Often times life is just so routine that writing a journal is like trying to describe honey to a bee. Then there is a whirlwind of action and you feel like you should be writing a movie script rather than a travel blog. So, the last few months haven't seen me duke it out with John McClane or travel to Mordor but me personally, I'd happily pay nearly twenty bucks to eat salty popcorn and watch it all unfold again.
In the last two months (SPOILER ALERT) I broke up with a beautiful woman that will remain a life long friend, quit a job that had one of the most enjoyable roles I have fulfilled, visited friends in Brisbane, partied so recklessly in Broome again that I would say I was just remembering past glory had it not aged me another 10 years, returned to Fremantle, The Purple Coconut and a new job and then moved over to Rottnest Island where I find myself writing this latest epistle.
Each aspect of that previous paragraph could have its own journal entry but for the sake of those not so hungry for the written word, I'll condense the highlights down to one. Breaking up with the gf can in no way be considered a highlight, but its necessity and subsequent experiences have proven it was part of the plot all along. It all came down to me not wanting to infest society with little Harrys. I hadn't given any thought to parenthood beyond knowing my own kids would be far better behaved than all the misbehaving brats I came across in public. Corporal Punishment would be more than my name, but that would probably change whenever the time arose, or the police visited. Had that time arisen 10 years ago, it may have received more favourable consideration. Now though, I know that life is too awesome to change it so drastically for something someone else really wants but I couldn't care too much about either way.
Some may say that such thinking is selfish, but I think it would be terrible to bring children into this world if you're only half hearted about raising them. There is certainly enough people 'earning' their baby bonuses as it is without me needing to drain limited resources even further. That the gf wanted to pump them out like hot scones for a CWA market stall meant that it was only a matter of time before our paths had to diverge.
Hers was along a powdered pathway to South America, even though she has disappointed me by only going 'full Colombian' once in a month. My path took me zig-zagging across the country before landing back in Freo. That party tornado would never have taken off had my awesome job not taken a sharp turn towards a bowl of fruit loops like I had just flown over a cuckoos nest.
As previously stated, my only requirement in this job was to make coffee and look like an extra from a 1920's film set. Every staff member remained as awesome as first impressions suggested...except for the bosses. One shouted at all the girls because bullying was deemed to be her right as the owner. The other remained friendly but just shouted because, well just because.
The younger girls copped everything, including issues that should have been directed at me as supervisor because this spineless boss knew they wouldn't stand up to her. When I did on their behalf, I got criticisms of other workers shouted at me then was given a written warning for making them look hysterical with my comparitively calm composure. I was assured I could regain their respect should I crank up the sycophancy but I don't think my letter of resignation was the sort of grovelling they were expecting.
Armed with a traffic cone, and a fairly loose fitting pair of pants, I partied up Hobart like it was Pompeii circa. 79 A.D. The nuggets were starting to thaw as winter passed and I had fallen in love with Hobart. With a relationship consigned to memory and a job no longer worthy of that though, it was time to have my mobile party do some interventions on friends devoid of hangovers and still getting around in pants as if that is how people still celebrated these days.
First stop: Brisbane. I'm not sure whether it was being outside in less than a snow jacket for the first time in 6 months, or just being in a city bigger than a Medieval village, but my love for Brisbane returned the moment I stepped off the plane. I left my massive overcoat crumpled in the corner of the arrival lounge, some bomb diffusing robot now sporting it as a reward for a false alarm. Two close friends in Matty and Zoe welcomed me back and almost convinced me to travel no further with no entreaties beyond the beauty of their friendship. Nearly five years I lived in Brisbane for, and as much as I would have loved to have stayed, I was sure my heart belonged in the West now.
An 11 hour high altitude extravaganza of cramped seating, dead MP3 batteries and food that no other species would acknowledge as such and I was back in the West. For convenience sake, I could simply copy and paste from any of the ten or so journal entries already written about Broome, and I probably should cause I don't remember a great deal of what happened.
I went to a rodeo as an under cover animal rights agent and happily saw more rodeo clowns in distress than bulls. No human could quite understand what it feels like to have someone ride you with your manly assests strapped and strangled, although I've been to a few parties where peoples nights may have ended in similar circumstances. The next day was Broome Cup and my animal cruelty detective work was given up for just looking as fabulous as possible. 3 hours later and everyones splendour had given way to a degree of drunken debauchery that would make post-pillaging pirates seem saintly by comparison.
The next day a level of cruelty was inflicted that no compassionate person could ever condone. Thankfully it was self inflicted and simply a reward for a height of stupidity beyond reckoning. Why I thought my alabaster Hobart tan wouldn't simply fry within five minutes denotes that nothing was learnt from many similar experiences garnered over many Australian summers. 2 hours I spent spit-roasting myself on Cable Beach and burnt myself down to the bone marrow. The remainder of the week was spent cowering indoors like the love child of Count Dracula and Hellboy. Soon after leaving, I shed a few layers like a snake and even my internal organs peeled.
I hadn't wanted to leave Broome feeling that a place more wilderness and a little less city orientated was what I was craving now. I had lined up a job just around the corner from the Purple Coconut before leaving Hobart so I was honour bound to at least see what that entailed first. I slipped back into Fremantle rather quietly given that my liver cell count was reaching genocide levels after three succesive weeks of partying.
As much as I felt I was home, I still felt out of sorts. The job turned out to be in a workplace so small that only hobbits could function properly there, although the amazing people already employed seemed to be making a pretty good fist of things. After dealing mostly with bewildered tourists thankful Hobart had such facilities as EFTPOS, non-perculated coffee and things vaguely resembling roads, Fremantle's customers seemed overly pretentious by comparison. The cafe sported a drinks list so bafflingly long that most of it would require any equally lengthy glossary anywhere else. But not in Freo, a cosmopolitan hub that challenges Broome for its self righteous entitlements that come with being a 'local'. A place that is single handedly trying to change what macchiato means and that 'hipster' is not a derogatory term.
I loved the place, when I was not serving its inhabitants such things as skinny decaf mochas or long macchiatos that were really double shot lattes. After a week I started to crave the natural beauty of the land that I had reconnected briefly with up in Broome. A five minute search on gumtree and I had found myself a job over on Rottnest Island. A franchise like Dome coffees would not seem like my first choice, but I knew that everything would be orderly and well run to the point of East German efficiency.
Happily, I was off the mark with my assumption as the place is bigger and better equipped than I could have hoped. More like a movie rerun than a sequel, this job mirrored Hobarts with its cool work crew, friendly bosses and predominantly coffee making requirements. The climate is vastly different and the island is as populated as Hobarts main street was outside of business hours. I only hope the bosses don't turn out to be crazier than a clown car full of Randle McMurphy clones.
