In case you are new here, I was raised in Perth, Western Australia. You wouldn't be faulted for not knowing this fact as I have lived in many cities around the world, in fact if you wanted to get technical I claim two very different hometowns, one the aforementioned city by the Indian Ocean and the other snowy little village in rural New England. I spent my formative years in both, but alas this post is about Perth.
I haven't been back to this street I grew up on in 16 years...over half my life I have been away. My first thought when I went back was how small it felt. What a cliche, I know, but in my memories these streets were vast and wide. These streets held pretty much my entire early childhood. I used to ride my bike around them day dreaming, I delivered newspapers every single Tuesday and Thursday to each letterbox, my childhood soulmate of a friend and next-door neighbor since the age of 3 and I would annually wander around and sell chocolates to fundraise for our brothers football teams (our favourite house of course being the elderly lady who lived behind me and who, although she couldn't eat chocolate, would purchase a box for us to have instead. We would start there and then happily snack on Maltesers as we went door to door for the entire afternoon.)
From the age of 6 or so, my older brother would walk me to school and we would have arguments about this spare piece of land down the laneway from our house. It was by far the quickest way to the school but was for sure home to some snakes I didn't want to encounter, yet he would often insist I suck it up and we gross the spare land to school Somedays I would protest and insist on walking through the long way instead. I have vivid memories of sprinting up the hill to cut through the alley way, my backpack slapping against my body to ensure I beat him there insisting it didn't take that much longer, arriving to the meeting spot out of breath, to an unbothered Sam, never conceding to my route requests.
I dragged Dan from pillar to post, or laneway to laneway, in each direction, rattling off stories about how many hours I spent in them because they were the spots where my friends and I would split off on our walks home from school so evidently we would linger there finishing up our chats before going our separate ways.
I stood in the middle of the street outside my home in the rain, and instantly remembered the time my childhood best friend and I on a 9 year old hyperactive high both ran around in the rain playing some hybrid duck duck goose game we affectionally labelled plum pudding. It basically involved us running around the cul-de-sac in the downpour saying duck, duck, duck.... before yelling plum pudding and running in circles cracking up at god knows what and ended rather abruptly with my Mum yelling at us to get inside. We then changed out of our drenched school uniforms into my brothers old oversized hoodies before laying around watching Lizzie McGuire in the lounge.
It was lovely to see it's only sole remaining resident from my time there, Marilyn. Marilyn lived next door to me and in the only house on the street that wasn't occupied by children (Although she did have a granddaughter, Amy, who would visit sometimes and play with me in the front yard. I even passed along all my Barbies to her one day in a moment of selflessness that I regretted almost instantly.) Marilyn would spend many an afternoons chatting to me as I hung out in the front yard, encouraged me to play on her lawn as my front yard was all brick and she had the perfect "What's the time Mr. Wolf?" tree, she knitted everyone in the street scarves, gave us gifts when we drew her pictures and once invited us around to swim in her pool as it was warmer than ours leaving my Mum very confused as she looked into our garden to the sounds of us yelling and splashing away but didn't see us in the pool as expected, popping her head over the fence in confusion to us hangin' with Marilyn instead.
This street means a lot to me...or I guess, it did. Going back felt like closing a chapter I didn't even realize was still open. As we drove away from it, to the hugely different Perth surrounds I turned to Dan to declare I don't think I need to come back. Is it cheesy to say I felt like I had said goodbye? I think in the original moment when you move away from somewhere so important it's hard to view the move as permanent. I remember when I had driven away from it previously as a child, I couldn't get over the fact that I would never shower in that home again. Oddly that was what I couldn't get over. Suuuuurely I would be back soon, I decided, somehow mentally ignoring the "Sold" sign wedged into the dirt. On that original departure, I scanned the surrounds as we drove out, the cars of longtime neighbors, the signs of familiarity of homes filled with people I knew and had such strong memories with. Now though, those homes are just houses. All the people, besides Marilyn, had left. The children are grown and some had children of their own in their own cul-de-sacs. As I left now, I felt oddly content that this place lived in the past and although happy to see it, a sense of attachment had since detached.
After my little nostalgia tour, we began our actual holiday. Hopping a ferry to Rottnest Island, also a place of my childhood, but so far back the memories are nonexistent so instead I was free to create new ones.
Which I swiftly did, like using my E-bike wrong even after I insisted on the tutorial or it's chain completely falling off as I flew down a hill or swiftly getting my linen pants caught on the handlebars as I swung my leg over so I faceplanted into the concrete as Dan absolutely pissed himself.
Peep the bruises, and ask yourself did she go on vacation or to battle?
We spent three days cycling around the bays, as I waffled on about my deep love for the Indian Ocean.
Dan insisted on doing the entire island loop. I insisted on not doing that and instead rode for a few hours before parking my ass in the sand to read my book and eat fresh fruit and chips and guac.
We got up early to ride around whilst the island slept and before ferry's full of day visitors arrived.
I failed at taking a Quokka selfie, in fact I failed at taking any good picture of them at all. Quokkas famously smile....but not for me! Every single one I tried to snap looked like it was plotting my imminent death.
Like...are you all talking poorly about me? Why do you all hate me so much?
The quokkas have no enemies on the island (except now me....and every single shop keeper apparently!)
So they roam everywhere like little celebrities always surrounded by tourists flopped down on their bellies like a hoard of eager paparazzo's. It's a tough life being adored I guess!
All in all, a fab little trip west. As our ferry bobbed away I insisted we return soon, scrolling through my calendar for dates.
Side Note: We stayed at the Samphire and it was fab. My parents are big fans of self contained accommodation and I personally think that shit is a living nightmare. If I wanted to contain my own space I would have stayed at home, When I travel I want a pillow menu, an overpriced mini bar I will raid at midnight and copious amounts of room, thank you so kindly.
