​On the way from Fraser Island to Brisbane, I spent one night in the chic town of Noosa in the Sunshine Coast region. This fashionable coastal destination is a cluster of villages in a scenic part of Queensland, nestled between the ocean, the hilly Noosa Heads, and a system of lakes and rivers known as the Noosa Everglades.

​The Greyhound bus from Rainbow Beach took a rest stop in Traveston, where I discovered an enormous statue named Matilda the Kangaroo. Matilda was the mascot of the 1982 Commonwealth Games hosted in Brisbane and surprised the audience with her moving head and blinking eyes. I was excited to finally encounter one of Australia’s famous “big things” – enormous roadside sculptures of food items or animals that have become local icons.

​The bus dropped me off at the village of Noosa Junction, one of many “Noosa” prefixed local names. At the station, I was greeted by a representative from my hostel, called Noosa Flashpackers. They offered a courtesy shuttle to their location in Sunshine Beach, a 20-minute walk. It reflected well on Flashpackers and demonstrated the importance of the Greyhound bus circuit to the Queensland backpacker community. Near the front desk, a TV monitor had a live tracker showing the location of approaching Greyhound buses so the staff could efficiently time the shuttle departures.

Flashpackers could have been the poster child of the modern hostel. The room door was unlocked using a digital key on the Goki app. The dorm had 10 beds that were evenly spaced, with accessible outlets and lockers. By the entrance was an alcove with two toilets and two showers, all with their own doors. There was a large kitchen with free breakfast. The hostel dog Spider, adored by all, earnestly presented a ball to potential playmates or lounged by the pool.

​Once check-in was open, I dropped off my bags and ventured out on a coastal hike around the perimeter of Noosa National Park. I did the route in reverse, starting at the uncrowded Sunshine Beach and heading anticlockwise around the peninsula towards the Main Beach. 

​The terrain was varied, with forests, rocky bluffs, and a long stretch right on Alexandria Beach. Bookending this beach were two sets of eroded rock formations, patterned into striking reliefs and triangular tidepools. Alexandria beach itself was decorated with constellations of sand dots excavated by tiny crabs. Interesting tropical plants were on display too.

​The various landmarks had great names, like Hell’s Gates, Tea Tree Beach, and Boiling Pot Lookout. Tea Tree was popular with surfers, who made the pilgrimage from town with their boards balanced on their shoulders or heads. Along the way, I spotted butterflies, lizards, noisy friarbirds, brush turkeys, kookaburras, and a dolphin. There are some koalas that live there too, but I didn’t see any.

​It was a hot day, and I was relieved to reach town and refill my water bottle. I rested on the Main Beach for a few minutes underneath a rainbow. It started to drizzle, so I moved on.

​Noosa’s downtown shopping area was extremely pleasant, with quirky independent art galleries, high fashion stores, and large outlets from beach-aesthetic brands like Rip Curl and Billabong. At an artisan deli, I picked up gifts for my Servas hosts in Brisbane including a local chai tea mix. By then it was early evening. The brush turkeys stopped busking for food and roosted on low branches. The lorikeets noisily mustered in the treetops. Many of these same trees were illuminated with festive lights, giving the town a welcoming atmosphere.

​Continuing my 8-mile loop, I walked to Noosa Junction and had a sushi dinner and a refreshing beer. It was a nice contrast to my crude lunch of naan and baked beans, chosen for their shelf stability and portion size. In the dark, I completed the final leg of the journey back to the hostel.

​The next morning, I took an Uber to Noosaville for a kayaking tour on Lake Weyba. “Weyba” means stingray in the local indigenous language, and stingray spotting was a selling point for this particular tour. It ended up being just myself, the guide, and a Scottish couple. We got along well, though I ended up being the slowest kayaker, as the couple had a tandem.

The lake was part of the Noosa Everglades system, the only officially certified everglade outside of Florida, though similar non-certified places exist. Noosa’s building codes protected the lakefront from development, so the edge of the lake was mangroves as far as the eye could see. The lake’s water level was low, and exposed sandbars were occupied by pelicans and black swans. A few times, we got stuck and had to get out of the kayaks. The soft mud was like quicksand and almost ripped off my sandal.
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We crossed the lake and headed up a tributary, checking the edges for stingrays, but didn’t see any at first. There was a suspicious log that looked like a crocodile, but the guide explained that it was generally too cold for crocs this far south, and the historic population had been culled. Floating on the glassy water was a pleasant and peaceful way to spend the morning.

​On the way back, we crossed through a shallow section where the stingrays finally appeared. I’m usually pretty good at wildlife spotting but had trouble with these rays. They were camouflaged against the dark patches of sand, could change direction very quickly, and could go flying off in an instant. The murky water and cloudy weather didn’t help with the visibility.

​Happy with these sightings and out of time, we returned to land. The guide drove us partway back, and I walked the rest of the way to Noosa Junction. I had a satisfying post-kayaking noodle lunch at a local Chinese restaurant.

28 hours after I arrived in Noosa, I departed on a bus to Brisbane. It was a quick but worthwhile visit. Noosa merits its reputation for being a quaint resort town with easy access to nature.

​It was about 4:45pm when the tour guide, Jean, realized the bus was stuck in the sand. The sun was setting, the tide was advancing, and we were in the remote northern part of Fraser Island where few cars would be passing. Getting increasingly nervous, Jean worried the bus could be swallowed by the tides if we didn’t act quickly, and contemplated how much trouble he would be in. The bus was not full – only 11 of us onboard. We also realized the gravity of the situation and sprang into action. Even though there was a wild dingo nearby (and a pack that had been chasing it), we ignored the previously established rule of keeping our distance from these wild dogs and exited the bus. The fourth wall had been broken. We frantically scooped the sand away from the tires, but it was to no avail – the trenches filled with seawater with each new wave. Jean started deflating the tires to spread out the bus’s weight and increase its traction. We even pushed on the back of the bus. Still stuck. Was this the end of the tour? Would our bus end up like the nearby shipwreck, stranded on 75 Mile Beach?

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This chapter actually begins with another tumultuous, canine-themed bus ride: Greyhound Australia. When I hopped on the Greyhound in Surfer’s Paradise, my assigned seat was occupied and the person sitting there made no effort to acknowledge the situation. Turns out the seating had devolved into a free-for-all. I settled for an empty seat. A few hours later, I changed buses in Brisbane. The second driver was real character. When loading our bags, he asked if we had any drugs, and feigned disappointment when the answer was no. At one of the pickup locations, he started driving with the luggage compartment open, freaking out many of the passengers. He drove fast. This was a ride that merited the seat belt. While going up a hill, the engine began to periodically seize and threw a system error. He had to pull over and call the dispatcher on how to proceed. Thankfully the bus chugged on. I felt bad for passengers going all the way to Cairns, a 29 hour journey. At least there was a rest stop, where I had meat pie for dinner.

When we arrived in Rainbow Beach, unloading the luggage was a hot mess. People were climbing into the depths of the compartment, and a minefield of backpacks accumulated on the curb. My bag was buried at the bottom of the stack, out of sight. Good thing most people were also getting off, otherwise I don’t think I would have found it again. It was a chaotic and stressful scene.
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The hostel at Rainbow Beach was my first impression of the Queensland backpacker scene. Most hostel guests that I’ve encountered globally are disproportionately men, but Queensland seemed the opposite. The average traveler was a 20-year-old English girl on a working holiday. The fellow occupants of my dorm room were hypersocial and talked to each other from their beds until 11pm or so, the kind of energy I remember from freshman year of college. Though I was aiming for an earlier bedtime, I didn’t mind overhearing what they had to say. They seemed wary of the traditional life pathways from universities into careers. They didn’t necessarily know what they wanted to do and were taking time to figure it out. Some of them had just been to Fraser Island on a day tour and hadn’t seen any dingoes. Some were going south to Brisbane, others north to Cairns. This counter-current flow made it easy for backpackers to strike up conversations and advise each other on hostels and activities. It was like I had stumbled into a parallel Australian universe.

The next morning, I was picked up by a tall, boxy, turquoise bus from K’gari Explorer Tours. The driver was a walking Aussie caricature named Keith, adorned with a leather hat, a red bandana, a khaki shirt, and cargo pants. He cheerfully welcomed everyone aboard and played stereotypical Aussie songs like “Down Under” on the drive.

​K’gari is the largest sand island in the world. I was surprised to discover that it’s mostly covered in forest. There are some unique tree species like Satinay, whose timber can resist seawater degradation, making it valuable for building piers. Or the Scribbly gum trees, which get their name from zigzag patterns eaten into their bark by moth larvae. The island is also significant for its mineral-rich sands, which attract marine life. At one point, there were even “sand mining” operations that sifted for valuable minerals.

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​The blue bus was powerful in more ways than one – my tour company had priority ferry access and zoomed past the other 4WD vehicles lined up at Inskip Point. These rival “utes” (utility vehicles) were part of a Tag-Along tour, where a guide in a lead vehicle is followed by a caravan of tag-along vehicles. I had briefly considered this format, but given the treacherous island terrain, and the fact you’re riding in a vehicle with a potentially unqualified tourist behind the wheel, I went for the fully guided version.

​The bus drove off the ferry and started cruising north on 75 Mile Beach. This famous beach spans the entire eastern side of the island and is the “newest” part of the island where sand is accumulating. It was almost perfectly flat, making it the de facto highway on K’gari. I never imagined it would be possible to drive comfortably on sand at 80 km/hour. Now THIS was the Great Ocean Road. No lanes, no lights – just sand, water, and rocks. There were speed limit signs posted on the edge of the beach, slowing down to 40 km/hour when approaching rocky areas. It was mesmerizing watching the waves fly by through the bus window. Every now and then, we’d encounter a ditch where a stream eroded its way into the ocean, with the deeper ones creating a massive jolt. During the safety briefing, Keith joked that he would drive like we had our seatbelts on, but there was truth in jest.

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​The first stop was at the K’gari Beach Resort, a dingo-proof fortress with cow grates and electric wires at the entrances. Then we turned inland, braving the bumpy logging trails into the heart of the island. The bus had a TV screen showing the view directly ahead. At times we encountered a 4WD headed the opposite direction on these narrow roads. As the bigger vehicle, we had the right of way. Keith told stories of frazzled drivers backing up into trees. I was glad to be on his bus.

Eventually we reached Lake McKenzie, a crystal-clear lake made of pure rainwater. The water was cold, but the pure silica sand felt good on the feet. Did I mention the weather was perfect? Sunny and warm, and it held for both days. Keith said it was some of the best weather all year.

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​​The two main base towns for visiting the island are Rainbow Beach and Hervey Bay. I picked Rainbow Beach because it was closer to Brisbane and had a shorter ferry ride. The tour company offered departures from either town. As it turned out, I was the only person doing the 2-day itinerary from Rainbow Beach. Everyone else on Keith’s bus was doing a day trip. The other members of my 2-day trip were on Jean’s bus starting in Hervey Bay.

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At Lake McKenzie, Keith introduced me to Jean and I transferred my bags to the other bus. Jean served his group snacks and coffee in a fenced, dingo-proof picnic area. Here, I finally got to meet the other members of the 2-day tour. There were four people from the UK, four from Switzerland, a French couple, and me. Considering the bus could hold 40 people, we were lucky to have a small and intimate group.

The next stop was a nature walk near an old logging station. Jean enthusiastically explained the flora and fauna, perhaps more enthusiastically than the group was listening. But I loved it! We walked along a stream that was lined with ancient king ferns. The streambed was made of sand, and so the water flowed silently. The stream was so clear and quiet, it wasn’t obvious there was a stream at all.

​As we walked back to the bus, I spotted the first dingo of the day and alerted the group. It was poking around a covered picnic area and was initially hidden in the shade. When it stepped into the sunlight, the vibrant colors of its reddish orange coat were revealed. It eventually wandered off. Jean noticed that it didn’t have a tagged ear, meaning it hadn’t demonstrated any problematic behavior in the past. Dingoes that are aggressive around humans have their ears tagged with a color and number so these encounters can be tracked over time. We also learned that dingoes generally are solitary during the day, and hunt in packs at night.

​We returned to the hotel-fortress for an underwhelming buffet lunch. Then we were back in the bus, continuing our journey along 75 Mile Beach. Jean made a substitution in the itinerary: we headed all the way to the distant Champagne Pools to increase our chances of seeing dingoes on the return journey. Along the drive, I spotted our second dingo of the day, which had dug a giant hole in the sand and pranced off with a fishbone, presumably buried by a fisherman in accordance with the local rules. These sightings earned me the nickname “hawkeye” with Jean.

​Jean let everyone in the group take turns riding shotgun, which made the beach highway even more enjoyable. Near a rock formation called Indian Head, there was a very steep dune. Jean had to build up the bus’s momentum and go barreling up the hill, which took two attempts.

The Champagne Pools were a little slippery, but a few of us ventured into the water. The pool was constantly being filled with fresh bubbly seawater, courtesy of the crashing waves on the other side of the rock wall. The water was murky, but we could see a few small fish.

​It was on the way back from the Champagne Pools that we spotted the pack of three dingoes who had chased their rival into the water. There are about 250 dingoes on the island, organized into a dozen or so packs. The one that had been chased into the water looked a bit dejected. Jean wouldn’t allow us to get out of the bus and approach the dingo, but he did open the door so we could have an unobstructed view. The Swiss couple sitting in the front had nice cameras with zoom lenses, and very much benefited from Jean’s courtesy. I also sat near the front and was able to get close to the open door.

​As we were all distracted by our dingo photoshoot, a strong wave snuck under the bus. Jean tried to drive the bus forward, but it was now lodged in the wet sand. Everyone sprung into action, hopping out of the bus into the ankle-deep water, excavating sand and helping deflate tires and waving for help. The wet dingo was confused, and then bored. It sat down in the sand, head on paws, and waited to see what happened. It was probably just glad that our bus situation had deterred the other pack.

​Thankfully, a family with two cars spotted us and pulled over to help. Jean connected a tow cable to the bus (we pushed from the back for good measure). When the bus lurched forward, we all let out a cheer of celebration and relief. The family was lauded for their effort, and soon we were driving again.

​As Jean had initially hoped, dusk was an excellent time to spot dingoes. We encountered several more packs, totaling around 10-15 (it was harder to count in the dark). They’re naturally lean animals, with the streamlined build of a greyhound, and graceful as they run across the sand. It was special to see them in the wild, with the beach as the backdrop.

At the dingo-proof resort, we were given our hotel keys and all dispersed for the evening. I was upgraded to an enormous triple room, which was the perfect place to unwind after such an eventful day. I made some instant noodles for dinner, updated the blog, and got the best night of sleep I’d had in ages.
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The second day was also wonderful, with nothing quite as crazy as the bus rescue. The hotel breakfast buffet was surprisingly good, including a raw honeycomb you could scoop yourself and the ingredients to assemble a Benedict. We loaded up the bus and headed for Lake Wabby.

​There was a 30-minute walk to reach the lake, and Jean handed out “dingo sticks” for self-defense. There were PVC pipes about the length of a walking stick. The path went through a peaceful forest and across a sand dune. With my dingo stick and towel protecting my neck from the sun, I dubbed myself Obi Wan K’gari.

Wabby Lake was green and murky, unlike the crystal MacKenzie; it was formed when a stream was blocked by sand. A few catfish lazily swam alongside the steep shore. Cormorants dried their wings on the tree branches across the lake. It was a peaceful place for a swim.

​On the walk back, I chatted with an Argentinian who had joined the tour for the day. She was on the 3rd year of a working holiday and was currently employed at the K’gari Beach Hotel. She mentioned she had Celiac’s; being stuck on an island with no grocery store sounded like hell. To combat the isolation, she fostered a community with other Latin Americans working at the resort. She also mentioned that a dingo managed to get inside the fences a few weeks earlier. So much for dingo-proof.

​One of the most famous landmarks on 75 Mile Beach is the shipwreck of the SS Maheno, a New Zealand ship that brought soldiers to Gallipoli. It was later sold to a private buyer. While being towed, it was hit by a cyclone and washed ashore on K’gari. The current level of damage was caused by bombs dropped during WWII pilot training runs. Its rusted metal skeleton was a striking contrast to the pristine sand and waves.

​The final stop was called Eli Creek, named after the indigenous word for the little crabs that dig holes nearby. Eli Creek was set up as a lazy river – you walked on a boardwalk upstream, then floated on its silent crystal waters towards the ocean. Getting into the water was a burst of cold, but the float was so enjoyable that I did 5-6 runs. The tubes were hard to steer, and there were some near misses with the tree roots and branches. In many places, it was so shallow that I could steer by reaching into the sand.

At Eli Creek, there was also a scenic flight that some group members signed up for. The plane took off from and landed directly on the beach! 75 Mile Beach can add “runway” to its growing list of uses.

​Just when we thought the excitement was finally over… more dingo sightings! Though we generally didn’t stop for an extended photoshoot, one dingo stood out. It was running fast along the beach and had scars on its muzzle; Jean thought it was the alpha of its pack. This alpha also had an ear tag and a collar, meaning it had been aggressive around humans. Jean drove the bus alongside its running path and opened the door for photos.

We continued watching the alpha, the spell only broken by a 4WD that went whizzing past the bus, almost running over the dingo, and angering Jean. We stopped for a sandwich lunch near a mini waterfall.
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Even the process of retracing my journey to Rainbow Beach was an adventure. Jean dropped me off at the hotel, where the energetic Keith picked me up and introduced me to his new bus full of people. The only seat left was in the last row, so I squeezed in next to a grumpy Polish guy who didn’t put on his seatbelt and bounced in the air every time we drove over a stream. Being in a full capacity bus made me appreciate the small group on Jean’s bus.

I stayed another night in Rainbow Beach, at a different hostel that got better reviews. It was indeed more spacious and had better amenities. I also briefly visited the town’s namesake beach, accessed by a lovely rainbow staircase.

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​Two days on K’gari was adventure travel at its finest: swimming in pristine water, cruising along the beautiful 75 Mile Beach, and thrilling wildlife encounters. The dramatic bus rescue was an instant highlight of my entire time in Australia. You could say that a lack of traction has never been more gripping.

​Before I ever set foot in Australia, my friends and family in the US put me in contact with any Aussies they happened to know. One was my Dad’s former coworker Antonia, who answered all my questions about Australian cities with long and thoughtful emails. Another was a couple who used to live in Rhode Island, Ed and Ellen. I had spoken to Ed on the phone and he welcomed me to visit. Though I had never met any of these folks before, they were all located in the Gold Coast region (south of Brisbane), so I decided to visit and match a face to a name. As it turned out, they were both in the city of Surfer’s Paradise, and just a 5-minute walk apart! File under: “small world stories.”

​Through some internet sleuthing, I also found a distant relative of mine (from the Czech-Tasmanian branch of the family) who was living in Gold Coast. I reached out online and he confirmed the family connection! He was very friendly and open to meeting. Unfortunately, he had an obligation on the days I was in town.

​I was a little disheveled when I finally arrived in this beach paradise. My redeye flight from Perth to Brisbane had arrived around 5:45am. I took the train from the airport across the Brisbane metropolitan area and then had to transfer to a Gold Coast tram. It was a solid 2-hour journey – the Gold Coast is definitely not a suburb of Brisbane. The train was basic, but the tram was modern. It was decorated with pink kangaroos wearing backpacks and had recently upgraded to allow tagging on with a credit card. The tram line was being extended farther south to the Gold Coast airport, a major construction endeavor.

Antonia, who had agreed to host me for two nights, greeted me at the tram station. It was so energizing to finally meet! She introduced me to her husband Evan. Antonia is Canadian, and Evan is Australian, so it was fun to ask them questions about life in Australia vs. other places. Both work from home and were about to start their normal Fridays, but still found time to make me a cup of coffee and point out the balcony views. It had an amazing vantage over the coastal promenade and beach. The constant waves, several ranks deep, stretched out into the distance. A nearby construction project, still laying the foundation, would eventually rise and truncate the view but there was still time to savor the full picture.

​While the workday was in swing, I made plans to see Ed and Ellen for lunch. At the time, we didn’t realize how close their apartment was to Antonia’s, so they picked me up in their car and took me for a driving tour of the area. We passed by some of the touristy shopping streets and a theme park – of which Gold Coast has many. At the far end of the peninsula, called the Spit, we found a lively marina scene with jetskis, dredging ships, brush turkeys, dogwalkers, and more. It was a dazzling display for the jet-lagged eyes.

​We briefly stopped at their apartment, and I was treated to my second set of panoramic views for the day. Ed and Ellen had an incredible range of visibility including a balcony facing inland, towards the mountains of the Gold Coast hinterland. It overlooked a park and a neighborhood of canals, with private docks for each house. It reminded me a bit of Newport Beach. Lorikeets, ibises, and eagles criss-crossed the skies. Admiring this network of waterways, green spaces, skyscrapers, and mountains, it was easy to understand the appeal of this place.

​Ed and Ellen took me to a favorite lunch spot next to the Marina Mirage shopping center. It was a classy restaurant on the waterfront, the kind with the waiters who know the names of the regulars and fill the wine glasses using little carafes. The char siu pork hit my taste buds with bang, catching them off guard after days of road trip food. The flat white was so good I could have downed it like a shot.

​It was a bit loud in the restaurant, but it was still a good opportunity to get to know Ed and Ellen. In their charming Rhode Island accents, they recounted their move to Australia with passion, like they were telling it for the first time. They expressed satisfaction with the Australian education system when they first moved, lamented how it’s declined since, and told me all about their four kids. Ellen recounted the saga of how they met and started dating, which was funny and wholesome. After the meal we walked around the mall and returned to their apartment for a siesta and some afternoon tea.

Meeting Ed and Ellen was so delightful and uplifting. At the same time, they were showing signs of age. Understandably so, at 90 and 87, respectively. They accidentally called me “Glen” for much of the visit, despite gentle correction. This reality also explained some of the earlier communication challenges, like coordinating a pickup location. Still, they were full of energy! The rest of us can aspire to be so active and engaging when we reach their age.
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I made my way back to Antonia’s, where Evan treated us to a lamb dinner with potatoes and bok choy. As an Aussie, preparing lamb was very much in Evan's wheelhouse. The Rusden shiraz that I brought as a gift was immediately put into action alongside this feast. After the meal, a guitar was produced and I played some tunes. Somehow my neurons were still working after a marathon day. I think it was all the tasty food! Evan recognized some of the Vivaldi pieces I played, as his grandfather was a noteworthy violin player.

​My second day in Surfer’s Paradise, a Saturday, was spent exploring with Antonia and Evan. We started by heading to the “trawlers,” a marina where you could buy fresh seafood directly from the boats, to pick up ingredients for dinner.

Prawns and octopus were easily procured; the third item was more elusive. The following very efficient, very Aussie conversation transpired on the dock.

Evan: “We’re after bugs.”
Fisherman: “Bugger all.”
Evan: “Bugger.”

~Translation~
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Evan: “Do you have any Moreton Bay bugs?”
Fisherman: “Sorry, I don’t have any today.”
Evan: “Ah well, that’s too bad.”

We did manage to find the Moreton Bay bugs at a seafood warehouse in a suburban area. I had never encountered these before and was fascinated enough to take a few photos. The clerk at the counter, a Kiwi with a thick accent, made a joke as we were paying, but I didn’t catch on. Back in the car, we determined that no one, including Evan, had actually understood what the Kiwi said.

​We drove into the rainforest and did a short walk at Natural Bridge. The forest was filled with twisted roots and epiphyte vines, a beautiful mess of plants strangling other plants. Some of these vines were draped over the trail and were surprisingly dense to the touch. Above us, Evan pointed out elaborate ferns called “staghorns” that grew on the sides of the trees. With a keen eye, little snails, lizards, and butterflies could be spotted too.

​The Natural Bridge itself was a rock arch carved by a waterfall and a river. At first, the waterfall was just barely visible through the entrance of the arch. As the path entered the cave, we got a better view from behind the falls. The cave was also home to tiny bats, fluttering around the ceiling.

​The trail was a loop, and on the way back, it provided views overlooking the waterfalls as they disappeared into the cave below. Back at the starting point, I was amused by the numerous brush turkeys, stalking discarded orange peels in the dirt.

​We continued the outing at Tamborine Mountain, which had good views of the region. The nearby town was filled with craft stores and fudge outlets. We ordered acaí bowls from a café that abutted a perfume store. It was late afternoon, so we skipped the rainforest skywalk and headed back to the coast.

​The final destination was Burleigh Heads, a popular surfing spot about 30 minutes south from their apartment. Here, Evan and I went for a bonus hike, with more rainforest scenery and a viewing platform looking towards Coolangatta, a city that straddled the border between Queensland and NSW. As we watched the waves, Evan explained the difference between an undertow and a riptide, and how to read the waves like the lifeguards who set the flags for safe swimming areas. After the hike, the three of us watched the surfers from the hillside and cracked open a bottle of wine.

​Once it was dark, Antonia and Evan began preparing the seafood feast. As a refresher, they watched a video on how to prepare octopus, which entailed boiling to soften it, followed by grilling to crispen the surface. The result was so tasty! The octopus joined the starting lineup of prawns, Moreton Bay bugs, and a salad. I particularly liked the bugs, which were sliced lengthwise so you could extract their lobster-like meat with a fork. The prawns were a bit messier, but also good. My humble contribution was the white wine. Antonia and Evan had gone overboard with the quantities, so we all had more than our fill. Later, they introduced me to a favorite TV show called Episodes, about British screenwriters who are flown to LA to make a US version of their hit show.

​The next morning, I bid Evan and Antonia farewell and walked to the Greyhound bus terminal. It was a strange sensation leaving Surfer’s Paradise without really seeing its main tourist center. Still, with help from my Gold Coast supporters, I had really experienced the region’s delights. From beach views to rainforest scenery to scrumptious seafood, it was a paradise for more than just the surfers.

​The old-growth forests of southwest Australia are the area's claim to fame. I had gotten a taste of the Karri forests on my drives into and out of Margaret River, but the largest Karri forests I encountered were near the town of Pemberton. I stayed there for three nights, at the fittingly named Karri Forest Motel.

​I arrived in Pemberton at dusk, when the air of this sleepy town was filling with chimney smoke. After receiving the room keys from the surly innkeeper, I rushed to the one and only grocery store before it closed at 6pm. Then, I attempted to cook a pasta and chicken meal using the motel kitchenette. The spaghetti noodles had to be steeped in a bowl of hot water, constantly refreshed using the tea kettle. With persistence, they softened to a modest al dente. I meant to buy microwaveable chicken nuggets, but they were actually raw, so I tossed them on the outdoor grill by the pool. While I sat by the grill, the motel’s spookiness started to dawn on me. It was a Monday, and I was the only person staying in my wing of the motel. The pool light turned on mysteriously, its motion sensor triggered by an unseen animal. The "Karri Forest Motel" kind of sounds like a place that an axe murderer would visit, no? Thankfully, I lived to tell the tale and enjoyed my chicken parmesan, a nice ending to a day of exploring caves.

​The motel was friendlier by daylight. A kookaburra hopped across the lawn, digging for insects. The wifi started working after initially failing to connect. I took my clothes to the laundromat, which had modern machines, labelled with the names of different tree species.

Pemberton is so strongly associated with the Karri forest that its tourism agency came up with the desperate slogan, “Pemberton: think trees? think again!” Although the alternative tourist attractions of mountain biking and wine tasting were appealing, I must admit it was the trees that I had in mind.
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I spent the afternoon “forest-bathing” on a hike that started at the Gloucester Tree. This well-known Karri giant was used as a fire lookout by early settlers and loggers. Around its trunk, a series of metal rungs formed a skeletal spiral ladder that ascended 60 meters into the canopy. I was secretly relieved it was closed for construction, as the idea of climbing it was both alluring and intimidating. Nearby, a ropes course filled with school age children on ziplines gave the forest a cheerful energy.

The hike itself was a 10km loop and surprisingly steep at times. I had the trail to myself, apart from one kangaroo at the very beginning. The dirt path was a soft and loosely packed, with regular offshoots where trucks had pushed debris out of the way. At the top of each hill, I paused to catch my breath, replenishing my lungs with the fresh forest air.
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The two main types of towering trees were called Karri and Marri and are both part of the eucalyptus family. The Karri had silver bark, that peeled back to reveal salmon-colored wood. They can grow to 90m tall and are one of the tallest species in the world. The Marri trees were shorter and had darker, almost calico bark. The Marri trees exude an antiseptic sap that was used by indigenous people to treat infections.

​When not gazing upwards, there were plenty of other engaging details in the scenery. The forest floor was covered with green and brown gumnuts (dried eucalyptus fruit) and banksia cones. I turned over a sheet of bark to find watery droplets of diluted red sap.

​Birds like fantails, white-breasted robins, and golden whistlers were always on the periphery. A few ring-necked parrots, also called the “twenty-eight parrot” due to the sound of their call, were browsing the treetops. When the wind picked up, the canopy came alive with a hissing of branches.

​After the hike, I rested in the motel room. I watched the Perth episode of Miriam Margolyes’ new show “Impossibly Australian." That night was also the season finale of "Lego Masters: Australia vs. The World." I had seen the American version and enjoyed a taste of the Aussie version, which were largely similar apart from the host and judge.

​For more arboreal immersion, I took a day trip to the Valley of the Giants. On the drive, I was surprised to see road signs warning about quokka crossing, as I assumed these cute critters were only widespread on Rottnest Island.

​The Valley of the Giants has plenty of Karri trees but is better known for its Tingle trees. The Tingle trees have buttressed roots that spread out to create a shallow but stable foundation, compared to the singular taproots of other species. Though bushfires often hollow out their base, the trees can survive these events. Unfortunately, the roots are susceptible to soil compaction. Human foot traffic caused a famous Tingle tree to collapse. In response, the park built an elaborate system of treetop canopies, so people can appreciate these giants at eye level and without damaging the roots.

​The treetop walk was fairly short, with only 6 or 7 bridges, so I took my time and enjoyed it. Surprisingly, I wasn't too fazed by the heights and swaying platforms.

The Tingle trees had much thicker shoulders and branches than the Karri trees – the Tingles didn’t skip arm day at the gym. Knobby growths called “burls” were inflammatory responses to insect activity, a self-defense mechanism. Some were at least 400 years old. It was very special to see these giants, as they have such a narrow geographic range. ​

​The park also had a short walk at ground level, including a tree that resembled a face, known as Grandma Tingle.

Content with my tree appreciation, it was time to start the journey back to Perth. It was about a 4-hour drive from Pemberton to Fremantle. Along the way, I stopped for a pumpkin pastie at a bakery in the town of Balingup, which hosts an annual medieval fair.

​A few hours south from Perth, in the “lower left corner” of Australia, is the Margaret River region. Known for its coastline, wineries, caves, and old growth forests, it had a surprising number of attractions in a relatively compact area – at least by Australian standards. However, it’s not very accessible by public transportation, so the price of entry was renting a car.

I don’t mind long road trips in the US, but I had been rattled by driving in New Zealand. The difficulty in NZ was a combination of a large vehicle, roads that were narrow and curvy, being on the opposite side of the road, and not being well rested. After initially losing my confidence, I gradually gained it back, eventually driving solo from Christchurch to Picton. Later, I also drove in Tasmania. So I had a little experience behind the wheel in Australia.
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Approaching the Margaret River trip, a lot of things were now in my favor. My brain had largely acclimated to the idea of left-side traffic. I rented a small vehicle. My mysterious back pain in late 2023 had faded away, improving my quality of sleep. The roads in WA were generally wider and straighter. Still, I hadn’t driven a car in the intervening 4 months, and I was driving by myself, so there was some uncertainty going into the trip.

The moment of truth. I picked up my Kia Sorrento from a rental company called No Birds, located a short walk from the Fremantle Prison. The days and hours leading up were full of careful preparation. I had studied the maps (including street views) and had all the stops planned out. I was caffeinated and had an emergency Red Bull. I installed a phone cradle so I could see the GPS without taking my eyes off the road.

And all this preparation paid off! The first 1-hour leg went smoothly. The second leg was similarly uneventful. I stopped just shy of Busselton at a sleepy little country café. The city was currently hosting a triathlon weekend, and there were several road closures in effect. I checked traffic, and saw that things had mercifully cleared up for the day. 15 minutes and a few roundabouts later, I was parked in Busselton.
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I had a healthy buffer before my time slot at the Busselton Jetty, so I explored the town. There were some incredible parks, with enormous play structures in the form of ships and sea monsters. The triathlon was done for the day, but the event precinct was still busy with food trucks and bike repairs. A Christian lady tried to ambush me with a religious pitch while I put on my sunscreen.

​The jetty is a whopping 1.8km long, and my tour included a ride on the mini train that runs its length. The electric locomotive had both train wheels and car tires. When it completed each one-way journey, it went off the rails (literally), and reattached to the opposite side. The cars were small, and 6 of us were shoulder-to shoulder in a little compartment. It got colder and windier as we headed farther out to sea. The pedestrians we passed looked exhausted.

​At the end of the jetty was an Underwater Observatory, a 3-story hollow tube that was bolted to the ocean floor. It was constructed near Fremantle, tugged along in the ocean, and then sunk to the bottom. It’s only 1 of 6 natural aquariums in the world. In this case, it provided views of the coral reef that had formed on the jetty supports. The corals were brought down by the Leeuwin Current, a flow along the coast of Western Australia that brings warm water from the tropics to a surprisingly southern latitude.

​There had been recent storms (i.e. the rainbows on Rottnest) that had churned up the water, so the visibility wasn’t perfect, but it kicked up food for the corals and fish, so they were active. There were some pretty striped fish, but the soft corals were the real stars. The jetty was covered with structures that looked like red tentacles. On each tentacle, there were dozens of white, flower-like coral polyps. The tentacles jostled with the ocean current, a mesmerizing kinetic sculpture. In videos, it looks slightly uncanny but in real life it was wondrous.

​A guide provided a 15-minute talk when we entered the observatory, and then we had 30 minutes to gaze and photograph to our hearts’ content. Though the windows spanned multiple levels, there were relatively few on each level. Fun fact, the outside surface of the observatory is also covered in corals, apart from the windows which they clean.

The train took us back to the edge of town, and I hopped in the car again. It was a short drive to the place I was staying for the night, with an address on "Caves Road."
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I had originally reached out a Servas host in Busselton. She was unavailable, but kindly referred me to her friends Sue and Geoff. The couple were former Servas hosts, called out of retirement by this referral, and agreed to host me. It was an unconventional premise, but it ended up working out brilliantly.

The two of them had lived in the area for 40 years, and seen it change around them. They mentioned the introduction of the wine industry, damage from a major cyclone in the 1980s, the migration of kangaroo mobs as more farmland was cleared, rising housing prices as the local airport became more accessible, and the death of trees from this year’s extreme dryness. They told stories of their travels in remote areas of Australia, like getting trapped in the mud near Lake Eyre or needing a replacement car part flown to an isolated village in the NT when their car broke down. The conversation was complemented by a filling dinner of rogan josh and local red wine, which really hit the spot after snacking my way through the day.
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Geoff had played mandolin growing up, and nowadays plays ukelele. He brought out a special mandolin he purchased in Italy and played a few tunes for me. Apparently, he had just hosted a ukelele jam session in their house the night before! I guess that WA is ukelele country.

​The next morning, we had breakfast and walked the dog, an English Springer Spaniel named Finn. The backyard was full of delights, both small and large, from a frog climbing their hat rack to several Tuart trees, a rare species that only grows in the area. Their house was connected to the beach. In the distance, Geoff pointed out the beach where a hundred pilot whales had been stranded the week before, making national news. I also got a full tour of the garage and vegetable garden.

As the name implies, Caves Road connects a string of limestone caves. They span the region between Cape Naturaliste to the north and Cape Leeuwin to the south. Around the capes are some beautiful and rugged beaches, popular surfing destinations (including the home of the Margaret River Pro), and a popular multiday hike called the Cape to Cape Track. Over the course of 2 days, I worked my way from north to south, alternating between beaches and caves, with an overnight stop in the town of Margaret River. I’ll start by describing the beaches and town, and finish with the caves!
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After leaving Sue and Geoff’s, I made two quick stops at Meelup Beach and Eagle Bay. They had lovely white sand and a few boulders to scramble over. A few photos were sufficient before moving on.

​The third stop was the Cape Naturaliste lighthouse, on the edge of Geographe Bay. These two places are named for the ships of French explorer Jacques Hamelin. The land was covered in multicolor shrubs, all orange and yellow and green. I embarked on an hourlong hike that went down from the lighthouse to the beach. An area called “Other Side of the Moon” had pockmarked stones and hollowed out plateaus that indeed looked from a different planet. I stopped and had a snack on top of a sand dune, watching the wild and tubular waves.

​As I headed south along the rugged coast, I stopped at two jagged rock formations. One was Sugarloaf Rock, a pointy behemoth just off the shore. The other was the Canal Rocks, which had a footbridge over a cauldron of violently churning water. I spotted some vibrant purple crabs while exploring the tide pools. Afterwards, I climbed to the top of the rock formation and had a container of leftovers from Sue and Geoff while watching the crashing waves send plumes of foam rocketing into the air.

​The last beach I visited was called Hamelin Bay. I had heard there were stingrays that frequented the shallows, but I didn’t realize how enormous they would be! I first spotted one from atop a sand dune. It was camouflaged against the seaweed and obscured by surface reflection, but unmistakably a ray.

​The best viewing was by the boat launch ramp. Nearby were some old jetty timbers, a mystical archway like the floating torii gates in Japan. The rays lingered here longer, flapping their wings above the surface and riding the tides towards the ankles of the curious onlookers. Families with young kids joined forces with camera-wielding tourists to form a small but dedicated “ray watch” to track their movements. As a ray lover myself, it was such a cool opportunity to see them up close in the wild! Thanks to the clear water, I could see them in detail. Including the sharp stinger, so I kept a healthy distance.

​As I was leaving the beach, a local fisherwoman pointed out something in the water. It turned out to be a shark, with its fin and tail breaching the surface as it pursued some fish scraps the person had cast away. A good reminder of why I don’t tend to swim at Australian beaches! 

The drive into Margaret River was incredibly beautiful. It was golden hour, and the orange light was filtering through the vineyards and peaceful mobs of grazing kangaroos. The road became lined with majestic Karri trees – more on those in the next post. There was even a fragment of rainbow in the distance.
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My brief stint in the town of Margaret River was very enjoyable. Lodging options were limited, so I stayed in a funky antique hotel, which ended up being delightfully strange. There was a small foyer with an arc-shaped couch and retro travel posters. The room itself had thick red curtains, decorative wooden paneling on the walls, and two separate patios. One patio was above an Italian restaurant. For several hours the room was filled with upbeat Italian pop music, which I didn't mind.

​Since the area is known for its food and alcohol offerings, I treated myself to a meal out at the Margaret River Beer Company. It was already dark, and I spotted a tawny frogmouth owl in the forested section of the walk there. At the brewery, I had a choice between a flight of 3 beers or 8 beers. Go big or go home! The small glasses are called ponies, so on the receipt, my enormous crate was tagged as the “Pony Pallet." While I worked my way through the selection, I listened to a live guitarist and snacked on chips. Of the lineup, my favorite beers were all on the dark side – a “red IPA,” a brown ale, and a stout.

The next morning, I did a short walk along the town’s namesake river, which was lush and reflective. I also stopped in a bottle shop to pick up some wine for later. Since I didn’t have a designated driver, I sadly had to omit the wine tastings from my itinerary. Still, I was able to end the day with this store-bought sauvignon blanc from the nearby Leeuwin Estate.

​My interest in caves was piqued a few months earlier by the Skocjan Caves in Slovenia. While in WA, I visited three different caves on Caves Road. Though none as large as Skocjan, they were all picturesque and had their own character.
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The first was Ngilgi Cave (pronounced “nil-ghee”). Right off the bat, it had a stunning chamber called the Auditorium. Its wide ceiling was coated in thousands of petite stalactites. Due to its good acoustics, it occasionally hosts live music performances.

​The pathway descended into another set of chambers, with some low boulders that were hazardous for the taller guests. The two highlights of the inner Ngilgi Cave were the shawls and the jewel box. Shawls are thin, sharkfin-shaped stalactities that form on angled rocks. Some had beautiful layers of red and white. The red color comes from tannins (think red wine) that filter into the cave from the topsoil.

​The jewel box was a tiny little chamber the size of a dollhouse. It’s easy to walk past, but when peeping through its natural windows, there are some literal hidden gems on the tips of the stalactites.

​It wasn’t too crowded in the late afternoon, and at one point I paused to sit on a bench between the two main chambers. This deep underground, the silence was deafening.

The second was Lake Cave, the most “active” cave with frequent water droplets, carrying limestone to new places. The guide pointed out limestone deposits on the manmade walkway, where baby stalagmite nubs were already forming. The entrance to Lake Cave was a doline, a sinkhole formed after the limestone ceiling collapsed. Tall eucalyptus trees rose up and out of this dramatic doline.

​The water inside the Lake Cave created a stunning reflection that amplified the beauty of the stalactites and stalagmites. Changing water levels created a magnificent “table” formation, which was the centerpiece. A thick pillar of rock suspended a wide sheet of rock above the water’s surface. The hovering table was inches above the lake, but its underside could be glimpsed by its reflection.

​Another unique formation was a hollow pool, carved in a stalagmite, and filled with rounded spheres of limestone called "pearls." The edges of the pool had ridges like brain coral.

At the deepest part of the cave, the guide turned off the lights for a moment to appreciate its utter darkness. He also activated some colorful effect lights, illuminating formations like a dragon.
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The third and final cave I visited was the Jewel Cave. It was the most popular of the three, with a large and diverse tour group including a few small children. The tour started in the impressive main chamber and followed a fun route through several smaller chambers. Though the stalactites were less picturesque, there were a few unique features like “pendulites,” which resembled a pendulum. There were also squiggly stalactites that looked like tree roots but were purely rock.

​Many of these caves contained fossils of ancient megafauna, the ancestors of kangaroos and wombats. These animals had fallen into the cave depths, where their bones were protected from scavengers and the elements. The Jewel Cave even had thylacine (Tasmanian Tiger) bones from when its range extended beyond Tasmania.

The road trip was off to a thrilling start. The dazzling caves, scenic coastline, and friendly stingrays had already justified the effort of renting and driving a car. Staying with Sue and Geoff was a surprise bonus that uplifted my spirits along the way. Up next... the fabulous forests.

​Rottnest Island is only 19km off the coast from Fremantle and is easily reached by ferry. Here, it’s all about the quokkas. What is a quokka? It’s a small marsupial, like a wallaby shrunk to the size of housecat, with a charming smile and curious personality. They are extremely photogenic, due to their tendency to approach humans and look up at the camera. In the Instagram era, the tradition of taking a “quokka selfie” has become so popular that it’s heresy to leave the island without one.

​The Dutch explorers mistook the quokkas for rats – their tails are indeed a bit rat-like – and named the island “Rottnest” (Rat’s Nest) in their honor. While mostly extinct on mainland Australia, the quokkas are abundant on Rottnest. All the shops in the main tourist village had heavy plastic quokka gates, intended to stop them from getting in. Unsuccessfully, I might add. I saw several quokkas begging for scraps at the bakery tables. The quokkas had a tendency to loiter around garbage cans, so a jaded Aussie might still spitefully call them “rats.”

​The day started in Perth, where I finished up my Servas stay and hopped on the bus to Fremantle. Also journeying to Freo that morning were a group of Aboriginal locals, including three boisterous ladies who appeared to be drunk at 11:00am and a large man who reeked of body odor. From the other riders’ reactions, this did not seem to be a typical occurrence.

In Freo, I stopped by a local sandwich shop called Peggy’s and picked up two sandwiches, one for lunch and another for dinner. Both were absolutely delicious, including a flavorful pesto roast beef and the most deluxe BLT that I’ve ever had. I made sure to puppy guard this precious food from the seagulls at the ferry terminal, who were keeping a close eye.

​The ferry was uncrowded. Most people visit on a day trip from Perth, whereas I was traveling from Fremantle and staying for 2 nights.

​On the island, I picked up the keys from the information desk and began the hike from the main settlement to Kingstown, where the hostel was located. It was walkable, but long enough to get pitiful looks from people on bikes. At the very end, a sympathetic bus driver let me hop on for free.

The hostel was located in the Kingstown Barracks, an old military settlement from the WWII era. At the time, Rottnest was fortified to protect Fremantle from a naval attack.

Since I had a few hours of daylight, I hiked into the hills along a historical trail that linked several military bunkers. It was a rainy, moody afternoon. The perfect balance of tranquil and creepy. As I walked through the drizzly forest along an old rail line, originally used to transport ammunition, it felt like exploring a video game map. When I reached the top, a quokka scurried away from the center of the gun turret base. It was a funny juxtaposition. I thought of an innocent little quokka firing an enormous cannon. At the entrance to the outpost, a king skink flashed its tongue before slowly retreating inside, its scaly belly rasping on the wet concrete floor.

​The eerie hike continued down to the beach, which was beautiful even on a gray day. I encountered more skinks, including one that didn’t budge so I had to leap over it, and several of the bobtail variety.

​The barracks attracted a strange mix. There was an Eastern European-sounding lady who left full cups of tea everywhere, a nice Asian lady with a persistent cough, and two Australian men with an odd-couple dynamic. The large dorm had plenty of vacancies, but the hostel owner had assigned everyone beds in the same corner. Elsewhere in the complex, there were school groups with occasional bursts of playground energy. And at night, the lawn was filled with nibbling quokkas, who sometimes wandered onto the hostel’s porch. Quirks aside, it was a wonderful historic building with all the essentials, including a kitchen that I used to make a pasta dinner the second night.

​Rottnest had so many amazing beaches, it would be futile to attempt cataloging them all. I probably made 15-20 stops, hopping off the bike whenever it struck my fancy. The stops all had a bike rack and a wooden staircase with beach access. It was a perfect day to have hiking sandals, as I could jump off my bike and walk straight into the shallow, clear water.

​The sheltered coves were a bright turquoise color with dark patches of seaweed, while the shoreline exposed to the open ocean was dark and frothy. There were often interesting rock formations, from jagged layers to hollowed out archways. At the far western tip, there was a seal colony and an osprey nest. I saw an osprey fly by with a fish in its talons. It was one of those remote places with an aura of last refuge. Looking out to the Indian Ocean, the nearest continent was 3000km in any direction.

One of my favorite beaches was the picturesque Marjorie Bay. It felt like I had stumbled into a travel advertisement. The sand was soft and vibrantly tan. The water was blue and foamy. Even the rocks looked like the cover of my Australia guidebook. Did I mention it was completely deserted? I put my phone camera on a timer and took some silly jumping photos.

​Towards the end of the bike loop, I arrived back in the settled area, and stopped at Pinky Beach. At the foot of a picturesque lighthouse, I took a dip in the water and dried off in the sun. The waves were picking up and I could hear thunder in the distance, so I didn’t dwell too long. I made it back to the barracks just as a burst of rain arrived.

​The rain subsided, and I ventured out again, which turned out to be an excellent decision. The skies were simply bursting with activity! There was a full rainbow to the east, a gorgeous sunset to the west, and a lightning storm to the south. During this golden hour, the sand turned a beautiful shade of orange. Nature knows how to put on a good show.

​The quokkas, more active at dusk, continued to put on a good show too.

On my last Rottnest morning, I balanced my duffel bag on the bike rack and rode from Kingstown to the main village. I returned the bike and waited for my ferry in the town square, savoring my last quokka encounter.
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As a transition between my visit to Rottnest and my road trip to Margaret River, I booked one night at a hostel in Fremantle, which had a unique location… within the Fremantle Prison!

The prison was built by convict labor in the 1850s and continued operating until 1991. Hence, it had many layers of history, from colonial to modern. The hostel itself was in the former women’s prison, a self-contained wing. I wandered around its halls, lounges, and courtyards, which were more inviting than expected. However, it was still a prison with plenty of concrete and fenced areas. Since I arrived before check-in, I had to temporarily put my luggage in the storage room. The room had an enormous lock and key, which inspired confidence in my bag’s safety while I headed off to the Fremantle Market.

​The Fremantle Market started back in 1897 and is housed in a beautiful building. Inside was a bustling food court with a dizzying selection of international cuisines, and a more relaxed area with arts and crafts. Many of the artistic wares featured Fremantle landmarks and humor, like a giraffe trying to flirt with the long-necked cranes in the shipyard. I also loved the quirky art style of Stunned Emu Designs.

​That night, I managed to get a spot on the prison’s Torchlight Tour, which covers some of the darker and spookier elements of the site. The charismatic guide Simon was oozing with humor and energy from the very beginning, calling out “guilty… guilty… guilty” as each attendee was admitted. He was one of the most entertaining guides I’ve encountered anywhere in the world. Not only did he nail the info delivery, but he did a great job of involving audience members. For example, at the flogging post, he had a girlfriend pretend to whip her boyfriend, and hilarity ensued. He also filled the gaps between stops by singing little songs, like “Ring of Fire” when trying to get people into a circle.

​The tour had some built-in jump scares, including an actor who popped out of a solitary confinement cell to deliver a creepy monologue, which thoroughly freaked out several members of the group. There were also some sobering moments, like a visit to the gallows, where 44 people were hanged. Simon dutifully described how the hangings were carried out, with details that would likely be omitted on the daytime tours. If they couldn’t stand, the prisoner could be seated when the trapdoor opened; the chair was tethered with a string, so it wouldn’t break on the bottom of the pit.

​The hostel bed was surprisingly comfortable, and I slept well even after the haunting torchlight tour. Between the Kingstown Barracks and now the Fremantle Prison, I was soaking up a lot of history at night.

All in all, the quokkas lived up to the hype and Rottnest Island really surprised me with its amazing beaches. The biking tour was my single favorite day of my 2 weeks in WA.

Perth: the most isolated city in the world. When I first started planning my yearlong trip back in 2023, its remote location in Western Australia beckoned to me. What could be hiding in this corner of the world? At long last, I was about to experience “WA”!
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In some ways, Perth is like the child of Sydney of Melbourne. It’s defined by its location on the Swan River, similar to Melbourne on the Yarra. But it’s also a short distance from a string of amazing beaches, like Sydney and Bondi. The Perth CBD is a fusion of the two larger cities, with the modern quays and promenades of Sydney and the quirky laneways and public squares of Melbourne. But of course, everything on a smaller scale, which makes it more relaxed.

​Some of the key landmarks included Elizabeth Quay, a ferry terminal with an artistic bridge, surrounded by a ring of cafes, sculptures, and playgrounds. Nearby in Barrack Square was the glass Bell Tower, recently named in the controversial “Top 100 Most Boring Tourist Attractions in the World.” I also stumbled across the newly renovated Yagan Square, an echo of Melbourne’s Fed Square, celebrating its reopening with a special weekend festival. After all this exploring, I treated myself to a cinnamon scroll at a cafe across from the square.

​I was fortunate to stay with a Servas host named Shirley, a kind and energetic woman who picked me up from the airport. Originally from the north island of New Zealand, she had lived in Perth for over 20 years. Her son Ed, a geologist, was also living at her house. Ed was recovering from the financial ripples of a bust in the mining industry and a difficult divorce, but you wouldn’t guess from his chipper attitude and non-stop jokes. For part of my visit, two of Ed’s teenage kids were also under the same roof. They emerged for dinner and were coaxed to stay for a game of cards called Seven of Diamonds. Shirley later told me she valued the ability of the game to bring everyone together.

Shirley had a very interesting life story. After growing up in a rural area, she studied horticulture and worked in the New Zealand kiwifruit industry. However, as the only woman in this area, her career progression was limited despite her tremendous success. She ended up moving to China and living there for a few years, an impactful chapter that often featured in her stories. She also overcame an unsuccessful marriage and the loss of her daughter to cancer. Eventually, she moved to Perth to be closer to Ed (whose mining career had brought him to WA) and worked as an ESL teacher. Nowadays, she teaches ukelele, finding particular joy in creating a community for other transplants like herself. Shirley even has her own ukelele song book that she lovingly compiled.
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On my first day, I was invited to join a jam session that Shirley attends as a regular member. Happening once a month, the jam was very well organized by a music teacher. The teacher had selected and distributed a song list, including some repeats and some new pieces. The teacher played guitar at the front of the group, and was accompanied by a keyboard, bass, and drum player. The attendees were a general audience, mainly retirees, and playing a mix of ukelele and guitar. Shirley had contacted the teacher in advance and arranged a guitar for me. Since the chord fingerings were provided on the sheet music, I was able to play along.

​Everyone was super friendly and accommodating to their unexpected guest guitarist. The teacher made sure to highlight the songs by Australian artists for my benefit, and I had some nice conversations during the coffee break intermission. As I was still jet-lagged and had just met Shirley hours earlier, the whole thing was a bit surreal. Still, it was memorable and good fun!

​Dinner conversation with Shirley and Ed was a key part of the experience. One night, Ed grilled some delicious steak and corn, served with wine. Another night, I prepared a round of jambalaya and sampled local beers. The food and drink greased the wheels for deep conversations about family history and politics. Ed and Shirley were more politically conservative than other Australians I had the chance to meet, and I learned a lot from their perspectives. Ed expressed frustration with Aboriginal landowners because of the expensive cultural surveys needed as a pre-requisite for mining. Shirley saw the prime minister as being too soft. Both of them were articulate and backed up their opinions with anecdotes, though at times I found the anecdotes to be a little reductive. It was fascinating and insightful.

Shirley’s place was conveniently located near a train station. Getting to the CBD only required a smooth 20-minute train ride across the Swan River. Along the way, I glimpsed harbors full of boats and a few of Perth’s iconic black swans. The first Europeans to arrive in Perth were baffled by these black swans, leading to the river’s name. The term “black swan event” was definitely not coined in Perth!
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There were plenty of other things coined in Perth, and I learned all about them at the Perth Mint. When gold was discovered near Kalgoorlie, 600km away, it started the 1890s gold rush. A branch of the British Royal Mint was opened in Perth in 1899, so the fresh gold haul could be struck into sovereigns. Eventually production was shifted to bullion bars, and later to Australia’s own coin designs. Nowadays, the Perth Mint does specialty jobs, while Canberra has taken over for circulating currency.

​The tour guide spoke fast but conveyed a lot of information in a short time. He also performed a gold pouring demo in a special theater. The molten gold, mostly liquid with a few glowing chunks, was poured into a bar shape and cooled down before our eyes. This same gold bar gets melted and cooled multiple times a day for years on end without deteriorating.

​The Perth Mint also had an impressive array of exhibits, including the world’s largest gold coin, stamped with a kangaroo and a face value of $1 million AUD. There were enormous gold nuggets and silver specimens, a gold bar you could try to pick up (it was well secured), a scale that would calculate “your weight’s worth in gold,” a place you could get custom-engraved coins, and archives of Australian coin designs over time. I thoroughly enjoyed the Perth Mint’s blend of mining history, materials science, and coin collecting.

​I visited two other attractions in the CBD, the Art Gallery of West Australia (AGWA) and the Boola Bardip Museum. The AGWA was free and worth browsing. I enjoyed a Yhonnie Scarce glassblowing exhibition. In her work, glass yams were used to represent nuclear fallout from the Maralinga bomb testing site. There was also a gallery of student projects that showcased Perth’s ethnic diversity, with some thought-provoking pieces.

​The Boola Bardip museum, meaning “many stories,” covered the natural history and human history of the area. I learned about indigenous customs and European industries like mining, logging, and raising livestock. There were excellent displays on biodiversity. Australia has so many unique animals. Just when I got down the difference between a bilby and a bettong, I was confronted with even more marsupials: the numbat, the quenda, the mulgara, and more! There wasn’t sufficient time to absorb it all. One small display that caught my attention was a classical guitar built by Greg Smallman in Esperance, WA. This luthier came up with the lattice brace construction technique, the same technique used in my own guitar back home.

​Every city in Australia, big or small, seems to have a botanic garden. Perth’s offering was the impressive King’s Park, located on a bluff with views of the CBD and Swan River. There were so many pockets to explore. A raised walkway through a forest canopy offered peeks into tree holes where lorikeets and galahs were nesting. A staircase shaped like DNA was a cleverly designed viewing platform. There was a giant boab tree, which made a long road trip from its original location in northern Australia. The park had kookaburras, but as I learned at the Boola Bardip museum, they are not native to WA. They were introduced by some Europeans who thought WA’s forests were too quiet. I guess the kookaburras got the last laugh.

So much of Western Australia’s treasures are in the remote northwest corner, including Ningaloo Reef and the Kimberley. Though alluring, I felt these areas were too remote for a solo road trip, or too expensive for a guided tour. To get a brief taste, I signed up for a day trip from Perth to the sand dunes and rock formations about 3 hours’ drive to the north. The stacked itinerary included sandboarding, the Pinnacles, dinner, and stargazing.
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Sandboarding on the Lancelin dunes was a thrilling experience! It was my first time trying sandboarding, and somehow I ended up being the first from the group to give it a go. It turned out to be more like sledding than snowboarding. But it could pick up speed, and trying to stay onboard was part of the thrill. A few people tried standing up, usually tumbling off as the board lost momentum. After each round was an arduous climb to the ridgeline, where a constant stream of wind greeted us with sand in the face. It stuck to my sunscreen-covered arms and neck. There were far fewer boards than people, but waiting in line gave a chance to enjoy the views of the ocean. I loved how the sand was jarringly white, a total contrast from the red sands of Uluru. It was also surprisingly cold, so no risk of burning ones' feet.

The other main stop on the tour was seeing the Pinnacles of Nambung National Park. The pinnacles were surprising in their quantity – vast plains filled with these tombstone-like pillars. The van traced the park’s main road, an unpaved dirt track marked only with a perimeter of stones. At times the pinnacles were just outside the boundary, looming precariously close to the windows as we drove by.
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The tour wasn’t really a guided tour, and we were let loose to wander through the pinnacles at our own pace while the “guides” prepared dinner. I took lots of silly photos with the rocks and admired the sunset over the desert.

Dinner was a surprisingly good, a spread of salads and sausages. It also included self-pour wine, both a blessing and a curse. Two women from NSW who had been friendly-chatty now became annoying-chatty. As we transitioned into the stargazing part of the tour, they loudly called out every passing satellite (of which there were many). One of the guides, who already had a proclivity for unhelpful banter, squabbled with the tipsy ladies while everyone else tried to enjoy the night sky. I’m glad I already had an amazing stargazing tour in Uluru, because this one was a disappointment.
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After three days revolving around Perth, my attention then shifted towards Fremantle, its ocean-based sister city. "Freo" is known for its active port and seafaring legacy. I thought it was fitting to start my visit at the Shipwreck Museum. (Also fitting was the weather, suddenly stormy after several perfect days.)

​WA has experienced its fair share of shipwrecks. During the 1600s, ships from the Dutch East India Company sailed around the tip of Africa and towards its port in modern Indonesia. The original route hugged the coast of Africa and India, but the Dutch discovered it was more efficient to power on east, and later turn north. The problem was, they didn’t have instruments for measuring longitude, so they had to guess when to turn. Ships that didn’t turn soon enough hit the west coast of Australia. The museum’s centerpiece was the hull of the Batavia, one of these unlucky Dutch ships.

​However, the wreck that really stood out was a steam ship called the SS Xantho which sank in 1872. When it was discovered, the steam engine was covered in concretion – a mix of corrosion and undersea growth. Since no working engines (nor their drawings) had survived from this era, an elaborate marine archaeology project was kicked off. The concretion was removed, the corrosion was chemically stopped, and after over 100 years underwater, it was restored to the point the engine could be cranked. A remarkable feat.

​Afterwards, I went across the street to Cicerello’s, a fish & chips fixture. The inside was decorated with multiple aquariums. The beautiful fish were unaware of the irony. From the ceiling, hanging kayaks with shark bites were a reminder that humans could also be on the menu. I washed the food down with a flight of beers from the neighboring brewery, called Little Creatures, a reference to microscopic yeast. The flight was superb, especially after a salty meal.

​The weather started to improve, so I worked my way north towards Cottesloe Beach. Along the way, I passed the Dingo Flour factory, a Fremantle landmark that’s visible to both trains and ships. The dingo logo has now found its way onto beer cans, posters, and t-shirts. I crossed the train tracks via a funky boardwalk and arrived at the beach.

​WA has some of the most luscious sand I’ve ever encountered, soft and coherent like cookie dough. It felt great on the feet. As I walked north while carrying my shoes, small waves crashed into the gentle slope with an outsized boom. In some places, seaweed had accumulated into natural levees. Eventually the sand ended, and I had to put my shoes back on. The overland pathway passed an elaborate sundial and then descended to the Cottesloe Beach jetty. There were a few fishermen and tourists, but otherwise this popular beach was quiet.

​I had a few errands that brought me back to the CBD and then got hungry. The local Woolworth’s had some decent hot food options, including dumplings and curry bowls, so I picked up a basic dinner and enjoyed it on Elizabeth Quay, dressed up in its evening colors. I looked up at the skyline. After talking with Ed, I now recognized the names on the skyscrapers – mining companies, like BHP and Rio Tinto. For better or worse, I had found something that made Perth distinct from other Australian cities.

​Melbourne had skipped from summer right into winter. I heard that some locals try to avoid turning on their heat before ANZAC Day, on April 25th, but this was a year that needed it sooner. After several frigid nights, a new flatmate named Zachary convinced the property manager to turn on the building’s heating. Zachary was older than the other residents. He had long hair and a beard, giving him a rougher appearance, but he had a soft and friendly voice. We often talked in the kitchen as he prepared his healthy lunches for his government office job. He had just returned to Australia after living in Spain for many years, so while he was technically from the area, he wasn’t yet re-assimilated. I asked him about how people observe ANZAC Day. He didn’t think the military was that important to Aussie society, but did mention a workplace ANZAC biscuit contest.

​The International Comedy Festival was entering its last weekend. One of Gail’s friends had purchased a two-for-one ticket, and she offered me the extra one. There were six of us in total, and we started with a dinner at Bossley in the CBD. While at dinner, Gail and her friend Angela recognized someone they worked with a long time ago. The food and ambiance were excellent. I had a mushroom ravioli and a “Bloody Shiraz” gin spritz. The triple-fried chips were also a hit with the table, which included the gregarious Helen and James.

It turned out the comedy show was just upstairs. The performer was a Venezuelan-Australian named Ivan Aristeguieta, who poked fun at both Venezuelan and Aussie culture. He did a hilarious impression of an Aussie trying to pronounce his last name. Early in the act, an audience heckler asked him if living under the Albanese government was worse than the Maduro regime, which Ivan deflected.

The jokes had the audience rolling. With comedy as his one job, he had time to ponder the small mysteries of life, so we didn’t have to. Why is there no word for “accountability” in Spanish and Italian? Does this explain their lack of it? And how modern sayings like “strike while the iron is hot” don’t resonate. There are no blacksmiths anymore; the only modern workers with aprons and beards are instead making coffee.
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There were some excellent recurring jokes, like the absorbent abilities of the Australian breakfast cereal Weetbix and different cultures’ versions of “punch buggy.” The Venezuelan version is “fosforito” (little matchstick) and is called out when a ginger person is sighted.

​We returned to Bossley for dessert, but since it was now loud in the main restaurant, we sat in the lobby. Half the group ordered at the counter, and half ordered by QR code. When the food didn’t arrive, we checked in with the staff. But once it started arriving, it kept on arriving… until we had two of everything! Double tiramisu, double Snickers, double tea, and double wine. I couldn’t stop laughing as each incremental item was delivered. We got more than our just desserts!

As my travel plans started to fill up the month of May, I realized I was slowly running out of time to see Melbourne’s attractions. Over the next few days, I crossed off several destinations that had been lingering on my Melbourne bucket list.
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One afternoon, I visited the Abbotsford Convent, a short bus ride away. In the late 1800s, it was a rooming house for young women with nowhere else to go: orphans or wards of the state. The convent did not receive external funding and forced these women to do laundry and mend clothes in order to subsidize the operation. Nowadays, it’s the largest community arts center in Australia, with workshops and storefronts for local artisans, cafes, performing arts venues, and a kid-friendly farm. It was mostly deserted when I visited, and a bit creepy wandering between the austere buildings. I decided it was a benign haunted house. Yes, there was disembodied bassoon music and faint shrieks in the distance, but it was only a chamber music rehearsal and the neighboring sheep paddock. I stopped to chat with a jeweler who used repurposed materials like wire insulation in her creations.

​As the sun set, I walked from the Abbotsford Convent to Yarra Bend Park to revisit the fruit bat colony and see them take flight. The colony was smaller in April compared to my first impression in January, but there were still thousands. The moon was almost full, a wonderful backdrop to this natural show. I also got to enjoy a view of the city skyline at night.

Philip Island is one of the biggest tourist attractions in Victoria. It’s famous for its evening penguin parade, where the little penguins return from the ocean and waddle up the beach to their hillside nests. Since it’s a few hours drive from Melbourne and not accessible by public transport, I decided to take a guided tour with a company called Go West. It included some additional stops that ended up being equally enjoyable as the penguins.
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The first was at Brighton Beach, home of the famous colorful bathing boxes. From classic stripes to elaborate murals, the 80 boxes are easy to appreciate and a fun background for photos. Owning a box is a status symbol in this affluent beach suburb, and the prices are exorbitant. The driver-guide was very talkative at the beginning of the day and offered good information. Though after taking enough tours in Australia, some of the information felt a little entry-level.

​The second stop was at Moonlit Sanctuary. I was a little skeptical this would be worthwhile, as I had already visited similar zoos in Tasmania and Kangaroo Island. I still had a lot of fun! I bought a container of food and gave out free samples to the cute wallabies (and pademelons?) which honestly never gets old. I even coaxed the shiest wallaby, alone in a corner, to hop over for a taste. The ducks at Moonlit, also interested in the food mix, were quite aggressive and boxed out the poor little pademelons.

​The keeper talk was also a highlight of Moonlit. It featured a bettong, a marsupial that I’d heard of but never seen before, a pink cockatoo doing tricks, and a tawny frogmouth owl. The tawny frogmouth is excellent at pretending to be a branch on a tree; it had been onstage the whole time, unnoticed until the keeper pointed it out!

​Finally, we reached Philip Island itself. We stopped at the beautiful, rugged coastline in an area called the Nobbies. The boardwalk had great views of the waves crashing into the rocky shore. There were also swamp wallabies and echnidnas browsing for food on the hillsides. The area was full of tourists on a similar itinerary, including a man with the longest selfie stick I’ve ever seen.

​The penguin colony is the largest is Victoria, with about 35,000 to 40,000 residents. My expectations were high, as this vastly outnumbered the Dunedin penguin colony that I had seen a few months prior in New Zealand. I had been in Dunedin on a good night, when about 300 of the 500 penguins returned from sea. I figured even a bad night on Philip Island would be an order of magnitude better.

While I didn’t get the penguin count for evening, I would guess it was about the same the previous night, which had 1200. The catch was that the Philip Island beach was also wider. The penguins had three different paths they could take from the beach into the hills, and one was a lot more heavily trafficked. Of course, this main path was best seen from the "premium" viewing platform, which cost extra. Though one advantage of Philip Island’s viewing setup was the ability to sit directly on the beach. I was positioned in the front row, about halfway between the two less trafficked pathways, and could see the penguins clearly with my binoculars. After each “raft” landed on the beach, the penguins stood their hesitantly for a few minutes, until they achieved critical mass, a brave penguin led the charge, and the others followed. Every now and then, a penguin would get cold feet partway through the journey and turn back towards the water.

​Once the parade subsided, the crowd dispersed into the network of walkways with views of the penguin neighborhood. The penguins were loud and active, with lots of catching up, mating, and fighting. The nests were like Hobbit holes. Some were surprisingly far inland. Apparently the penguins can travel over a kilometer from the ocean. Unfortunately, a number of people were taking photos/videos with the flash on, which can disorient the penguins (their night vision is quite good). The conservation center had done an experiment where all visitor photography was temporarily banned. They found it reduced penguin mortality, so they made it a permanent policy, with clear signs in the visitor center and clear announcements from a ranger on the beach. The people with the flash on were mostly Indian families and I told them to stop. (Photos here are from the official website.)

After the Phillip Island outing, I embarked on a more hiking-oriented day trip. It was only an hour-long train ride to the Dandenong Ranges. Here was an old growth fern forest with a tall gum tree canopy, and one of Melbourne’s most popular hikes: the 1000 Steps. There were families, noisy school groups, and runners but there were still peaceful moments along the way.

The trail is also known as the Kokoda Memorial Track and features historical info signs about the Australian army’s WWII jungle campaign on the island of Papua. The Japanese landed on the north side of the island, then an Australian territory, and began advancing south over the narrow and treacherous Kokoda Track. With help from Papuan porters who carried supplies and injured soldiers, the outnumbered Aussie army managed to stop the advance and emerge victorious. It felt like the perfect moment to learn about this chapter in Australian history, as Prime Minister Albanese was currently in Papua hiking the real Kokoda Track with his Papuan counterpart, as a sign of friendship between the two nations and part of the ANZAC Day commemorations.
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I had packed a considerable amount of food, which incentivized me to stop for multiple mini-picnics along the way. During my first picnic near the parking lot, I was joined at the table by a kookaburra who seemed very interested in my snacks.

During my second picnic on top of the mountain, I was eyed by some magpies who also were getting a bit too close. Apart from these buskers, the variety of birds were a welcome sight. I was lucky and spotted a lyrebird, a bit like a peacock with two prominent tail feathers that curve like its namesake instrument. I had previously seen lyrebirds in the Blue Mountains outside Sydney, so I was 2 for 2.

​​As a lover of lamingtons, I knew I had to try the Japanese-inspired flavors from Tokyo Lamington, a bakery-café located on my same street in Carlton. I picked two flavors, isephan (rose / raspberry) and black sesame, with the sesame being the clear winner. It’s a perfect fusion food: Japan’s passion for artisan sponge cakes and novel flavors meets the simplicity of this Aussie staple.

My French flatmate Alexi, who I encountered often but wasn’t very close with, was wrapping up his working holiday and invited some previous residents of 75 Elgin back for a reunion. I stumbled across the gathering while heating up some leftovers for dinner, and they invited me to join. I had only overlapped with one of these alumni and enjoyed meeting others “from before my time” including a nice fellow from Sri Lanka. We told funny stories about the strange flatmates we had collectively outlasted. It also made me a bit sad, as I saw how a different mix of people living the apartment could have made the experience a lot more fun.

Though the clouds threatened to rain, it stayed clear while I helped Gail with some yardwork, like removing leaves from the gutter and wrangling heavy potted plants. We had plans to see a Beth Orton concert in the evening, which dovetailed nicely with this working bee. Over the afternoon, we caught up over an ANZAC biscuit and a coffee, a nice homemade meal, and a tram ride to the Arts Precinct.
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Similar to the comedy show, Gail had offered me an open ticket, which was extremely generous and thoughtful. The concert was at the Recital Hall, a grand theater with fancy acoustic wall treatments. The opening act, Batts, had a beautiful voice and was a surprise hit. There was an intermission which I didn’t realize would be the only intermission, and I failed to take advantage of this fact to stretch my legs. The leg room in our row was abysmal, worse than most planes, so it would have been a good idea.

​Beth Orton and her three bandmates took the stage and performed two back-to-back numbers from her latest album before breaking the 4th wall and addressing the audience. Before I describe the many things that I liked about the concert, I must get some criticism out of the way. Beth Orton’s singing was terrible: broken and choppy as she mumbled unintelligible lyrics. It was like an SNL parody of a wounded singer-songwriter. I had to stop from laughing as she sang about how “the weather's so beautiful outside… almost makes me wanna cry” (actual lyric). Otherwise, it was a fantastic performance. The multi-talented musicians created a dense and nuanced soundscape far richer than a 4-piece band would normally create. It helped that each musician played multiple instruments. Beth switched between piano and guitar. At one point the drummer ended up on the piano. The best example was a blond-haired fellow who played multiple woodwind instruments, and sometime played the keyboard simultaneously. I loved the drummer’s style of playing, which was both relaxed and energetic, attacking the cymbal with a horizontal motion like the sweep of a conductor’s baton. The music and the concert hall's acoustics were a great synergy.

The concert lasted longer than I expected, likely due to the 4 encores, which I felt this reflected Beth’s enthusiasm moreso than the audience’s. At 11:00pm, I ate half a pack of Tim Tams on the walk from the tram station to my apartment.

At 4:30am, I ate the rest of the Tim Tams as I retraced the exact same walk. It was ANZAC Day, and the early wakeup was to witness the Dawn Service at the Shrine of Remembrance. While the crowds flowed uphill towards the shrine, I met up with Reggie and some of their friends from the local Rotary club at a quiet fountain off to the side. Reggie had attended the dawn service for many years as a scout and had kept up with this tradition ever since.
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We took our place by the front steps, the crowd providing a slight bulwark of warmth against the cold. A welcome to country speech was delivered by a Wurundjeri man (Reggie thought this might have been the first year to include one). Then a keynote touched on the WWI origins of the commemoration, including the front-line horrors of the war – “lest we forget.” After the war, the first flower to grow on the Flanders battlefield was the red poppy, which is now a symbol of ANZAC Day.

The speech also highlighted more modern conflicts with Australian casualties, and had peacekeeping forces as the year’s theme. Since WWII, Australians have supported ~60 multi-lateral peacekeeping deployments around the world. The speaker acknowledged a unique trauma experienced by these peacekeeping forces: of being in a conflict zone but not always able to take action.

After the speeches, a ceremony inside the shrine was carried out, livestreamed on video screens for everyone outside. There were also choir performances, including both the New Zealand and Australian national anthems. ANZAC stands for Australia and New Zealand Army Corps. It was a joint force at Gallipoli that fostered a sense of national camaraderie, and this tradition is honored even if the current holiday is more domestically focused.

It was a cloudy morning and the inspirational sunrise I was hoping for never arrived. Our groggy group had a round of drinks from a nearby coffee cart, then relocated to Fed Square to wait for the parade. A proud military mom who was waiting nearby struck up a conversation with us, eventually going on a conspiratorial tangent about how the Bondi stabber was most likely hypnotized. At the back of her mind was the unease of being at a big public gathering in the wake of the two Sydney knife attacks. From my group’s reaction, I had the sense that she wasn’t the only one.
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The parade itself was impressive, with veterans in uniform with banners explaining their affiliations, marching bands, youth drum corps, and the army cadets. I learned the cadets were a recruitment pipeline and were seen as being a little insular and haughty, even towards scouts like Reggie.

The sun was up but we were all still frigid. We eventually sought another coffee in the CBD. By then I had gotten know the group a little better, including a healthcare manager (Elsa?) and an IT specialist (Lewis?) who were good company. They all knew each other through the Rotary Club.​

Running on fumes and two flat whites, I was disappointed to find that Wooly’s had reduced ANZAC Day hours. So instead of groceries, I got some basic but satisfying pastries from Baker’s Delight, walked home, promptly devoured them, and took a nap.
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In the afternoon, I watched the opening ceremony of the ANZAC Day footy game between the Essendon Bombers and the Collingwood Magpies. Military representatives took the field, and there was a flyover above the Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG). I thought of Gail, who I knew was in attendance, along with Ian, her friend who I met in Canberra. The game ended in an anticlimactic tie.

​For the next 4 weeks, I was planning to travel to Perth and Brisbane. I thought it would be possible to end my lease early and avoid paying for a place in Melbourne while away. After all, the company was called “Flexistayz,” let me choose my lease end date when signing the paperwork, and indicated some adjustability with advance notice. I was totally wrong. Even with a month notice, the only viable option for breaking the lease was finding a new tenant. My postings received zero replies, an indication of the high price. For context, my rent was high because I had signed my lease at the start of a school term during a city-wide housing affordability crisis. Several of my flatmates were in the same boat and couldn’t find replacement tenants either. While I could abandon the place and forfeit my bond, that would be 3 weeks of rent lost. So I decided to continue paying, eating the 1 week differential. It meant that I could leave my stuff there and have a familiar place waiting for me after a long trip. And on a petty level, it also meant that Flexistayz couldn’t re-list the apartment and make a double profit.

​Although I decided to keep the apartment, I decided it was the right time to return my rental guitar. I made the long journey to the suburb of Chelthenham to drop off the guitar with its owner, a former student of Zeah’s. I didn’t even get to meet the owner, as they were taking a nap (a housemate answered the door). The long train journey wasn’t the ideal way to spend the afternoon, but I still had time to pack my bags and set an early alarm for the 6:20am flight to Perth.