Hello ... Again.

     Hello.  Again.  It has been eight years since my last post of ePostcards from OZ.  I started it in January 2009 when I was new to Australia--a perfect time in life to realize cultural differences in real time and write about them.  If experiences become too common, one might not recognize a difference, I thought.  Had everything Australian become too common by 2018?  Actually, three of my most engaged readers had died in fairly short order and I missed their feedback.      I missed them.       Several months ago, we moved from our original location to a new place.  New perspectives.  It's time to get back to business.

    From our tiny townhome to an actual house! [This change is noteworthy on its own and will get its own story.]  In the townhouse, we shared a porch with two other units.  I had started to welcome newcomers to the other units with a smile and a jar of my homemade jam. While entirely an American custom to greet a new neighbor with a gift of cake or other edible treat, it is not really a practice here.  Or, apparently anywhere else.

    After we had been here for a few months, I still hadn't seen or heard from most of our neighbors.  Indeed, I had only  met one lady because I went up to her hoping she had strong fingers or a pair of scissors handy to open a bag I needed in the moving process. Terri is nice enough but it had become obvious if we were to meet the folks living around us, we would have to make the first move.  Or I would. My husband Kevin is Australian and won't approach neighbors he doesn't know.  Hmmmm.

    So I made my resolve,  pulled out a few jars of my homemade Apple Butter (also an American thing) and went to knock on a few doors.  The front door to the neighbor's house on the right is actually behind their fence.  Not exactly welcoming but I reached over the gate, unlatched it and knocked on the door. The man of the house answered and stood at the doorway while I gave my best northern version of Dolly Parton folksiness I could manage. He gave his name and his wife's.  He made no mention of his two (?) kids.   I commented on the double-story  playhouse in the backyard (super cool--will write a story on these also) and he said that his son only plays on it when friends are over.  I mentioned our names (for the third time) and he ended the brief exchange with "We'll let you know how it is." referring to the jar of apple butter.     The door closed.      The neighbor on the left was a bit more forthcoming (I know the name of his two kids and their favorite toy store) but we don't chat over the fence either.  Yeeeessh.

    As it happens, around the corner on the next block lives a friend and former colleague, Linda, an expat from the UK.  I mentioned to her about the above exchanges.  She was surprised that I was surprised.  "This just doesn't happen here. In fact, if you approached new neighbors in England like this they would give you very strange looks."  

    Oh well.  Welcome to the neighborhood.  And welcome back to ePostcards from OZ.   I will be chatting over our electronic fence as often as I can with new observations and stories.