelling at home boys take off to the park and leave ma to reach her column deadline and catch up with her ma on skype. When they return they both have the woods about them, boy's face smeared with muddy fun, tales of pretending to be monsters with a gang of boys spilling forth at the rate of a caffeine junky on his tenth cup of the morning.

They wash up and we spruce up n' out for dinner at the 15th street fisheries, somewhat of an institution around here for, well, fish specialities. Opting for the "full dining" experience upstairs we take a window seat and sit back while the waitress presents an oversize framed menu which she perches on a tray stand for us to peruse. Rattling off the specials of the day, she relays colourful details of what "chef" does with one such thing or another and it all sounds fishy and delicious. Tastes fishy and delicious too. Amongst the delights were a rock shrimp chowder, crab cake, red snapper and mahi mahi. Boy sucks in taglitelle with shrimp and mum sips an apple martini.

The sea laps beside us and after some homemade vanilla ice cream with ganache and peanut brittle we catch the sunsetting rays dance on the water. Our faces pinkish purple with the closing light we make a dash for the beach. When we get there the waves are rolling in, the wind is whipping up the sand but our family soldier onto the shore and dip our feet, screaming of course, into the ocean. Warm as bath water. Hopping from foot to foot we cling onto each other lest the undertow carry us out for good. Beside us another family are doing much the same thing. As darkness creeps in we watch our silhouetted boy swing up and around the playground towards the street. A few other families similarly squinting in the twilight keeping their eyes on their climbing off springs. When even squinting is useless we take our cue to head back home. Eyes open for lizards and fallen mangoes when we arrive.

Following morning dad leaves for press engagements and boy and I hit the park just in time for several school groups coming out of the children's theatre on the other side. They swarm the playground, though I have little trouble keeping my eye on the boy on account of his incessant and incredibly loud singing and train impressions. Certainly does nothing by halves. When dad finally rejoins us I am mid natter with local mums who tell me glibly about Alligator alley, aka interstate 595, as well as a few nearby coves, perfect for children to splash about it. They tell me about the unusual weather they are having, revelling as they are at actually being able to breathe and be outside without looking like they had just stepped out of a washing machine. Usually this time of year is plagued with the tropical muggy heat for which this part of the world is famed. I try to gracefully receive the compliments on my accent, which my friends keep reminding me is being tarnished every day. I ask them whether I ought to do the day cruise to the Bahamas $80 round trip, food included? They nod energetically in the affirmative.

After lunch mum has the bright idea of heading to the beach for an hour or so of watery frolics. The first clue I missed was the fact that the turquoise water's edge was utterly void of human life. The second clue was the speed of the waves. When we finally reached the beach it took but a breath before the force of those winds was fully realised. Sand whizzed across needling any exposed flesh. Sam steps out of his flip flops but they are almost thrown away on the wind. In between the screams, this time of terror not delight, we coax ourselves towards the shore but the erratic waves criss crossing our feet are more rabid than inviting. We can't hear ourselves think over the boy's passionate protestations. Or the wind. Or the beautiful, wild seas, and so beat a swift retreat, stopping only to pick up a piece of dried out sea sponge which Sam nurses all the way back home announcing it will be a gift from him to our landlords.

Back at bungalow HQ I throw myself into unpacking and the boys kick a ball about. Tea is brewed and spirits are restored. When dad hits the hay for his regulation siesta (first night tonight!) I turn around to find boy draped in every chunky ethnic necklace I own (and I own quite a few). I watch him climb onto an armchair, lean back and shut his eyes. He holds out his palm towards me, and, still with eyes shut asks me to guess what type of coin he is holding. My cackle bubbles out. He joins in. Any attempt for me to gently point out that him shutting his eyes and holding the coin out for me to clearly see undercuts the aim of his invented game somewhat, falls on deaf ears. And I am glad. And overcome with a wave of love for this little chap sat, bejewelled, cross legged, smirking with closed but smiling eyes, looking like a cross between a psychedelic chief and colourful buddha. Later he asks me if chiefs take their jewels off to sleep. I tell him I am not so offay with the intimate nightly rituals of such men but for the sakes of our hut he might think it wise to do so.

Now its just me and the overhead fan whirring into the night. My producer will be home in an hour or so, cracking the whip. Tells me as he leaves for work tonight that a venue is almost secured for the Mariela extravaganza once we reach upstate new york and I'd bloody well have a show fit to fill it in three weeks time. That clammy palm feeling all over again. We worked late into the night yesterday throwing around ideas and then both went to sleep happy in the knowledge of having made a good start. Whichever way you look at it however, 15 extra minutes of show that includes a short film and two new characters is no short order. Then there is the task of inviting friends and family to come and laugh (hopefully!) at me in the hopes that my material does not offend to infinity. I suppose if you decide to live the vaudevillian dream you really ought to put in the work too no? It's not all cocktails and shutters and quick escapades on the beach in real life is it?

Or is it?

Desert Diary

The few days we have spent in Tempe Arizona mean that I have an acute understanding of what a rasher of bacon feels like under the grill. There ought to be a more superlative adjective to adequately describe Arizonian heat other than "hot". I suppose if you are still in that slightly groggy first day in a place and will insist on heading out to stroll around looking for a cafe in the midday sun you have but yourself to blame for not lasting more than five minutes. Sauna. Oven. Furnace.

We left our hotel and headed on towards the Arizona State University campus just across the street. A sprawling mini city of desert coloured concrete buildings home to almost 60,000 students no less. Palm trees dot the main avenue. Cactus line the walkways between the various departments zig zagged with students, golf buggies, skateboarders and enough bikes to make you feel like you are on a busy street in Shanghai. Boy has now become accustomed to being on of them, though, thankfully, his mother has finally worked out that if they leave early in the morning there is less chance for collisions with tardy students dashing for their lectures. Most of which do so upon the retro style Schwinn bikes, in array of pretty pastels, high handle barred glamour bikes. A world away form the bikes fellow students had when I was back at college. Aside from survivable heat around 8 in the morning it also provides the perfect opportunity to breathe in the perfect lull before a place wakes up.

As I do my comical speed walk to barely keep up with boy I take in the courtyards that branch off of the main strip some with trickling fountains at their centre others strewn with heavy concrete (desert coloured) tables under the shade of trees. Students cramming in information. Similarly when we take our ride towards early evening, whilst dad naps before his show I take a moment in between sprints, to bask in the laid back rhythms of a closing day. Vast skies overhead, desert sunsets humming with a pink purple glow beyond the arched walkways in between buildings, palm tree silhouettes gently swaying in the breeze.

Last night we went to Phonecia for dinner. Without time travel. On one of our boy-bike mum-sprint jaunts we came across a crossroads just after the main department buildings with a different place of worship on each side. A couple of churches, a performing arts centre and a mosque. Out of the four, the latter least ubiquitous, especially with the craggy (desert coloured) hill jutting out beyond it. The temple's white walls, blue tiles and gold detailing gleaming in the morning sun. From the courtyard beyond the walls sounds of children playing. Later we see them returning to the classrooms on the upper level via thick white stone steps. I enjoy imagining I am in North Africa or Arabia for a moment. When I notice the grocery store next door I escort biker boy in and touch every exotic box I can find, feeling a pang of nostalgia for the turkish and arab shops of home. I buy a pack of spices because the name on the label reads something unfamiliar. We take a baklava home for the dad. Next night I take the boys back to feast on their homemade houmous and falafel. We order an Ultimate Combo from the fast talking waitress - a one woman show in the making - and take the next hour to chomp through a feast of freshly grilled, perfectly seasoned delights. If it hadn't been so hot (even at 5 in the evening!) I would have sat outside on the white stone benches inlaid with those same blue tiles.

In stark contrast to my day dreaming of Arabian lands the day before had seen us decked out in our best for a bit of Puttin on the Ritz at The Ritz. As part of the publicity for the show, Jeffery the effusive tea maitre d' (yes there is such a job) at The Ritz throws parties in which the visiting casts come and chat with locals who partake in tea and conversation. And scones. With proper cream. Very kindly Sam and I were invited too. Boy, somewhat under the impression that it was a show we were going to watch, refused to leave his regency sofa seat until the end. In practice it meant we were, in all intents and purposes, watching our new family move between tables to mingle with the guests. After a scone break (all breaks should come with scones like these) they broke into a snippet from the show accompanied y the resident pianist who throughout tea was playing a jazz background version of all the characters main songs. We drank green tea on account of Frankenstein and all. On leaving we were presented with a bear who is dressed in the image of maitre d', also named Jeffrey. Sam has christened him his baby girl and we have made a theatre out of the cardboard box he came in. Whilst the paints were out Sam attacked the hamper lid with Pollock gusto. On the balcony. Wearing nothing but his y-fronts like any new wave painter worth his salt.

Tonight we explored the Urban Garden market, next door to my favourite mosque. It is a corner plot of land given over to the nurturing of veggies. Lump in our throats looking at the raised boxes. Our babies at home are doing great, my folks sent us a picture of the grape and apple harvest and Cory almost cried. He actually did cry this afternoon when playing Sam an excerpt of The Sound of Music. It was his first film he remembers watching with his mama. There he was now sharing it with his boy. I'll tease him later.

Down at the market mum feasted on everything she could get her mitts on, from fresh, award winning salsa (now in my fridge) to raw honey from cat's claw plants. I now own a propolis cream and have eaten half a packet of raw flax seed crackers. I also bought homemade incense from an Arizonian hippy who told me that I ought to burn the pine one when in need of mental clarity and money. When I am going to the casino he added. Or, if sharing a dorm place in a drawer to not overpower fellow students. I decided, whether or not this was his intention, that I would take the last comment as a compliment. Though he may have thought me a mature student but hey.

In an hour or so dad will be back from the theatre across the street. An impressive building by the late Frank Lloyd Wright, one of his last. Originally designed for Baghdad as their opera house, but a regime change meant whoever had commissioned the job was fired and so the plans were kept by Mr. Wright. Tempe decided to snap it up and are now proud owners of a something that looks, from the outside, like the cross between a wedding cake and the Colliseum. Desert coloured. Of course. I look froward to exploring inside on the weekend.

Although the magical lands of Sedona are likely to remain elusive to us on account of time constraints, we do look forward to a day with our friend's mum tomorrow. Her daughter took our headshots last week. It is always wonderful to see a familiar face in an unfamiliar place. Then there's the Meet the Crew Party, poolside in an hour or so. Cory and I had planned to party in shifts with one of the cast offering to sit in with the boy later. I have just had news however that our friend in the crew has a room right next door to the pool and Sam might just sleep there whilst we party within earshot. Plan Stan. Infinitely better than our original one of piling cushions into the hamper and laying him on top to then wheel it down. Not even we will go to those lengths just for the photo and the story. Maybe.

In truth I have been feeling the twinge of homesickness rear its head again over the past few days. Our new family is very lovely, personable, friendly - we had a great travel day with ma and boy getting to know everybody. I suspect the feeling is compounded by the fact that I received my first rejection from a literary agent and threw myself into a moment of self-bashing for what I perceived to be self-aggroindesment on my part. I worried that I had fallen into that ugly trap of being someone who enjoys writing a blog for pleasure and then, like thousands of other would-be writers, decides to pursue a future in books. My tail is a little in between my legs. Lasted just up until Sam launched into one of his complex imaginary journeys in which he was skateboarding down Orlando beach (?) and would I please call him on the phone as he is heading home now thank you. Always good to know what job is really pressing. Pat on the backs or lack of them pail into insignificance when there's a three year old to nurture.

Going to dive into that salsa, burn me some sandalwood and lather myself in lavender propolis for the occasion. Glad rags. Spot of blusher. Get to know our new friends. That's what the homesick doctor ordered. And she doesn't even charge a $350 fee.

Tea. Sea. Me.

I ought to be finishing up the packing. Instead I am sat here in the air conditioning, reminiscing on our last week in Costa Mesa. My better judgement tells me to keep the sliding glass door open instead for real fresh air but I think better on it, seeing as last week, after a wasp nest was fumigated upstairs one of the poisoned blighters found it's way into our room, crawled across our pillows and stung the boy in the dead of night. Least we're hoping it was a wasp. It wasn't until the morning that I realised his fussing over his hand wasn't just me sleeping on it. The pharmacist, on inspection of the huge red swelling on the fleshy base of his thumb told me it looked like a bite and to keep an eye on it. If, after a spray of Benadryl, it started to spread into a rash or if boy developed strange feverish behaviour I was to take him immediately to ER. I think this is Californian for "it may be a bite of a venoumous spider such as the black widow, keep your wits about you."

Me, a self confessed arachnophobe am now having to deal with my fear head on. Well, up until I shut every door and turn on the air con that is. Our friends who we visited with on Cory's day off breezily told us about the infestation of these creatures and their regular extermination bills. That was after the lady of the house laughed off finding a snake in the back yard and her husband then sharing the story behind the dried rattle snake skin hung by his desk in his home office. The gentleman in question tells me he came across the unlucky snake one day whilst hiking. He had appeared to be in an aggressive temper (the snake I presume he meant) so, for the sake of fellow hikers, our friend's husband decided there was room for only one of them on the planet. I absolutely know I would not like to be on the wrong side of this fellow. Or snake for that matter, even if it is just a skin. Our journey to this friend's house took us through the largest expanse of tomato fields I have ever seen (some people do grow more than our Neopolitan neighbour down at the plot), onwards past a huge army base with the Pacific to our left for the entirety. I gawp up at the mountains to our left having the sensation of familiarity, Cory then tells me this is where they shot parts of MASH. The images of one of my favourite childhood shows flash before me. We start singing the theme tune. Obviously.

On arrival at our friend's home, we meet their adorable little two year old girl, who takes an instant shine to what she calls our "baby boeeeey" and he, in turn, takes on older brother role with gusto. Holding her hand at all times. Showing her how to do everything. Take turns and so on, just so long as he goes first. At least until she scrambles off for something new with him a breath away. We drive to a local burger joint round the corner passing a sign for the upcoming "quiet" auction. Oh to be a fly on the wall.

As we park my eye is drawn to the van next to us advertising Girl-Ease products, specifically disposable bra liners. For sweaty ladies. I think we call them nursing pads back home. I silently count myself lucky I have never encountered problems of the sweaty boob variety. Then again, if I lived in California rather than under the English drizzle I too, may develop this unfortunate problem. Especially if I filled them with silicone or wot-not I spose. The car park is full of entrepreneurial car advertisements I notice. Once you have mopped up your sweat you can then purchase advice from the van owner across the way who will teach you to grow your veggies at home. Failing that, you could always buy the self-watering self-fertilising garden boxes advertised for sale (delivered no less!) on the wall of Costa Mesa's The Lab. More of that later.

After our scoff, and during the young lady's nap, the family and Cory's friend head for a nearby park to do a spot of posing. Our hostess has recently been branching out into photography after a decade of more of astonishing dancing that took her onto Broadway and all over the world. She was happy to take our headshots as a favour, and to build up her portfolio. We must have looked quite a sight. Boy, customarily fedora'd, Dad in a suit (!) and mum, hair blow dried to infinity and our friend all 6ft something gorgeousness, slim as a bean but for a very taut baby bump. She is due in less than a month but I betcha you can still see her eight pack down the sides. It is lovely to be around such a radiant preggo, zip zapping about us with her lens capturing the afternoon light. I catch Cory in my periphery, shaking his head in wonder at my unashamed readiness to launch into poses. I little tilt of the head here, a half smile, full smile, serious glare, silly face. I am appalled at how easily I fall into the negative stereotype of our industry. Hey ho. The shots she sent through afterwards were pretty lovely, not so much of the poser, seeing as she looked, well, a little posey, but the boys look great. Especially the one in the tree with the hat and those big brown eyes.

Heading back to Costa Mesa the following day, we made time to frolic the beaches at Carlsbad on the way. Sounds like a German spa town but looks about as German as a bowl of Udon soup. The wide expanse of ocean glistening in the afternoon rays begging for us to jump in it. So we did. A lot. Got wet. And cold. And very very happy. Especially since our bellies were full of Ruby's delights. It is a chain of burger joints decorated in red and white retro decor. Waitresses wear a forties get up but somehow it manages to stay the right side of gimmicky, and the folk working there seem genuinely happy to be there. Food's good too. Especially if you like the kind of milkshakes that line your arteries in 0.4 seconds. On our way out boy asked for a toilet stop which would have been fine, only the lady waiting to go in next, whilst boy waxed lyrical about the size, shape and odour of his waste matter, was of a certain age, in a neck brace, with a walking stick, and clearly about to wet herself. She calls over the door,

"You nearly done in there?"

"Yeah!" I fib watching my son's face grimace for round two.

"I don't mena to rush you only - "

She cuts off and I wonder whether she has had an accident. In the end I choose to rush the boy. I have a change of clothes for him. The lady on the other hand, probably doesn't have another pair of slacks in her handbag. That I can tell. After our sandy frolics we drive back home. Boy is out to the world after the first few miles and stays that way till morning, with but a brief delirious wake up around midnight for a banana after which he promptly returns to his dreams.

The following day we continue our beach holiday with a trip to Laguna. The name itself oozes the kind of crystal turquoise waters we found there. Hopping onto route 1 we curved in and out of the rugged coast and after a turn or three the expanse of Pacific rolled out ahead of us, gentle mid morning waves reaching the vast shores. We come off the highway around Crystal Cove whereupon we stumble across jaw dropping ocean homes. Spanish styles, uber modern glass constructions and a world of unique beauty in between. Eventually, along from the main drag we arrive at Laguna Beach.

More cove like than the sweeping beaches I have come to associate with California it is a child's paradise. Not only because of its shallow, for the most part calmer waters or its proximity to the frozen yoghurt shop but also for the playground literally constructed on the sand. Boy cavorted between water and ladders and slides gathering and saying goodbye to friends along the way as the locals came and went. Mum got lost in a book. Dad got buried in the sand.

The following day we stayed inland. This time on a trip to the city of Orange. For the name alone really. And yes, Oranges do grow there. In the main square actually. Which is in the middle of a roundabout. With gardens, all Italian styley. Fountain and everything. From this centre, main streets crossroad out, lined with antique shops and cafes. By the time we arrived, after boy's gym class, we hit the lunchtime rush and followed our noses to The Filling Station. With all the outside tables taken we were ushered into a booth inside and were served by a rockabilly lady all tatooed and retro spectacled. Sam took an instant shine to her. I blame it on her smooth timbre. And the way she wore those glasses like she actually was from that time. On this vein boy turns to us and asks if he was in the olden days? I say I don't know was he? He says he wants to be. Later he absent mindly tells me he is practicing for yesterday. I think we are entering a quantum phase. I hope he stays there and helps me figure out my reluctance to be tied down to the supposed linearity of the universe. Incidentally I have been driving Cory mad recently. Every time he talks about the sun setting or rising I feel inclined to differ seeing as its us doing all the turning. "Fine" he tells me each time I offer up my point "come up with a different way of saying it." At which point I invariably stumble. It is a bit medieval though when you think about it? In Italian the term does not appertain to the sun's movements as such. Just a random thought is all.

After lunch we trawl main street, first off spending all of 30 cents on three "penny" sweets at the candystore and then oggling $3,000 tables at George's antiques. I tell Cory that if we ever did live here, I would miss the reasonably priced "antiques" from home. I never came across 1920s secretaire at home that cost $1,000+ even if it is in good nic. With only a few minutes to spare before the event that is tap class we take in the fountain. When we arrive Sam runs around a little two year old lady named Dahlia. Cory follows the kids and I make small talk with her dad. Turns out her great grandfather was quite an influential member of Orange and several generations of the family still live there. When his wife arrives, heavily pregnant but resplendent in Californian beauty it takes me a breath to figure out that this hormonal lady is none too happy with the fact that a strange man is watching her child whilst her husband chats about nothing and something with a lady. I put her at ease as best I can (I, of all people know not to set a preggo on the wrong foot) with questions about Dahlia and baby to be. Before long she is sitting, almost comfortably, in the shade and I take away a little slice of Orange life away with us.

Back at Team OC HQ Cory and I sit with the moms. Amongst the group another heavily pregnant lady (I wonder if it's contagious?!). We coo at our offspring and laugh at their antics, which, to be fair, are not too wild (shame) seeing as Miss Michelle has them under a tight ballerina grip. Least that's what we figure from through the glass. I would like to say that my eyes never left the boy only the mums started talking about a show which they were sure I would know. It took most of the ballet combination for me to figure out what they were talking about. For a while there, I really thought someone had come up with a show called Naughty. A sort of drum your kids into good behaviour via a tv screen jobby and never mind what happens around it sort of thing. When I took the cotton wool out of my brain it turns out Naughty translated into Brit is Noddy. There was I thinking I was getting the twang down.

This time when Miss Michelle (I love the Vaudevillian way the teachers are called Miss and then their first names) turns the lights out and the mirror ball starts turning I notice Sam's prop of choice is a glittering gold top hat number which he whips around him like a wannabe Gene Kelly, his feet stomping spasmodically trying to keep with his imagination. I feel my grin starting to make my face ache. At the end of class I do a bit of shameless swan necking of another mom's book. Before long we are entering into a lively conversation about her culture diversity studies. It is part of her training to become a social worker which, by the by, she is doing concurrent with mothering three children. I love the way conversation ripples through our days so effortlessly over here. The travel is allowing us such time to really engage with people so free are we of rigid schedules. Half an hour later or so, we have exchanged views on our experiences of different religions and cultures. She tells us of her embarrassment at becoming aware of Sikhs and Muslims only later in life, and at a fellow american who had unashamedly asked whether she had been scared going into a mosque for the first time. Prep-for-Princesses teacher wipes by us to begin her class. Seems like last week was the supply teacher. This lady's age, bleach blonde hair, ample (almost real) bosom and teeny tiny waist give altogether quite a different impression than the sardonic retro gal of last time. Wannabe princesses don't appear to mind in the least.

The following morning we head out into the sunshine for the last time to bask in the waters of Newport Beach, about ten minutes down the road. I scour the shore for incredible shells and boy goes loopy in the waves. We all reduce our inner noise to bare minimum, hushed into relaxation by the fresh air, rippling waters and the screeches of an elated three year old. After a cup of gelato we head reluctantly back to the hotel, escaping reality for as long as possible with a pit stop into the Lab. An eco conscious strip mall dotted with surfer urban warrior type stores. The day before we had inhaled a chilled blended coffee drink wotsit at Milk and Honey. A world away from the pink shop down on Golders Green High Road this was an all wooden affair complete with a sofa outside on their little slither of Japanese style garden. On the gravel were also a couple of tables, just enough for lone lap top writers to set up virtual shop of an afternoon. That is, until the internet cut out and I noticed them having to engage in conversation like old fashioned coffee houses used to be, only without the cigarette smoke. Next the coffee hang out is the intriguing 118 degrees restaurant. I walk in, to ask to look at the menu and the lady asks me if I have ever been before. When I answer in the negative she proceeds to educate me on their particular culinary art, which, essentially involves, dehydrating the organic locally sourced veggies, at, well, 118 degrees precisely to retain the mineral and nutritional value. After a browse over the menu where words like Kamut, agave and pistachio pesto jumped out at me I convinced the boys to come in. The food arrived, utterly wheat free, dairy free and almost taste free but for the punchy pesto lining the homemade paper thin coconut wrap stuffed with a crate of thinly sliced veggies. Having ordered two appetisers and a main, I did, in truth feel slightly duped by the fact that everything ion the menu could essentially be translated into home made paper thin wrap and veggies. Butternut squash ravioli, was, well, extra thin wrap over a raw butternut squash puree. Similarly the thai rolls we ordered. I sipped coconut water out of a coconut. Boy slurped electrolyte enhanced lemonade with agave nectar. That is until his dad tried it and made such a face of mild repulsion and then he went off it altogether. The ladies at the table next to us remarked at how nice it was to bring children so young to places such as these. They must have assumed we were on a well meaning educational kick. Little did they know it was purely mum's curiosity and desire to sample some genuine Californian crazy diet first hand. In fairness the veggies were uber fresh. All the super slim yogis feasting on leaves around us thought the same. I think a class had just dismissed from the Bikram studio at the other end of the strip. That's the strain where you do a class in, I think 118 degree heat, and come out looking like Madonna after 30 consecutive days of practice. I tried it in New York City one year, but I got really angry with the teacher wearing a microphone who, having found out I was a Limey, told me to stand upright like Big Ben. It was a standing posture admittedly but I could barely breathe at the time.

We left 118 degrees, small one still hungry, and stopped into Milk and Honey for a luscious pomegranate Iced tea and a bagel. Wheat-free schmeat-free. I am on a tea kick, which, for some would seem inevitable in view of my British upbringing, but it urks me that some of the best tea I have tasted has been over here. First off in Hartford at Jo-Jo's coffee house run by the coffee and tea obsessed Vietnamese guy who knew my regular cup of Java favourite after only one visit. Now at a recent discovery called Teavana. Wherein one will find horrendously overpriced but gorgeously laid out tea temptations. My favourite is the tea packers ritual when prospective buyer approaches the counter. It involves passionate and thorough descriptions of the teas and their properties from people who appear to live for the stuff. Your eyes dart across the multi coloured tins behind them, and, like in the olden days, your goods are weighed and served over the counter. If, like me, you a novice to their specialities, kindly ladies will run the gamut of cha to educate you. On our first visit I tell the lady I like the sample I drank at the doorway. She pulls down a purple tin, and, lifting the lid, she proceeds to waft it over the contents so all its fruity white tea goodness swirls about us on the wind. Sam and I breathe it in with a smile. Then she selects companion teas to mix. Wafting is then done with two lids, holding them cymbol-like. I can only wonder what happens when they get a greedy customer who inquires on a mixture of three types. After ooohs and aaaaahs we do buy some of the stuff. Balk at the price and hurry home to start steeping with our bamboo handled strainer, tea ensconced in our japanese paper covered caddy.

Back at The Lab we walk the long way round back to the car taking in the fat white font on the parking spaces that read, "Tofu", "Say Hi To Everybody", "Eat Your Greens", "Laugh Everyday" amongst other nuggets of new age wisdom. We carry onto the chrome Airstream caravan parked round the back laden with delicate succulent arrangements in drift wood, air plants hung about the place, art work and smelly candles. Boy, energy high on bagel strikes up thorough conversation with the shopkeeper on why and how her cash register is, in all intents and purposes a table and not a checkout. Much of our week has involved shop role-play. I think it pleases him to see his makeshift world is as bonefide as he had suspected. Onward we stroll past a sort of camping, world wisdom type of shop with a fat sign illuminting "Ideas Farm" on its upper level. I think I may have found my calling. We just have time to take in the Native Food Cafe, Cory remarking on the smell of barbecue. I glibly suggest they may be cooking the little 'uns who did not make it to the teepee after all. Utterly inappropriate. Made him laugh. Obviously.

Now I sit, with the clutter that is belongings all about me, chomping on a birthday cookie the man has brought home from work on account of it being a lady in the cast's birthday. In truth I am slightly irked by the fact that our birthdays fell outside of the wonderful tradition for buying cakes within the touring group. Once you have received a birthday offering (this case choc chip cookie creation with psychadelic icing) it remains to you to buy the next person's cake and so and so forth. The sugar high should see me through the next hour or so of bag filling. And into my dreams. Which most likely will envolve nightmarish images of the lady of a certain age who was parading around the stage at the mall today dressed as a pirate doing a show, on exacty whta I don't know, with her assistant, most likely in her late seventies, behind her checking her watch in between little yawns. That was before the Billy Elliot type boys came on to dance and the teenage orchestra played like semi-pros.

Or perhpas I will dream on Arizona, tomorrow's destination. My first memory of that place is arriving at our friend's house outisde Phoenix, to spy a terracotta coloured thing on the hallway floor only to find, on closer inspection, that it was a scorpion. Our friend's mum squished it like it was an uninvited ant. Hmmmmm. Irrational (maybe) insect fears to be allayed for now. Cory is home and I am wishing I had finished the packing before he got home. Nothing sets the scene for comedy and bickering than the two of us dancing about each other trying to stuff the many many shirts off our backs into our cases.

He won't miss that other half of cookie cake now will he?

too late....