Home, But Not Quite

Eight years. Eight long, exhilarating, lonely years. Amazing in some ways, terrible in others. I can’t believe it has been that long since I set foot in my own country. My own city. My own home.

So much has changed—the trees taller, roads replaced, and new multi-storey houses lining the street where I grew up. The city skyline has grown, and the riverfront is unrecognisable. And now, we have to pay to see a doctor? Since when was that a thing?

Bloody hell, speak of a little brother Yank obsession. It strikes again! I used to laugh with Europeans about the Americans for this exact reason. Now I’m the clown paying one hundred and twenty buckaroos to go see a doctor, just for her to tell me to get some rest and tough it out.

Fan-bloody-tastic, mate.

Yet, so much is still the same. The magpies sing their morning chorus while I’m making my much-needed coffee, the avenue hums with traffic, and the pub on the corner remains untouched. And the smell—how do you explain a scent that’s home? Dry grass scorched under the sun mingled with eucalyptus. The moment it hit me stepping off the plane, I knew I was back.

The Drive Home!

The drive home from the airport was interesting, to say the least and the airport itself had changed extensively, but at the same time, it looked exactly the same. Bigger. Much bigger. Yet, inside it somehow remained unchanged. As if preserved from that dark February morning in 2015 when I flew out. The streets leaving the airport were new. Shiny and clean. Dark black and smooth. It was like we were driving on a Tim Tam. Fuck, I’ve missed Tim Tams. And the highways—even with the extra lanes, traffic and roadworks persisted almost the entire drive.

Ah, Perth, I’ve missed you. The inability to merge traffic, the speeding P-platers, tailgating tradesmen, and middle-aged rich women swearing at everyone from the safety of their giant Land Cruisers. I’ve missed this. Kind of. I guess.

In Germany, everything was predictable—efficient to a fault. Here, the chaos on the roads feels like home. But not in a South East asian way. No, this was distinctly Australian, Distinctly Perth, no scooters on the roads and footpaths here. Just countless 4x4’s, Dual Cab Utes and a sprinkling of road rage. Don’t get me started about Germans and cars. They are all so… so bloody roadworthy. Not a rusted Holden ute in sight.

Then there was the family home. To say it had changed is an understatement. When I left, it had light-tanned, exposed brick walls, grass at the top of a terraced front yard, and waist-high roses by the front door. The world’s largest rosemary bush engulfed the stone letterbox at the end of the driveway. Out back, a shade cloth covered a patio by the pool.

Now, the front yard has a dark hardwood timber fence surrounding the dry grass. The roses have doubled in size, but that rosemary bush? Butchered. Its lush, bushy frame reduced to woody sticks. The tanned exposed brickwork has been swallowed by grey rendering and the shade cloth has been replaced by a tin roof, but thankfully, the pool remains—albeit with fake lawn instead of that horrible yellow stone paving. Inside the house, it’s more or less the same. The carpet in the living room is new, thanks to a faulty toilet that allowed water to pool into the sunken space. Apparently, the new dog had a blast.

And that’s another change. When I left, the family dog was Molly, a beautiful, mild tempered golden retriever with hip dysplasia. Now, Molly is in an urn, memorialised with a golden paw print and a clipping of her fur in a dark wood frame. Her successor is Lilly, the world’s most psychotic, energetic, goofball goldy to ever grace its surface. With a million teddy bears scattered throughout, honestly thought the folks had another child until they assured me it was the dogs fluffy pink unicorn. That dog.. An absolute terror. But I loved her the moment she barked at me, then paused in confusion when I barked back. She’ll never replace Molly—she was never meant to. But damn, the things she gets away with, Molly would turn in her grave.

My first night back was surreal. Lilly jumped into bed with me, biting my foot, growling, pouncing, and just being the world’s cutest little shithead. But that wasn’t the surreal part. The surreal part was how suddenly I felt like a teenager again. Back in my parents’ house. Not my old room (my youngest sister claimed that a week after I left), but in a familiar space nevertheless.

I listened to the same traffic buzz along the avenue: the roar of V8s, the ridiculous sneeze of tuned Japanese rice burners, and the obnoxious farts of motorbikes. I’m sorry, to all the old men on Harley-Davidsons… Nobody thinks you’re cool.

Then I heard it: that rhythmic thump, the lullaby of a helicopter overhead. A sound I hadn’t realised I missed until it filled the room again. It might not be in the same league as crashing waves in a seaside village or the gentle tap-tap-tap of rain on a tin roof, but I’ve always loved that sound. I didn’t get it abroad. Not often. The closest was the Deutsche Bahn zooming past. Living in rural Bavaria and all. but that was incomparable, really. Not soothing at all.

It might sound like I’m tearing Germany a new arsehole here. That’s not my intention. For a time, I truly believed I wouldn’t return. I loved Europe—the culture, the people, the food. But as time went on, I missed Australia. The ocean. The vast expanses of nothingness. The isolation filled with mates. The sport. The music. My family. Eight years is a long time. Priorities change. Perspectives shift. Realisations occur.

It was time to go home.

And then, there were the things I didn’t understand when I returned. What’s an Eshay? Kids dressing up like British gangsters, stealing Nike shoes, and threatening to stab bus drivers? This is not the Australia I remember. And COVID here—apparently it was a whole different experience. While I was couped up in a small apartment, ordering Lieferando and watching Gossip Girl until midnight, people in Perth were living normal lives. They just had to cancel the yearly Bali holiday and get ready for a punch-up when buying toilet paper.

Home isn’t the same. I’m home in two countries but also homeless in both. I kind of fit in, but I still stand out in a crowded room. This land should feel perfectly familiar to me. But it doesn’t.

Perth, I love you. I’ve missed you.

But you need to get your shit sorted. Please.