Berlin

Slightly edited version of internal ramblings jotted down while sitting with a beer at the Weihenstephaner Restaurant, Hackescher Markt, immediately after a five-hour walking tour of Berlin on Tuesday 9 October 2012.

Berlin is exploding my mind.

Ich bin ein Berliner!

I arrived Sunday evening, am staying on the north-east fringe of town - and a large town it is - and didn't really feel it yesterday. All I did yesterday though, was visit the nice but relatively pitiful Oktoberfest set up in Alexanderplatz (comparison aside, it's actually kinda cool) and went up the TV Tower where I finally started to get my bearings. You can study maps all you like but it's not until you've been in and around the city for at least a day or two that it starts to make sense. And perhaps even then, without contextual knowledge of history and culture, this place wouldn't be so flash. Yesterday I walked right past Lustgarten, barely giving it a glance.

Today I did a walking tour. It was five hours of cultural and historical sights and information. A barrage of thought-provoking information bites, one after another for five hours. It was full on. Possibly the best paid tourist experience I've had. Today, back at Lustgarten with a little knowledge, the same space affected me deeply.

Yesterday I wondered whether Berlin would meet my expectations. Today I declare it my favourite of all the cities I've visited! One I could really see myself spending an extended period of time in. I love Germany overall, but this city has so much to offer.

New York makes you feel like you are at the centre of the world, Berlin feels like the centre of modern human history. New York's appeal is largely built on ego. Berlin's is based on culture, counter-culture, history, revolution, misery, and tough lessons that they've taken head on. My country could learn a lot about dealing with shameful history from Berlin and Germany generally.

There is such contrast and diversity in the history and place of this city. So much to think about.

How would modern Australia treat 'wall jumping' asylum seekers?

One place, one city that has been a leader in tolerance, was home to the greatest intolerance and human rights abuses of living memory, was bombed to pieces, ripped in half as part of a conflict not it's own, and came out the other side - finally - as one of the most vibrant, accepting and open cities on the planet.

The Mayor is openly homosexual - surely one of very few in the world - in a city where homosexuals were executed 70 years ago. My tour guide was an Israeli artist who moved to Berlin because it allowed her greater freedom of expression than her homeland. The same Berlin that was the capital of a country that executed six million Jews is now more accepting of some of them than Israel. Shocking, amazing, disappointing, fantastic.

Were the decades of pain and suffering necessary to make the city what it is? No doubt tourism thrives on atrocious historical events, but not culture, right? Why have the people of Berlin progressed so rapidly on respect for others while we in the lucky country languish in the struggle to shift - to open - supressed conservative minds. Perhaps drastic events are necessary for rapid change - sometimes for the worse, as post-World War I Berlin showed - but surely we can progress without suffering. Why does it often take a wall to drive people to seek to move beyond the ground its on.

This man. Is my hero

Berlin is what it is - something great - because of its past. Who's to say what it might otherwise have been? Or more the point, it is the city it is because of how the people of Berlin responded to their circumstances: accepting the past, learning from it and moving forward.

At one point on the walking tour we stopped by a memorial for a man who tried to assassinate Hitler in 1939. The guide wondered aloud, "if he has assassinated Hitler, maybe we would have avoided these atrocities."

It was a pertinent, thought-provoking and troubling. An ordinary man, an attempted murderer, presented as a hero. Yes, I felt a ping of admiration for him. He could have saved millions of lives and spared decades of misery for Germans, particularly of the east. Or maybe it would have made little difference. The Nazis were more than Hitler. Maybe things would have escalated. Maybe all hell would have broken lose. Assassinations tend to start more wars than they end. Who knows?

I'm opposed to the death penalty and certainly people taking justice into their own hands, so it was difficult to reconcile my feelings. If he'd been successful, maybe we'd view him differently - after all, Hitler would have died with far less blood on his hands and no one would ever have known the lengths to which he was prepared to go for his vision and to win the war.

As I said, I felt some admiration towards and sympathy for this man - admittedly given the full and subsequent context of Hitler's life - and disappointment that he had failed like so many others did, before I realised I was perhaps being hypocritical and now I'm not really sure.

Truth is it's complex. I dare say he was a decent man with well-intentioned - even admirable and courageous - motives who tried to do something that was morally questionable. I think questioning the morality of such action is the only way to promote and maintain a civil society. Can you bring back civility with uncivil action? Or is it better to die standing by your values no matter what? It's easy to stand by your morals when you're not the one doing the dying I guess.

That was just one of many complex questions Berlin has thrown at me today

No city has ever made me think so much about the complexities in humanity. Complexities too often glossed over or shoved into a convenient pigeon-hole.

Here the contrasts and complexities are - more than anywhere I've ever been - set free and promoted. By government, but mostly, and somewhat passively, through art.

I get it now. I understand why so many artists come here.

This city makes you think, question, explore - if you're willing to take the journey.

JFK was right, we're all Berliners (not doughnuts), it's the world's city of human struggle. This place has seen it all and has something to teach every person on the planet.

Anxious and travel

We're all prone to lying to ourselves sometimes to avoid uncomfortable or unpopular truths.

I reckon there is a massive myth around the way we travel. Few people ever admit to not enjoying a holiday - it’s sacrilege.

Each year over the last six years I’ve taken three-to-five weeks leave and gone on adventure, almost always overseas. Every time I’ve suffered a bout of depression and anxiety at some point for a variety of reasons – one time so bad I was painfully close to flying home a week early – but I always returned home with a smile and revelled in the photos and stories of a wonderful adventure. I do love travelling; I had just never found the right way for me. But I think I’ve cracked it.

Right now I’m in a Munich hotel, with about 24 hours left of a three-week journey through Germany and Eastern Europe, and this time I can genuinely say has been a fantastic trip; easily the most enjoyable yet. I’m not gonna lie, it hasn’t all been easy, but it’s the first time I’ve consistently forgotten what day it is; the first time I haven’t struggled to occupy my mind when travelling alone; the first time I haven’t started counting down days in anticipation of getting home (though I am now ready). Never before have I been able to so completely forget about home and my comfort zone for such long periods of time.

There are a few reasons. Partly it’s just being in a better place mentally. These trips have always been somewhat of a benchmark of where I am really at in my management of anxiety. I think I’ve kept doing it because I like challenging myself, or I’m a maniacal optimist.

But I’ve learnt from previous mistakes. This time I did things differently. I did it the way that worked for me, not how other people do it.

I mixed things up.

I started with a bang at Oktoberfest with friends, one of the craziest experiences I’ve had and one we’ll be talking about to the point of boredom for those who weren’t there as long as we hang out.

I then spent a week or so on my own. I knew I needed some relaxation, downtime and my own space on this trip. That meant taking things a bit slower that I have in the past and slashing my list of places to visit so I could enjoy those I did and relax as well as get out amongst it. In that time I splashed out and stayed in hotels. I can afford it and the trip was short enough that the extra cost was worth maintaining my sanity by paying to have my own space with the basic luxuries.

One of the lies I’ve told myself while travelling is that people always have fun in hostels - that I’ll meet people and we’ll be friends and maybe I’ll even hook up with someone and it’ll be awesome. Maybe it’s true for confident extroverts but I’m socially stunted when it comes to meeting people, lack the energy to engage with strangers, hate small talk and have had few conversations in the many hostels I’ve stayed in, let alone made friends. In fact, once I start to feel mental fatigue and the downs of travel – detachment, isolation, boredom – hostels suffocate me. I feel like there’s already friendships established so why would they want me talking to them (talking to people in the lobby these days means interrupting them while they’re checking the Facebook on the free wi-fi anyway)and I don’t sleep well from paranoia about snoring and pissing people off. I don’t want to have to flee my base to get the space I need.

I realised if I want to relax, I needed my own comfortable space. It’s not the cool or youthful way to travel, but fuck me, it worked a treat. And I was quite happy being anti-social for a week, especially while I dealt with the mind explosion that is Berlin. It also allowed me to address the single most important element in keeping my head – getting plenty of rest.

In that time I also made sure I had things to keep me occupied in my downtime that weren’t Facebook, or the internet in general. Previously I’ve thought the way to stave off boredom and anxiety was to keep a busy itinerary. But I think, for me, it’s just the opposite. Take time, and have time to myself where I have things to do. Sightseeing is the main activity, but you can’t feel guilty taking a break from it. It should be an experience not a distraction. Don’t drive yourself nuts getting to all the sights listed in Lonely Planet because you feel like you should. See what interests you. Spend a few hours reading or writing or just people watching in a bar and soaking up the vibe of a city. Whatever.

I didn’t want to spend two weeks on my own, and I know I need a bit of force to mingle with strangers, so I signed up for a tour for the following week. One that was long enough to actually get to know people, but not too long that it wore me down. In 2009 when I was ready to pay whatever it took to fly home early, the saving grace was a four-day tour of the Canadian Rockies. It got me out of my own head after a couple of weeks mentally isolated in hostels racking up a massive phone bill looking to Facebook for human connection and made me actually interact with real people.

Once past that awkward initial stage I’m a social animal. I made up for my lack of getting-to-know-you skills by never shying away from activity, especially involving that social lubricant, alcohol. After a few days you realise a few cool people actually like you and you wonder why you doubt yourself so much, because really you are pretty fucking awesome.

Now it’s over and I’m missing a bunch of random strangers who happened to pick the same tour as me that I’d never met a little over a week ago. People I had deep and diverse conversation with that I wouldn’t have with family or work colleagues, and many of whom I’ll likely never see again. I don’t have the stomach to do that over and over for a few months. At least Facebook makes it easier to either stay friends or gently slip away. 

Maybe there are lessons here for others, I don’t know. A lot of people get stressed out when they travel, much more than they’ll admit. Do be confined by how others define the experience of travel. Find your own way. It should be a fun, joyous thing. But as little as it’s ever spoken, there’s a lot of stress that can come with travel.

Modern tourists get caught up worrying about schedules and itineraries. We visit tourist sites because they’re tourist sites, take their photos and leave, not actually really enjoying it. We race from city to city to say they’ve been there so they can partake in masturbatory conversations about the best city in the world (I personally think its Berlin). Even though my travels have been largely based on it, I don’t think three or less days does any city justice, even Canberra. We see places through a camera lens, desperately trying to capture a moment for fear of forgetting it - or so it can be relayed to others (not possible unless you’re a mega creative photographer) - rather than actually immersing ourselves in it with all our senses and soaking up the atmosphere, which a camera can’t do.

Travelling alone makes you more prone to taking too many photos because you want to share all the little interesting moments with someone. I actually find it relieving when places don’t allow photos because I take it in without thinking about the camera.

I don’t care that I didn’t experience an onslaught of cities through booze-wearied Contiki eyes. Better to experience a few places properly than visit a lot briefly.

I’m not bothered that I never spent my youth travelling and/or working in Europe as seems to have become a rite-of-passage for many young Aussies. It’s great for some, it’s not for everyone and it’s sure as hell not an automatic ticket to maturity or worldliness. I know people who never left Australia that are more world-wise than others who’ve been to 20 countries. 

Travel is a fantastic learning experience though. It offers a chance to get outside your comfort zone and away from the daily grind, see different cultures, meet new and diverse people, gain perspective, learn about life and reflect on your own. Do it your own way and learn from the inevitable – sometimes painful, sometimes fun, sometimes hilarious – mistakes and it’s one of life’s greatest activities.

I’ve learnt a lot every time, and no less on this trip time, about myself and this crazy, messed up world and time I randomly find myself in.

India (and America)

Delhi airport is normal enough. And by normal, of course I mean westernised.

It’s outside that it hits you, firstly in the nostrils. A distinct smell, offering the senses their first taste of the untamed country; yes, you can almost taste it. And it’s a little overwhelming for the white kid whose biggest culture shock previously was walking along Victoria Street in Melbourne. Quickly he comes to like it, once he no longer notices it.

On the Ganges, Varanasi

If I’m going to stand out, I may as well separate myself. My friend’s driver was waiting for me outside – you can’t actually enter the airport without holding ticket or, seemingly, being prepared to take a bullet. I insisted on making my own way at such an absurd hour, but he was just doing his job, I was told. I graciously set aside my pretentious discomfort.

The next sensation is fear. The streets, even at 4.30am, are chaotic. I messaged a friend back home who had recently been here: “Arrived in India, on way to the house. Shitting myself”. Not literally of course, that was still a little over a week away.

Lanes are wasted paint. Indicators aren’t used, horns are held as an announcement of ‘look out, I’m coming past’. Traffic lights are few and far between; you stop only for cows. If road rules exist, there doesn’t seem to be any enforcement. In Varanasi a day later the roads were even more chaotic – think a crowd leaving the MCG on Grand Final day, but some are in cars, some are on motorbikes, some are on bicycles, some in autorickshaws, some on cycle rickshaws, some are pedestrians, some are cows, some are dogs. And they’re all fighting their way through the madness. I couldn’t even tell you which side of the road was the ‘correct’ side. But I was perfectly comfortable in the passenger seat. I saw no accidents and only once heard screeching tyres, but had I been cautiously driving in that chaos there would have been an incident. The locals all seem to know how it works, because somehow it does.

Varanasi with my 15 y/o tour guide in pink

I caught the overnight train to Varanasi about 12 hours after landing in Delhi, at the suggestion of the friend I was staying with. All he said was: “If you want a genuine Indian experience, go to Varanasi”. The people I shared the cabin with on the train were astounded that I was headed there alone.

I’d read about the crime, I was wary of the ‘pushers’, ‘cheaters’ and rickshaw drivers. My hotel was only three kilometres from the station and I had a map – I would walk. I’d walked further, in the dark, without a map in Boston to my hotel. When I found my way out of the station, having told a few people I was meeting a friend so they’d leave me alone, I stood wondering what fucking back alley I was standing in and where the hell I was meant to go. I tried to not look like a tourist; then I remembered I’m white. I’ve never felt so out of my depth. After 45 minutes of walking on roads, trusting traffic not to hit me, attempting hopelessly to cross streets, and trying to work out where I was on my map I gave in and caught a rickshaw. He dropped me off as close as he could, but my hotel was right on the Ganges and I had to spend another 45 minutes or so navigating a maze of unnamed winding lanes to find it.

The room was basic but clean; I was forced to use a beddae for the first (and second) time ever. While waiting for it to be prepared I ate cautiously in the rooftop café, leaving the parts of the sandwich my unwashed hands had touched. Overlooking the beautiful, but filthy Ganges I flicked through the Lonely Planet as a 15 year old kid sat at my table and started singing and chatting to me. He told me how I would spend my 24 hours in Varanasi – I closed the Lonely Planet and said ‘ok’. He even took me to his home as we walked the lanes the following morning.

Varanasi is the oldest continually inhabited town in the world, and spiritually special because of its location on the banks of the Ganges. It was unsettling, filthy and impossible to navigate (without a tour guide … I assume) – it was full on, but one of the best travel experiences I’ve had.

Old Delhi

Old Delhi was even crazier. If I hadn’t been strolling around with a relative local it would have been far more unsettling. I would have been constantly lost, unsure what or where to eat, and the intensely crowded streets – alien in every way – would have heightened my uncertain discomfort. With my tour guide who knew vaguely where we were, casually palmed off pushers and knew how to haggle, I could soak up all the colour, sounds, smells and activity. I loved it. It was a safe discomfort, where you feel alive and can really appreciate it. In India you’ll find all your senses, and more.

From Delhi I flew to New York to meet friends. Two of my three weeks away were spent in America, but just as it was so much harder to take a good photo there – even in New York – I don’t have the words for America when India stands next to it, other than really to compare them.

Arriving in New York, for the second time, one of my first thoughts was: ‘There are so many jerks here.’ It could have been true of any city in any country. Despite the poverty the people in India were, mostly, exceedingly nice and humble.

Americans are incomparably brash and self-assured. It was impossible not to notice the spoilt brats. But their confidence is both endearing and off-putting, and it wavers between individuals; it’s something I wanted to take a little bit of home with me.

Perhaps the greatest similarity between the two countries is the contrast within their own identities. Americans confidence seems to be their energy source, to the point that it almost betrays their fear of being without it. For all the constant chatter on the street, there is little discussion. Even reflection is washed up in the shallow ripple of marketing. In 2007 I visited a modest, poignant World Trade Centre memorial; I returned to branding, tours, merchandise and what seems to be an effort to remember by definition, preventing themselves from properly moving on, which is different to forgetting. People are outgoing and loud, but also suspicious and not afraid to tell you to fuck off.

Time for Chai

Indians are quiet and unassuming but won’t even mind if you walk right up to them and take their photo while they go about their daily business.

In India you’ll see the richest and poorest people you’ve ever seen. At times it seems like everyone is just trying to rip you off and make a dollar by helping you out in a way you didn’t need, but most people you meet will want to know if you like their city and will be coming back. The streets can be suffocating but are full of vibrant interaction and the people are so friendly it’s impossible not to be charmed. Especially by those cheeky, ever-smiling kids, who instinctively make the most of what they have and love life.

These are, of course, mere generalisations (because they’re generally true) of a people as a whole, based on brief travel in select cities. I love both countries. I have family in America and will likely return in the not-too-distant future and can’t wait to see more of it. India I hope to return to, but can’t see myself going by myself.

ps. The literall 'shitting myself' ... well I didn't really. But, having thought I escaped free of Delhi belly I just have the most uncomfortable 30 seconds of my life as I sat on the window seat of a plane flying to New York and I was hit with an immediate, desperate need to run to the toilet just as they placed food on the tray above my lap, with an elderly lady sitting between me and the aisle which was blocked by the food cart. As I squirmed and tried to focus, I seriously considered what to do if I couldn't hold it in. Thankfully it passed for long enough but after a few borderline ones, I did try and refrain from all rear wind for three days. Nice, huh. Just thought I should throw that in there.

Travelling with anxiety, and why I'm at it again

Here I am again.

When I started writing this, 'here' was the international departure lounge at Melbourne's Tullamarine Airport. Three dollars only got me so long. The way my mind operates, I need much longer than 'only so long' to filter my thoughts and feelings into a somewhat comprehendible blog post.

Approximately 45 hours later I now sit alone in the swank, empty house of a friend, somewhere in New Delhi. After 33 hours or so in transit - including a 14 hour stopover in Doha, having flown past India only to fly back - I arrived in Delhi at about 4am. In the darkness and utter chaos of the early morning Delhi streets - I mean, why have lanes, indicators, speed limits, or rules at all if they're widely ignored! - it was impossible to get any sense of bearings. With my friend away until tomorrow on business I had about ten hours to myself before heading to Varanasi, leaving this little cocoon and finally get a true taste, smell, feel of India. I am excited and cautious.

As always Mum and Dad dropped me at the airport. This is one of the most excruciating parts my overseas journeys. It's convenient, but the goodbye lingers so long and their undisguised anxiety - particularly my mother's, who unintentionally bestowed upon me my own natural anxiety but - makes me tense. After checking in I graciously allowed them to buy me a 'coffee' (hot chocolate) and we held stunted conversation. I do love them dearly, I just wanted the goodbyes out of the way so I could relax for the long flight. As we hugged and I turned towards the doors through to customs, Mum said, 'We love you Sam' in that in case anything happens kind of way. Well intentioned as it was, this made me feel neither assured or additionally loved. Just tense and reactive. I told her I didn't want her stressing - firstly its making her unwell, thirdly I'm away for a total of three weeks in India and the USA and they're more likely to be in an car accident while I'm away than I am to be seriously harmed, and most importantly I didn't want to be worrying about their worrying and at such times almost callously refuse to encourage it.

Truth is I am carrying a mild anxiety - one that wasn't aided on Sunday night before I flew out by my four year old nephew presenting me with a drawing that was an early birthday present (next week). 'It's a bee called Sam,' he said, 'and it's dead'.

'It's a bee?' I asked graciously.
'Yeah a bee called Sam. And it's dead,' he said without a smile but with genuine love, unaware that this had the potential to freak me the fuck out.

This is my first overseas trip in a little over two years. By the end of the last one, a five week trip to Canada and the USA, I was a mental wreck and not sure I would leave Australian shores by myself again.

I should really have known. I remember sitting in the departure lounge at Tullamarine writing in my journal that I wasn't really sure why I was undertaking the journey. Yes, it was to visit my brother for the second time in three years, as well as a Canadian friend that I had previously quite fancied, carrying on with plans made between her, myself and a mutual friend from England who had earlier pulled out without much explanation. I also had a few days planned in Vegas with a friend from home that were so much fun we missed our flight out. And I genuinely wanted to see the Canadian Rockies.

However, I spent much of that trip alone. Solitude was something I had looked forward to, especially in such beautiful and cultural places as Vancouver, Quebec and the Canadian Rockies.

I was aware of the possible impact of prolonged isolation after my month-long trip to Britain a year earlier had brought me emotionally unstuck. But I believed there were other issues at play there. The first week was spend with the same English and Canadian friends and it was here I confessed to the Canadian I quite liked her. She rejected me in the soft and super friendly way that only Canadians know how. But I was now alone for the best part of three weeks and my melancholic, irrational mind had already bolted. And I hadn't the tools to reign it in, especially without the distraction of familiar connections.

By 2009 I was back in regular touch with my shrink and making progress. I was also off medication. It was decided the one I had been on wasn't working and we gave 'going clean' a brief trial. A sufferer of anxiety possibly shouldn't have exposed myself to the harsh mental terrain of prolonged solidarity in this circumstance. But, as I said, I was doing relatively well (for the time) and both myself and my psychologist thought it would be good for me. Still, while I was excited for all the fun, beautiful and adventurous things, I still wasn't aware of a true reason for going. Did I really need one though? Travel is what everyone does when they get the opportunity.

It was a disaster. The first few days, with my brother in San Francisco and friend in Vegas, were good - at times highly enjoyable. I flew with my friend, on a newly arranged flight, to Vancouver where we spent a day or so together and went our separate ways. I felt like I needed space anyway, as I always tend to when travelling with people, so I wasn't concerned at the time. But the wheels quickly started to shake. All sorts of doubts and irrational thoughts entered my mind, chipping away at my confidence, bringing back old methods of reassurance that served only to feed the beast and push my anxiety to levels not experienced for some time. When this starts there are only two ways for it to end: you find a way to let the thoughts go, or you battle them until they break you and slam you to your rock bottom where you finally find the exhaustion to no longer care and move on. The latter is the easy option in the moment, but obviously can be extremely painful mentally and eat up a lot of valuable time. Unfortunately I'd yet to fully understand the importance of letting go of thoughts, let alone the tools for doing so.

I started counting the days until I could get home, and anxiously waited for hours to pass when I should have been relaxing or enjoying the adventure of a foreign city. Even staying with my friend near Toronto for a few days didn't offer any mental relief. I think escape was still too far away.

About a week before the end of the trip I emailed my psychologist telling him I wasn't sure I could last the next seven days. I made plans in my head to abruptly head home if it got to that point. He reassured me. From thousands of kilometres away, it provided only mild comfort.

A few days later I returned to Vancouver (as planned) and joined a Moose Tour of the Canadian Rockies. I had been off medication for my own anxiety and OCD for a few months and seemed to be doing alright but it all fell apart early in the trip. The resumption of real, meaningful interaction with people and some amazingly beautiful natural surroundings offered the genuine distraction from my thoughts and circuit breaker I needed to move on a little. My mood improved mildly, but I was still keen to get home. When I did, I questioned the value of such travel by myself and realised I will never do the extended tour of Europe that is a pre-requisite for many young Australians. That doesn't bother me, I'm too old now anyway, but I do want to see the world.

Two years on and here I am, temporarily alone and in India of all places to test myself. A challenge, yes, but with the connections and accommodation I have it is far from doing it rough or unsupported. In the past two years I have also made the most significant progress of my life in terms of my mental health. Firstly, I started in new medication when I got home from that trip in 2009, which seems to be the best so far. And twelve months ago I discovered yoga, mindfulness and meditation which has calmed my racing, anxious mind and given me the tools to let go of unwanted, unnecessary and - most importantly - irrational thoughts. Though I'm still learning how to use those tools properly.

I've also learnt through experiences on a road trip last year and, more pertinently, in Perth this year that I need to look after myself to stay on top of it all. That primarily means ensuring I'm well rested, healthy and take my meds.

The next three weeks while undoubtedly throw up various challenges, particularly in periods of isolation, which are no longer than two days this time, but there will be plenty to enjoy about the wonderful and wild adventure (especially over the next six days in India) if I can maintain the right frame of mind. I'm in a far better state of mind and mental health than I was one, two, three and more years ago, and I intend to maintain it! I am thoroughly looking forward to seeing my friends and family: here in India, the (same) English gal and another Canadian friend in New York and Washington, and my brother yet again in San Francisco.

And I am looking forward to the inevitable challenges. It begins now.

Perth - A Chronology of Learnings

In Round 12 of the AFL (10-13 June) a three-day trip to Perth, primarily to see Essendon v. Fremantle, became a six-day adventure of mishap, mistake, luck and lessons.

Homelessness, ash clouds, anxiety, sleep depravation, medication withdrawal, chainsaw juggling, footy, beers and mates. It was memorable.

So I’m writing a recap, through a chronology of learnings.

Lesson 1: Melbourne's airport bus service (probably) isn't so bad
Buses have an enduring perception of being the inferior mode of public transport. I think it’s the absence of tracks – a reassuring visual cue that something will come be eventually to pick you up, and you can see exactly where its going (on Google Maps anyway).

I’ve bussed between many cities and airports yet, despite living in Richmond, using the SkyBus service to Melbourne airport had never even occurred to me before my English backpacker housemate did so.

Before I could get too far along that train (err, bus…) of thought though, my parents were offering – by which I mean ‘insisting’ – to drop me at the airport for my 10pm flight.

It was unnecessary, would actually be no quicker for me and a hassle for them, but I couldn’t refuse their needy generosity.

Before we’d even left tensions arose over my casual, ‘I’ll figure it out’ attitude to landing in Perth at 1am and getting to the hostel against their anxiety around a young man alone in dark streets.

I didn’t even know why they both needed to come to the airport to drop me off but tension was in the air, though Dad did attempt light conversation. But when the ride to the airport feels longer than the flight to Perth, you realise you probably made a bad choice. The SkyBus would have been so easy and peaceful.

Lesson 2: Sometimes your parent’s anxieties have some validity
Yet – and this is tough – their overbearing concerns weren’t entirely misplaced.

The taxi pulled up in Stirling Street, Northbridge, which I’d been led to believe was essentially Perth’s Richmond, and I wondered if he’d come to the wrong place. There was absolutely no sign of life, most disturbingly across the road within my hostel. For twenty minutes I sat on a milk crate at the front door, calling their phone number, ringing the doorbell and considering my options.

At 1.30am I walked towards the CBD, homeless.

Lesson 3: Don’t bet the house on the casino
Other than a few cars rolling by, the city was just as empty. To my mind, this left one option: somewhere that’s always open and welcomes all sorts – in fact the more desperate you are, the better. A place where everybody knows you’re lame – the casino. My iPhone told me the walk was less than 5km, which I know I can do in about 50 minutes. Decision made.

I walked briskly through dimly lit back streets – some illuminated by red lights shimmering off discarded goon bags – and along eerie pedestrian paths, finally arriving in Burswood after a more than an hour and a few wrong turns.

My dorm - night one

Inside the Burswood Entertainment Complex, exhausted but completely sober, dressed neatly and looking as pleasant as always, I walked 30 metres towards the casino entrance. It was an uneasy walk as my eyes darted around, unsure whether to look the two security guys in the eye and risk coming across as ‘hard-arse’ or avoiding eye-contact and looking dodgy. They let me in, but barely two steps on a third guy informed me I couldn’t come in wearing ‘work boots’. WTF?! My blundstones? I wear them nearly everywhere, but they’re not good enough for a casino? Being durable, comfortable and downright awesome, they were the only shoes I’d brought across. A little scuffed and worn, sure, but by no means dirty and certainly cleaner than the pants worn by many of those already shoving coins into machines just metres away.

My bed - night one

But arguing with security is like arguing with an umpire – you never change their mind, just steel their resolve – so, as it was no longer fun, I walked away.

The pleasant gentleman at the cloakroom where I’d left my bag was curious as to why I was collecting it so soon. I briefly explained my predicament.

‘Where are you from?’ he asked.
‘Melbourne.’
‘Typical…’
Nice. Thanks. Fuck off (this was my general attitude to Perth at this point).

Anyway he did kindly advise that my only, and unlikely, chance of finding somewhere open would be in Northbridge, but I certainly should not walk there.

So I stood at the top of the escalators leading out of the Burswood Entertainment Complex pondering where to spend the rest of the night. Nearby I spotted a little café, closed until 8am, with a bench and stools tucked discreetly around a corner. It offered the perfect spot to at least sit unnoticed by all passersby, visible only to those who looked closely in the reflection of the café’s glass shutters, which also offered me a reflective view of anyone walking past.

My third, and best bed - 'night' one

Eventually I fell asleep, waking a couple of hours later to the suspicious stare of a cleaner standing a couple of metres away. I stood and left my post, heading for my last option – the toilets. Toilet seat cover down, I sat and slumped against the tiled wall. The fived walled cubicle actually seemed relatively ergonomic with comfortable corners that facilitated a gentle snooze. I should have tried that first.

About 6.30am, I stepped out into the icy pre-dawn as glimmers of sunshine peeked over the horizon, and caught an early train back to Perth, where I trekked out to Kings Park, found a sunny patch of lush grass overlooking the city and slept some more.

Lesson 4: Get your accommodation booking confirmed.
Of course, a few weeks earlier I did speak to the hostel manager about the logistics of my arrival. It wasn’t until I eventually checked in – 12 hours late – that I found out they hadn’t forgotten me the night before, rather some poor sod had actually stayed up waiting for me the week before. But why, when in our conversation I had explicitly mentioned the long weekend?!

‘Yes, that was last weekend,’ replied the hostel manager.

Call it Melbourne arrogance to assume Western Australia would acknowledge the Queen’s Birthday public holiday on the same day as Victoria (and every other state), or West Australian detachment that – just because they are half the bloody country – the rest of us mightn’t be aware of their Foundation Day holiday the week before, but either way … whatever, now I had an actual bed.

Lesson 5: Realise why you’re really staying in a hostel
Not staying with the friends who had also travelled across to Perth, I imagined a hostel would provide a good mix of personal time to read and write, and opportunities to socialise and meet friendly new people.

I quickly realised this was a misguided fantasy. Or should that be ‘remembered’? I’ve stayed in enough hostels to know the reality. Usually there’s a strong clique among the long-term stayers, a group that is difficult to break into over a short couple of days without a lightning personality, and finding space to yourself is often impossible.

So it was away from the hostel that I sought both my socialising and solitude.

The other four guys in my five-bed dorm seemed to be members of the alpha clique. This could have been beneficial, but I never really met them, given our differing sleeping patterns. If I was going to make friends, I probably needed to do so before being too embarrassed by the possibility I’d snored kept them awake snoring like Chewbacca swallowed a chainsaw – even though they woke me up at 4am, stumbling into the room drunk, and again a couple of hours later as activity in the bunk below me shook my bed.

At least I got confirmation of my snoring on night two when I was woken by a football thrown at my head. Nope, friendships were not likely here.

So why book a bed in a hostel?

I did genuinely want to meet new and interesting people. Maybe it wasn't the ideal setting for me with just a couple of days and friends in town. Generally, I don’t like the isolation of ordinary hotels.

And, essentially, I am a tight-arse.

Lesson 6: Messed up plans create new opportunities
Saturday rolls round, this nomad is finally rested and eager to explore. Misfortune, or stupidity, struck again though, keeping me away from my planned visit to Rottnest Island. I paid $60 for the ferry and was instructed to board the bus at the bus stop just outside front in 20 minutes, which would take me to the ferry. I sat eating a muffin 30 metres away, closely watching the bus stop. A shuttle bus sat there marked with a tour company’s branding. That couldn’t be it, but the time had almost passed and I was starting to feel uneasy. Ten minutes past the scheduled leaving time I asked at the desk if I’d missed the bus. Yes I had, as the kind lady behind the desk explained, because the bus didn’t leave from its usual spot as there was a shuttle bus taking up the space.

Crazy Canadian juggling in Fremantle

My plans were ruined, but my money returned, so I decided to make the best of it and take the opportunity to explore Fremantle.

I loved Freo’s active, welcoming streets far more than the typical city streets of Perth full of retail and office blocks. I don’t want to shop; I want to see things like street performers juggle a grenade, machete and running chainsaw.





Lesson 7: Franchise restaurants take their food preparation quality consistency seriously
When one friend orders lasagne and it is served, sent back for being cold in the middle and re-served looking exactly as it did (cut open in the middle) upon being sent back, all well before the other two of us get our pizzas, you must question the integrity of the kitchen.

I’ve heard dodgy things about outlets of this particular franchise in Melbourne, so it offers further reason to avoid ‘La Salmonella’ (not real name).

Lesson 8: Do not travel to watch Essendon play
I should have learnt this after travelling to see Essendon lose to Adelaide by 96 points last year. But having been fortunately surrounded by sympathetic sufferers, we found ways to enjoy ourselves.

Anyway, it was match day – the reason we’d travelled all this way – and we were quietly confident of Essendon’s chances. I was anyway.

Late in the morning I got talking to a Canadian from the hostel who was going to try and get a couple of cheap tickets. Given that when I bought mine all that was available were $60 premium seats, I suspected his chances of getting a ticket at all, let alone cheap seats, were somewhere between buckley’s and none. But I didn’t have the heart to tell him.

On the ground (not me)

Sitting in the premium section, with the sun in my eyes and surrounded by Fremantle members I sat silently throughout the game, uncomfortable even giving gentle applause on the few appropriate occasions for Essendon, lest I break the deadly silence. 

Rubbing salt in the wound of a bad, totally unenjoyable loss was bumping into the Canadian back at the hostel who proudly produced a $27 ticket that had placed him in great seats on the opposite wing.

But we did get onto the ground after the game - half the reason I wanted to go to Subiaco.

Lesson 9: Shit happens – make the best of it, but be prepared
Talk had been growing about an ash cloud that was threatening flights in and out of Melbourne. Through the evening I checked various websites on my phone to find out if I should bother going to the airport for my 1.20am flight or organise accommodation for the night. I was almost at the airport when I found out it had been cancelled.

Again walking the dark streets, I found a nearby hotel and must say I was grateful to have my own room with TV!

I now wouldn’t be leaving for another two days – 1.20am Wednesday morning. Frustrating, but nothing anyone could do, and it’s not like I was in a desperate rush to return to work. Again, make the best of it.

Unfortunately I had packed for three days, not five, both in terms of clothes and anti-depressants. Silly boy.

I caught up on rest, again, and spent a little more time exploring Perth.

Tuesday night I sat in a pub with a pint, constantly checking the flight status through various websites. Déjà vu. Tiger issued a statement about 9.30pm Perth time confident that all flights would go ahead. Relief! Assurance! I finally knew where I’d be sleeping that night – even if it would be on a plane and minimally.

An hour and a half later, as I stepped into the terminal my heart sunk as I looked at the screen above the check-in desk and saw that horrible ‘C’ word. Word quickly spread through the line that there were no flights out available until Friday or Saturday. Half the people in line pulled out their iPhones and booked flights with other airlines. Myself included.

By the time I was at the check-in desk where they offered me a rescheduled flight or refund I had already booked a flight 10 hours later on Qantas.

Making the best of it at this point meant finding somewhere to lie down and see if I could get some sleep. Bodies lay scattered around the terminal, as if a massacre had taken place. It was bloody cold, I guess they don’t worry too much about heating the terminal when there were no flights coming or going and all the desks were closed.

Having been mistakenly, cruelly, told 20 minutes before boarding that all flights for the day were cancelled, mine did in fact leave – one of the last flights out before all flights in and out of Perth were cancelled.

Lesson 10: Appreciate the benefits of your parents anxieties
In a final twist to the weekend that brought things frustratingly full circle, the intrusion of my parents into my life came in handy in no small measure.

Boarding the SkyBus at Melbourne airport, my over-exhausted body collapsed as soon as I sat down. I have no idea how long I was asleep before waking up to strangers standing around, asking if I was ok and applying an oxygen mask. In a dream-like fashion, I had no idea what was going on but didn’t find it particularly unusual. I was so exhausted that I just said ‘yeah, I’m fine,’ accepted whatever was happening and went back to sleep. The next time I woke I was asked if I could stand and walk – ‘why wouldn’t I be able to?’ I wondered – and bundled into an ambulance.

Seems I started shaking in my sleep and someone called an ambulance. Luckily for me, my mum paid my ambulance membership years ago and, as the bills have been arriving at their house, she has been renewing it each year. As the paramedics asked if I was a member, I produced the card, admitting I had no idea if it was still valid. It’s something I’d be likely to overlook, for cost, procrastination or sheer laziness. THANK YOU MUM!

And so, after a few hours of tests in St Vincent’s hospital, my adventure was finally over and I was home; even if it wasn’t my actual home, but my parents’. I know exactly how Mum would feel about that sentiment though.






Perth was not just memorable, but fun. When I go back, and I will, maybe even for an Essendon game, I’ll stay in Fremantle, I’ll book flights with Virgin, I’ll be more organised while still leaving plenty of scope for unforseen adventure and I will not return to Burswood.