So It Begins!

Departure
I sit in some vastly overpriced airport eatery and in between mouthfuls of my last ‘real’ food before the mercies of airplane meals the reality of departure hits me. Frantic does not describe the pace of events leading up to this moment, leaving my job, boat, friends, family, girlfriend and the fitting send offs they all gave me (from which I am still recovering), this was my first reflective opportunity. This is by no means the worlds longest/ most extreme/ notable trip in traveller’s history but from my perspective it is. Another continent, no job, no real plan and 4 months to kill, I am out of my rut and seeing the wider horizon is a little daunting and a lot exciting; might even get a tan, imagine that.

Arrival
So I have this lingering feeling that things have gone a little too easy, seating and movie selection were acceptable, I cleared customs with the sanctity of my back passage intact and I did not die in a plummeting fireball of twisted metal and flesh. When the receptionist informed me my room would not be available for another 10 hours and that they were fully booked, at least I knew everything was well with the world. So homeless I get bounced around with decreasing degrees of politeness from hotel to hostel at 4am until I track down what seems like the last bed in Perth. Meaning I have a slightly more auspicious start to my travels than sleeping rough on a bench. Instead I get a bunk on top of the world’s loudest snorer in a room overlooking the (active) train yard.

Welcome
Perth is not a big city, easily navigable by foot and thankfully the cloud cover was up and the temperatures down. Important if you have just undergone a hair massacre and your scalp is seeing the light of day after a good 25 years. Friday night in town is intense but with careful application of that old favourite alcohol as a social lubricant, friends are made and group of local lads take me under their wing and offer a tour of the nightlife. Before my new friends can make good on their tour a passer-by takes offence at their chat up line of “shows us your tits, give us your number!” (I know genius) and spits on them. A brawl starts and my tour guides flee the scene leaving me in need of a new guide.
A guide in the form of Sam, a local whom I befriended when she was visiting Scotland came to my rescue. With a more reliable guide I begin to see underneath the tourist guide version of Perth and I get my first introduction to a local tradition- the Sunday Session. We swim in the ocean, walk on the beach and top it off with a pint in Sam’s old local. A pint that turns into 2, 3, many and a very good night ends with us drinking wine in her car before falling uncomfortably asleep in the foot well. Cultures change but serious sessions all remain the same.

So It Begins
Driving back after a hung-over dawn wander along the beach I decide that when I get my campervan, after the mandatory tourist stops I am going to pitch up on some deserted beach and take up beachcombing; whilst using factor 60+ sun cream obviously. Tomorrow I get my campervan, become independently mobile and start my travels in earnest.