Everything comes to an end, except my love for Jimmy Barnes.
I practice self-care, or attempt to, in Hamburg. On the train from Bremen I tear up, thinking about home and how much I longed for it, thinking of Grandad and how I would never see him again. I dumped my luggage in the hotel room and took my phone into the lobby, calling my girlfriend who was awake at midnight in Victoria, Australia. I cried when I heard her voice.
When o when shall I be kissed?! I must be patient, lie on my back in bed, hands clutching a bouquet of flowers to my chest, and remain incredibly still for the rest of the year. Wait for my prince/ss charming to wake me with a kiss.
Growing up in a supermarket is strange. Many rites of passage are faced within those brick walls and dimly-lit interior – love, death, a sweet sixteen, rejection, abuse, somehow finding yourself in the mix of all that.
If this is a quest for truth then is Cold Chisel really the right soundtrack for it? Is there something more appropriate to listen to when stepping into libraries and archives or will my ears be forever ringing with the sound of a harmonica and Jimmy’s cigarette-stained vocal chords?
On the first night I drink beer and stare into a creek waiting for a platypus to appear with Sonja. When the mozzies come instead of the platypus, we go inside and play cards with some of the others. It surprises me how quickly I start to get along with them, and how it only takes a couple of beers and a game of Shithead to do it.
There’s no one to pick me up when I arrive at Tarneit station. Two people who got off the train with me walk over to the nearest bus stop and sit down. I have nowhere to go.