Are we there yet?

An old biblical saying goes 'He who bores of paradise, is indeed an idiot, or loves apples!' Old is a relative term seeing as I made up that saying, just like someone else probably made up the Bible, but it is most appropriate to my decision to leave Broome. Admittedly, it has nothing to do with apples, but I don't think it would be that much hotter than Broome if you lived about 8 light minutes closer to the sun. The relentless heat has been evaporating the rains before they even get close to making a wet and probably worse climate. Such conditions present a perfect opportunity for 24 hour nudity in my mind, but no one here seems to share my liberal sensibilities. Or my appreciation of wrinkles, grey hair and liver spots.

Thanks to Rachel dumping me, and the wet season refusing to dump on me, it's time I turned and ran like the heroes of old. I love Broome and can envisage it becoming a regular place to return to. As everything now reminds me of what was, not what is, I realise it is time to head to a more accommodating environment. One that doesn't have flies and midgies hassling you like re-incarnated telemarketers. And like the true sadist I am, my next destination will be the place I hated most this year; Tas-Money-A, the Apple Isle. In all fairness, Tasmania needs a better chance than what I gave it, so I am going with an open mind and a closed wallet to fill in time until Broome again offers all the things that I fell in love with the first time.

Thankfully I wasn't the last to leave, as I often am, and due to a miscommunication over the end of our lease, I shot through before the odious task of spring cleaning the house was undertaken. My obsessive-compulsive cleaning often clashed with the squatters in our house, so I felt I had done enough in the scrubbing stakes to permit an early exit. I would have been squatting myself had the lease ended 5 days before my departure as was expected. I left a load of possessions with a man accurately compared to a cross between Futurama's Dr. Zoidberg and Gene Wilder. I dubbed him the 'human highlight reel' for his frenetic brain functions frequently having hilarious consequences. All laughs were of the 'you had to be there' variety and sharing them now would garner no laughter and further illustrate my rather self-satisfying writing imperative.

My usefulness at Matsos had expired after turning down the role of breakfast chef. A paying customer deserved better meals than they could get at a homeless shelter, and with zero experience cooking any sort of egg that wasn't made of chocolate, I knew my burnt or under-cooked offerings would not advance the restaurants reputation any. I continued my food prep role until the end, blissfully uncaring that I was being overpaid to do the work of an untrained monkey. Enough untrained monkeys had taken over the role of dish washers and I would love to relate some of their exasperatingly stupid antics, but legal proceedings could, and by all rights should, follow such a retelling. Suffice to say, I left feeling like an intellectual colossus without having done anything other than work with a moderate degree of common sense.

With nearly everyone staying behind or planning to cross my path on the East coast, the last few days were relatively quiet. Try as I might to muster some enthusiasm for the occasion, there just didn't seem like much of a reason to celebrate. I splashed out on a Cuban cigar thinking that acting like a millionaire might inspire me to party like one. Then I really let the good times roll by breaking the cigar in two before I had even gotten home. I brought more pre-mixed whiskeys, wondering as I had done for months, why I was still paying the alco-pop tax that had been made redundant back in May. A letter to the local MP has been added to my list of things to do, just below finding out who the local MP is, and what they actually do.

As I continued to burn through my money like fossil fuel, I probably should have given more thought to where the next cash injection was going to come from. Or at least started packing. The last day in Broome was a rush to do just that, and share a few beers with friends trying once again to appease their fears over my 'no-plan' plan. With very few people in Broome actually originating from there, most could appreciate the travelers ethos anyway.

With the sun setting across the waters from the beautiful Cable beach, my plane took off from the runway that is pretty much main street and carried me away from one of the best places I have ever been to in my life. I wasn't at all sad because I knew the place would be a lot shinier on my return thanks to a monsoonal polishing in my absence.