When Quinn gave me The Years of Rice and Salt I was pretty skeptical. The conceit is an interesting one – Christendom entirely wiped out by the Black Death, rather than just mostly – but I couldn’t see how it could be made into a tractable story, especially as the book spans about a thousand years. Robinson’s ingenious hack around the technical problem is also an incredibly moving narrative feat.

He takes the idea of the jati from, I suppose, Buddhist mythology? I’m offline right now and can’t check (online now, wrong, Hindu) – but in the book a jati is a group of souls, a village, that accompany one another through multiple incarnations. So we have the same characters with different names but the same initials – B., I. and K. – reappearing in life after life together, as a tiger, a princess, a scientist, a sailor, a soldier, a reforming king, in China, in Spain, in North America, Yemen, Tibet.

The structure encompasses the novel’s millennium effortlessly, and it’s also a haunting and endlessly abundant metaphor for any group of travelling companions: your community, your kith and kin, the village it takes to raise your child. It packs the same emotional punch as the Dire Straits song Brothers in Arms (yeah, I like pompous eighties Britrock, so sue me), and it ties into Ethan Zuckerman’s provocative project – to engage our imaginative sympathy on behalf of people we don’t personally know. What the human race seems to need is a way to expand its loyalties, its tribe, to include everyone. Even Ronald Reagan recognized this, with his lunatic desire for alien invasion. I say, we need to embrace intelligent aliens as part of our jati as well. Me, I need to work on including the insane Republicans.

On a cheerier note, Morrissey sings that we hate it when our friends become successful, and Clive James’ best poem is “The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered”, but I was actually delighted that Kate and Neal wrote wonderful books because how awkward would it be if I couldn’t think of anything nice to say about them?

Adult Themes is particularly interesting to me because it takes Australian society as a perfectly valid subject of study, noting cultural imports from North America and Europe without being engineered for resale to those markets. For all I know this has become the default mode of cultural studies in Australia, but it was new to me. After all, I cut my non-fictional teeth as Keith Windschuttle’s research assistant (not my proudest moment, though he wasn’t such an overtly racist whore back then) and now that he’s wrung every penny he can out of Aboriginal-holocaust-denying, he’s thinking of writing something about US history so he can sell more books. To which what can one say but: ugh.

None of which has anything to do with Kate except that she takes the set of prejudices and preoccupations I associate with people of Keith’s generation: real estate, marriage, children and so on; and deconstructs them as inadequate and meretricious cultural markers for adulthood. She is especially wry on the punitive economic structure of Australian society. It has become very, very difficult for young people to buy property, but in a home-ownership-obsessed society renters are considered sort of frivolous. Psych! Kate argues for replacing these shallow rites of passage – the excruciating wedding, the adjustable-rate mortgage – with a far more nuanced appreciation of modern adult lives, where for example your jati might take the place of a nuclear family.

It’s a terrific book, and it made me think pretty hard about how deeply I absorbed old-fashioned Australian prejudices without even realizing that I had done so. I loathed Sydney’s consensus reality while I lived there, but as soon as I got to San Francisco I got married, bought a house and squeezed out a couple of kids. I defined myself as a common-sensical Australian woman in contrast to the crazy Americans and their appalling taste in coffee. I made my career translating pretentious Latinate marketese into laconic Anglo-Saxon. I threw Christmas parties in summer. I sought pavlova. Mine is an expatriate patriotism, forged in exile, just as my mother’s most fervent Englishness dates from the day she stepped on the Fairsky in 1968.

Izzy and Eve is Neal’s best book, better even than his fantastic Glove Puppet, and oddly enough it deals intensely with changing structures for adulthood in Australia. Seems like the reinvented coming-of-age story has become a minor national preoccupation, for obvious reasons. There are chunks of Izzy and Eve that could have been lifted from the pages of Adult Themes and vice versa. But Neal’s take is a lyrical, melancholy, erotic urban fairy tale. Like improv jazz the book riffs around its themes, and like improv jazz a tight, complex structure underpins the appearance of effortlessness. It’s absolutely fucking brilliant.

Of course Neal had no end of trouble getting it published, and ended up going with a San Francisco house whose distributor promptly went belly-up. He’s discouraged and despite my pleas, says he doesn’t want to write any more science fiction. So I pointed him at John M. Ford and Emma Bull and the Nielsen Haydens, and now I’m going to send him Cory Doctorow’s Someone Comes To Town, Someone Leaves Town, which is lovely, lovely, lovely. And Leonard, you need to finish my space opera so I can send that to Neal as well.

Claire learns how to get along

Originally uploaded by jon_gilbert.

The book was all I had in my bag to keep her amused before brunch.

Ay yi yi, my apologies, we are sleep-training Julia and in return, she is wake-training us. I am as sleep-deprived as a …thing, that …hasn’t slept much lately. The weekend has been the caricature of a fun weekend in San Francisco; yesterday brunch at Liberty Bakery with New Zealand Paul, a trip to the library, finally meeting Jeremy and Fiona at Nervous Dog, then high tea at Artur’s loft for Danny and Rose and then a proper dot-com party where dear Barney offered Jeremy a job (a job that Jeremy would love, but that the visa situation probably makes unfeasible. Bah.)

Today brunch at Nena’s with Ada’s daddies and their girlfriends and girlfriends’ boyfriends and all the kids, plus Daisy Dog; then we ran into lovely Jane Austin my prenatal yoga instructor on our way to meet Jamey and Rowan in the playground; then we ran into Aaron Ximm up on the hill and he told us of Great Horned Owls nesting on the Esmeralda stairs (me, I would have settled for Pretty Good Horned Owls), and there were red-tailed hawks and water springing from a red cliff face and Daisy Dog was a running fool! Home to make cottage pie for neighbours Colin and Naomi. Delicious food smells, I love you.

Notice of intention to write book reviews for The Years of Rice and Salt, Adult Themes, Izzy and Eve and Someone Comes to Town Someone Leaves Town. And, happy birthday Yoz and Big!

“Obama is the new black.”

Nine-thirty last night, nine-twenty tonight. I realize this is terrible by proper parenting standards, but it’s a lot better than we had been doing.

I also realize this blog has become excessively bedtime-centric, so I’ll close with a classic Dannyism on the nuclear missiles:

“World wars are like buses. You wait fifty years for one, then three come along at once.”

Both girls are asleep by nine. We may survive this phase after all. Maybe.

It’s not even ten and both girls are asleep. I’m having a stiff drink and going to bed with a book.

Bedtime, laughingly so-called, has been hell on earth lately. Claire gets up and comes to find us, Jeremy puts her back in bed, together they wake the baby. Rinse, repeat.

Just now Claire emerged from her room with important news.

C: I want a new house.

R: But I love this house!

C: We need to pack up all these things and take them to a new house …in Africa.

Pause.

R and J, unison: What?

C (patiently): We need a house in Africa!

Another dry recounting of what passed. In Australia, dim sum is called yum cha. We lost Claire in Glebe; a wonderful woman found her and took her to the police station. I don’t want to talk about it. Picnic in Wahroonga. Jeremy to Tash: “I hear you’re full of people!” Mecca again. Met Tabitha, swam with Adrian and Korben. Swimming lessons have paid off – Claire took the purple noodle and jumped into the deep end! Drinkies with Neal and Tim, which was too short. Dinner with Pesce at Longgrain.

Sunday morning, Claire was assimilated into the Borg Collective that is Mike Lynch’s girls. It was ridiculously successful. We collected pine cones and took them to a pine cone show. Grace judged. She gave special mentions to Sasha and Clio but awarded first prize to Claire. That girl has a future in diplomacy. Roast lunch at Great Auntie Jan’s house, then a train ride home. Chatswood unrecognizeable. Question: is the giant soulsucker still lurking beneath?

Monday met Moira in Camperdown Park while Jeremy talked to accountant. Monday afternoon, made our wills: a strange and darkly funny pastime. Attorney Philip Crow tittered nervously every time we threatened to disinherit one another. Monday evening, Turkish pizza and a not-bad idea for a business. Tuesday progressive breakfast at Single Origin, then an amazing trip to Blakehurst to see the house Richard is building for cousin Rachel Fitzhardinge. Home to pick up the kids and whiz them down to Neilsen Park. Holding Claire’s hand and running full-pelt into the warm ocean. Diving under a wave, coming up spluttering and saying to Jeremy: “We are so moving back here.” J, serenely: “Of course.”

Wednesday morning Petit Creme. Wednesday afternoon girls behaved perfectly on flight home. Wednesday morning, again, airline lost yellow stroller that has been around world with us lo these many times. I was disproportionately upset. Patchy sleep and screaming children through second Wednesday and Thursday to Friday morning. Airline found stroller in New Zealand. J: “I hope it enjoyed its trip!” I have new glasses to replace the ones that broke, and Big is going to drop by the car rental place to see if he can find the CDs I left in the car.

A lossy trip, but good.

I resort to a terse and unsatisfying summary of the notable events. Julia, completely recovered, is having to be re-weaned, and this has sparked impressive temper tantrums. Claire rode Bellboy and trotted. Last night she woke up crying.

R: What’s wrong my honey?

C: I want to live with Thussy on the farm.

Sarcastor’s apartment is completely amazing! The balcony looks out on the Bat Superhighway, the Harbour Bridge and the end of the Mardi Gras parade. We went out for tapas. Bats flew from fig to fig.

C: What do bats eat?

R: The blood of the innocent.

Rach Honnery: Don’t listen to your mother! They’re fruit bats. They eat fruit.

R: Innocent fruit.

This morning I slept horrifically late. We had twenty minutes to get to Summer Hill, which used to take almost an hour, but which now, thanks to the reviled Cross-City Tunnel, takes… twenty minutes. Sydneysiders have been wondering what the expensive and under-utilized tunnel was even built for. Now we know. It’s for Claire to have playdates with Patrick.

Julia greatly improved: thanks to everyone who pinged. J and I snuck out yesterday for treats: Pan’s Labyrinth and new books by old friends Kate Crawford and Neal Drinnan!

Julia’s turn for the tummy bug. High fever made me take her to the GP. The GP was worried about her rash, and mentioned meningococcus. She told me to take her to hospital if she got any worse – vomiting, for example.

At the chemist, filling the prescription, she threw up all over me. I put her back in the car and drove straight to Emergency.

Nothing reorganizes your priorities like pure terror.

The staff at Sydney Childrens’ could not have been any kinder or more helpful. Julia enjoyed being examined, biting on the tongue depressers until I held her nose and made her open her mouth. The verdict is: weird viral thingy with vomiting, fever and rash. Almost certainly not meningococcus because the rash blanches when you rub it, and the Tylenol brings her fever down.

I was relieved to bring her home, but too frazzled to mount an organized campaign to get everyone to sleep. Bedtime last night dragged on till 1am, and there were tantrums and screaming and the kids didn’t behave well either. But this morning Jeremy tiptoed out to the American consulate, organized his visa and came back to wake me with a glass of orange juice. It was the first decent sleep I’d had since Friday. I feel almost human again.

Julia is still snoring, sprawled on the bed, pale and cool.

Symptoms include vomiting, diarrhea, headache, insomnia, emotional volatility, sense of impending doom and utter despair.

I dreamed I was walking back to the house on Eugenia Avenue, which faced a seawalled cove rather like La Paz or Howth. But the house wasn’t where it should have been. I stared from landmark to landmark in confusion before I realized that the village had been destroyed by a storm and saw my own books half-buried in the debris…

…and woke in an unfamiliar bed, thinking What time is it? And what country is this?

There was a TV show here I never saw, called Sea Change, about moving from the city to a remote beach. The title has entered the vernacular, so that the Herald’s real estate pages this week were all about “sea-changing.”

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.

It’s very appropriate that Australians should… um… appropriate… Shakespeare’s description of a father’s corpse for real-estate marketing jargon. In other great Sydney property news, a prophecy of mine has been fulfilled, and developers are trying to flog luxury condos at Little Bay, right next to Long Bay Gaol.

The girls were champions on the fifteen hour flight over, although I noticed as the sun rose over the Pacific that Julia had cut a new tooth. She screamed her head off in customs and immigration until a kind official lady took pity on us and sent us through a back door, skipping at least forty minutes of queuing. Thank you for ever, kind official lady.

Sydney is as beautiful and imponderable as ever. I woke before dawn and listened to cicadas, currawongs, crows, kookaburras and rosellas singing in the trees outside. What would my life have been like if I had never left? What would it be like if we came back? LP Hartley said “The past is a foreign country;” for expats this is the literal truth, and the longer you stay away, the more foreign your homeland becomes.

Last night was, unexpectedly, a delight. My mother and father came to dinner, so the girls feasted with both parents and all four grandparents. I quaffed champagne and was reminded, again, that it is a grave mistake to underestimate my mother. I confessed that I’d only just learned that Dad’s old rocking chair was a classic of mid-century design and that all their teak furniture, which I despised because it wasn’t ornate Victorian, was chosen with excellent taste.

Mum said: “What I really wanted was one of those fantastic project homes – you know the ones -”

Richard: “Pettit and Sevitt.”

“Exactly,” said Mum. “I loved those.”

“Well of course,” said Richard, “they were absolutely wonderful houses.”

For USonians, the parallel is with the gorgeous Eichlers. Let the record show that my mother has always been awesome, and that in the years when I thought otherwise I was an idiot.

I’m blogging from the airport, on his laptop, with its cell modem and wireless mouse. Yeesh. My husband lives in the future.

Sydneysiders might wanna bookmark Linux.conf.au Open Day. USonians, don’t call me on my cell, because I left it on the hall table. I will be checking mail.

C: Daddy daddy daddy! Bebe nearly bit me.

J: Really? Why is that?

C: Because I was chasing her.

J: So what do you think we should do?

C: …get a new cat?

Claire seems to be phasing out her long afternoon nap, which is more than somewhat alarming, as the long afternoon nap is what’s kept us sane lo these many years. On the other hand, it’s ten to nine and both girls are in bed. A reliable earlier bedtime would be a heckuva tradeoff, in the non-ironic, pre-Katrina sense of heckuva.

I had a run of good books in La Paz. Sky Coyote instantly became my favourite Kage Baker, because while I find her time-travel series engrossing, her usual protagonist annoys me. Mendoza, alas, is a Mary Sue. Everyone loves her, for no discernable reason. However idiotically she behaves, she always turns out to be right. She’s just like Harry Potter. I want to slap them both.

Sky Coyote is narrated by the series equivalent of Hermoine Grainger, and since I’m a sardonic supporting character myself, I find Joseph’s point of view much more to my taste. The book also has a wonderful double structure. Joseph is infiltrating a Chumash village in the Ventana wilderness with the goal of rescuing its material culture and inhabitants from the arrival of the Europeans. At the same time, the immortal operatives of the Dr Zeus company are studying the motives of their mortal masters from the future. Time travel, of course, is just another species of colonialism, just as any sufficiently advanced magic is indistinguishable from technology. This was a good book to read on my first trip to Mexico.

So was Transmission, which is also deeply concerned with the interplay of economics and human migration, and very funny. To my delight and Jeremy’s it is set in what is recognizeably our California and tech industry; author Hari Kunzru did his homework, nails the Valley and thanks Danny in the acknowledgements. One sardonic supporting character shares many of her good qualities with Quinn. Next came Black Swan Green, a genuinely beautiful literary retelling of The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole.

Right now I’m reading two books at once: Salome’s first edition of The Lathe of Heaven, with its accurately globally-warmed Mt Hood, and Quinn’s copy of The Years of Rice and Salt. It took me a while to get stuck into the latter but now I’m hooked on its clear-eyed unsentimentality, its inexorable tides of good fortune and tragedy. It’s not exactly escapist but it does help dispel some of my anxiety. The rest of it will not be dispelled. Bush is another Mary Sue. The USA has already lost the war in Iraq and this troop surge will only make matters worse.

Playa el Comitan

Originally uploaded by yatima.

The camera-that-got-lost-on-the-train is lovely. San Francisco is freezing cold. Claire and I want to go back to La Paz. “I like bumpy roads,” she says.