Sometime just before seven I lay there wondering, 'can I make myself comfortable in this strange land?' I awake to birds – Silver Crested Doohickies and Major Somebody Parrots – screaming in the front, back, on top of, and hopefully not below the house. Butcherbird tries out his brilliant cry, but is drowned out by the cacophony of larger noisier denizens of the Fig Universe.
Who is she, this woman who walked off the 747 into the Sydney Airport Terminal with her carry on luggage and her huge purse full of all that will keep her for the next three months in a new world? Even now, seven days later, as she muses in the now quiet Queenslander, she cannot answer that question.
Sitting here on the back veranda listening to the tinkling bells of the frog wind chime purchased from a small Japanese tea shop in the northern hemisphere, she wonders how the young girl in the old woman's body, will survive? She wiggles her psychic toes. Do they fit into these Australian R.M. Williams? How many kilometres must she walk before the leather fits her soul?