I’m officially a farm girl. Well, maybe not quite. Do others believe I am? It is quite apparent they do not because today, two days after arrival, seeing that I have no jet lag they put this city girl in a car to visit the coast. We are on our way to Forster (pronounced foster in Aussie-speak), a coastal town in the Mid North Coast region of New South Wales, on country of the Worimi People, Australia.
But first, we shall stop in Gloucester (pronounced gloster in Aussie-speak) which is the town closest to the farm to do some op shopping (op shop = thrift store). I once had a collectible booth in an antique mall and got great satisfaction from treasure hunting for things at estate sales and thrift shops. Some items I repurposed and refurbished, some remained as is; all gave me joy. So I’m excited. This nation country opens itself to discovery.
The first op shop we hit is Reviva which is also a recycling center. It’s airy and clean and it immediately becomes a favorite of mine when it presents me with things that remind me of my mom. I find and buy a French press that is dusty but new and jump up and down (in my head) for good coffee is something I don’t want to go without. I also love their tagline “we turn second-hand into second chances”. I think I may apply this to people.
The French press. Many a good cup of coffee in my future to start my mornings right.
My mom always had a little container, exactly like this one, handy (hers was red) for her lipstick, which was the only make-up my dad ever allowed her to wear.
Next we go into Lifeline. Already I like them due to the name and when I find out that they help to financially support local centers, counseling services, telephone crisis support training and suicide prevention programs, I add them to my “immediately like” and will support list.
On to Forster after our thrift shop morning. There are “rock pools” all over the coast. Some are natural pools of seawater that form on the rocky intertidal shore and others, often referred as ocean baths, are man-made seawater pools. The one pictured is being repaired. It’s drizzling so I wouldn’t go in even if it wasn’t fenced.
As we go further on we stop at the at a lookout in Pebbly Beach and are greeted by what I am sure is a turkey. It comes as a reminder that Thanksgiving in the U.S. is soon and that this one is probably counting its blessing that he/she does not reside there, where probably it would not see another day. But no, though it resembles one, this one is not even closely related to the American turkey. Its an Australian brushturkey or gweela, a species native to Australia. It’s a clumsy flyer that flies only when threatened or when it roosts in trees at night.
Before I realize that this is actually a tomb (or not?) I read something that could easily apply to my home town: “Have you ever seen the untamed beauty each time a wave breaks in the ocean. Have you ever felt the coolness of the water as the sun breaks crystallizing the entire ocean. The lip crashes on your shoulder forcing you deeper into the hollow tube. The beauty of life is the personal sensation. This area here is one of nature’s great beauties”. Good for you Robyn Anne Hughes who, born on a familiar year, died at the young age of 24 for eliciting this dedication: “It’s not the quantity of life but the quality. This lady had quality. A beauty as natural as this area, her resting place.”
Don’t quite know what these locks are for or symbolize since there is no engraving on them.
I’m still awake and definitely enjoying the view.
To bid us goodbye, magpies come around. They make me smile. I once was called that. The Australian Magpie is well known for its beautiful vocalizations, and its species name derives from the Latin for “flute player”. My voice is loud but not beautiful. I wonder why I was nicknamed that.
It’s a mystery to me where I will be next. Chilling at the farm or discovering new land?
Come along; let’s find out together!
what I consider the original energy drink. And the journey back in time starts. At the first sweet sip I remember how my mom allowed me to have a soda only once a week before the Saturday feeding feast. No sodas at any other time. The waitress talks to me in Portuguese which I am fluent in, and it further transports me back to the days that I could count my age on the fingers of my hand. 
and the farofa (made of toasted cassava/yuca flour). 
And what may seem odd to many, a slice of orange that is meant to be eaten to aid in the digestion of this very heavy meal. 
I stare at my plate and put a little bit of it all in my mouth. 
The finale comes in an artful shape and incredible taste. 
with chanting going on and a place for me to sit. 
I believe our docent said the congregation is of only 14 Orthodox Jewish families. 
which I am quite impressed with. I opt for a ceviche at a Peruvian stall, Don Ceviche, which was quite authentic and delish. 
to subdue in part the spiciness of the fish and continue a super interesting conversation on future plans and on 
an animal my mother was deathly afraid of. I inherited her aversion if not her fear. And it reminds me of a friend that loves her White Russians (the drink, not the guys) 
and of another who has a son bartending at La Pecora Bianca 
and of my Los Angeles which, as New York has, remains in my heart, as I pass The Ace Hotel which I didn’t know was in Manhattan as well as in LA 
and of a time when The Village Voice was a newspaper I read weekly in Washington Square Park as I walked my dog 
and again of Los Angeles with the Standard Hotel. 
and the writer in me spins tales of a lost civilization being desecrated, the only vestige of their existence this stone wall that did not properly protect its people. A few more steps and my mood is echoed by trees that seem to cry with me expressing their sadness of these people’s demise through a strange vine, weeping willow style, that hangs from its branches. 
, and another 
indicates that I would not die from starvation. Or would I die from popping any of these in my mouth? 
that reminds me of a group of “rock painters” that a dear friend, Grace Kono-Wells created – 
their rocks meant to be put along various paths to brighten someone’s day. Her beautiful “Breathe” rock probably has reminded me more than once to take a breath. The painted one on my path, “mask up”, gives us a much needed reminder of the life we lead now. The sign on its side 
(Nottely Hidden Cove) is displaced, for it seems to belong to a farm in Georgia that oddly advertises as “a great place to social distance” so I figure it is somehow appropriate that it be paired with the “mask up” rock. 
Others that give out a set of rules so long that my enjoyment would be marred should I stop to read it all. 
Please don’t ask me why I denominated her a female for I’d be at a loss to answer. And another that was named Jazmin. She had yellowish markings on her shell. She was quite pretty.
and those that resemble slender bells, 
and there are the leaves that seem to try to outdo the flowers in shades of green and red. 
await in the rest of the house for some love, food, and water… in reverse order. So all in all I find a sense of purpose in my isolation. 
Lidia The Explorer 