The real trick is getting to the house. We’ll deplane; then we need to take a train several hours out to Glenbrook, a western suburb hugging the foothills of the Blue Mountains, and then walk ten blocks uphill to our house with heavy packs on our backs. We’ve held this news as secret from the kids because I know they will be less than thrilled.
I mentally rehearse my news bomb and warm up my cheerful mom voice, and then I spot a stranger holding a sheet of paper among the welcome crowd, Oxenreider scribbled in black marker. I glance over at Kyle, and his look of confusion verifies he’s seen it too. We have no plans for pickup.
“Um . . . hi,” I say reluctantly to this unknown woman. “We’re the Oxenreiders?”
“Hello! I’m Beryl, Brooke’s mum,” the woman replies eagerly, shaking my hand. “But everyone calls me Bez.”
Brooke is my friend and writing colleague on holiday in Canada, who has given us detailed instructions how to get to her place. We’ll find her parents on the front porch when we arrive, Brooke said, where they would give us the house and car keys.
“Oh, well. Hello! Brooke told me we’d meet you at her house,” I say sheepishly. I wonder if I’ve missed something in my sleep deprivation, lost in translation in the shuffle of travel plans. Perhaps we were going to meet her mom at the airport after all?
“Yeah, that’s right. But we thought we’d surprise you anyway with an airport pickup. You’re probably knackered,” she remarks. I am frozen and say nothing, eyes wide. An airport pickup?
“That’s awfully kind of you,” I say, “but you really didn’t have to.” My brain is still fully operating in game-face mode, seconds away from telling the kids we need to board a train and walk for miles, pushing through exhaustion. I’m aware I’m still staring, mouth agape.
“Well, we thought about you guys and your kids, and thought you might like a little old-fashioned mum and dad pickup,” Bez says. “We know what it’s like for our kids to travel with their kids, and we hated the thought of you fighting through Sydney.”
“Thank you, but . . . it’s not cheap to come all the way out here. We know what gas is like in Australia,” I say. (As though she doesn’t know this.) “We can’t ask you to do this. Please let us pay you.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “Pete is already waiting at the cars in the garage.”
Bez picks up one of our packs and walks. We follow her, deliriously murmuring thank you until we arrive at the cars.
“Hello! Welcome to Sydney!” Pete exclaims cheerily. He pulls the packs off our backs, tosses them into his trunk. “Climb in, climb in!”
They’ve brought not one, but two vehicles to cart us to the westernmost outskirts of Sydney, more than fifty miles and an hour’s drive away. Our eyes are saucers. Kyle climbs into Pete’s car with Reed and Tate, and I clamber into Bez’s, where Finn has a booster seat waiting in the back seat. They won’t let us open our wallets for the parking garage. We pull out on the highway, heading west.
“This is truly above and beyond,” I slur, fighting travel fatigue sincere with indebtedness. “We haven’t yet had an airport pickup on our trip. It feels . . . nice.” I blush at my tinny, juvenile response and gaze out the passenger window. Finn has slumped over asleep.
“We’re truly happy to do this,” Bez says. “Not sure if Brooke’s told you, but our family are big fans of something we call the Westbrook Effect.” Brooke has mentioned this, but I can’t recall its meaning. She explained it to me months ago as the reason she wouldn’t let us pay for our extended stay in her house.
“Years ago, Pete worked for a man named Westbrook. He was from San Diego, and we got to visit him a few times. Every time we did—and it turns out he did this for everyone who came to visit—he’d pull out all the stops. He gave us the master bedroom, the full use of his car, paid for all our meals. He’d clear his schedule to take us all over the city. Westbrook insisted we pay for nothing during our stay, since it was his town and we were his guests. He went above and beyond, making sure we had the absolute best time in San Diego. We loved it so much, his take on hospitality and giving over and above, that we vowed to always do the same as a family. Now, anytime someone comes to Sydney, we pull out all the stops and do what we can to make ’em feel at home. No paying, no feeling weird about asking for something, no tiptoeing around or shushing kids. This is what we always did when our kids were still at home, and now that they’re out of the house with their own families, they’ve kept it up and are still doing it. Westbrook Effect.”
We pull into Brooke’s driveway behind her car, clean and waiting for our use. Pete and Bez climb out of their cars, open the front door, carry in our packs, give us a quick tour. Pete hands over the keys, insists we make ourselves at home and to not hesitate to call if we need anything; they are just a few minutes away.
Twenty minutes later, after they’ve left and the kids are entranced with the backyard trampoline, there’s a knock at the door. Kyle answers, and in saunters Pete, with two coffees and a paper bag.
“We thought you guys might be a bit hungry and in need of some real coffee,” he says. “So this is from the bakery a few blocks away. Hope your kids like grilled cheese.” He sets the bag on the counter, gives a quick good-bye, and shows himself back out the door.
I glance at Kyle. “Oh. We’re so doing the Westbrook Effect, forever and ever.”
Three and a half months of nonstop backpacking, and we are giddy at the thought of unpacking. We can buy real groceries without worry whether they’ll stay fresh in a backpack for more than a few hours; we can lounge in a real living room to watch Netflix. The exotic and mundane have switched places.
It is December 23 the morning we arrive in Sydney, and we want to finally celebrate Christmas. There is little point in setting up a tree or stockings, but we want to schedule a few cookie-baking sessions, watch A Christmas Story with popcorn and cocoa. After a night of sound sleep, we drive to the suburb’s center to buy a few gifts at the mall.