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Shares
We fly over the landmarks of my childhood, the road map of my life stretching out below. I stare through the small window at the monotonous grid of Perth’s streets, a place so flat you can imagine a steam-roller has just left. I can actually see my old house as we fly overhead. I must be the only person in the world who doesn’t like coming home. “Cabin crew, prepare for landing,” the pilot’s voice crackles throughout the cabin. My heart sinks lower and lower with the plane, and settles somewhere near my feet with an unpleasant jolt as we touch down. It’s been two and a half years since I moved away from Perth and started a new life on the other side of the country. I make the trip back to Australia’s most isolated city at least once a year, but it never feels like a homecoming. It feels claustrophobic. The weather here reflects my mood; thick grey clouds hang low in the sky, drizzling a gentle mist of misery everywhere. Unusual for a Perth summer. Thankfully, my bags are one of the first to roll out and I pull them into the rain to meet my brother. We drive familiar streets and talk about what it’s like to be back home. He tells me about his new home in New Zealand, and I repeat my well-rehearsed spiel about work. There’s nothing sadder than making small-talk with the people you used to be closest to. My brother and I do all the things you’re supposed to do when you come home. We visit friends and family. We swap stories and visit old haunts. I marvel at the damage a recent storm has brought on the city, staring open mouthed at trees which have been uprooted in the wind. A familiar landscape turned upside-down. How can everything be so exactly the same as when I left it and yet so unrecognisable? Here, all the people I left, living in the same houses, working in the same jobs, wearing the same smiles and asking the same questions. But there, a new stadium, a new street of abandoned shops, a new mural to hide the slow decay of the city I grew up in. I’m annoyed by the changes and devastated by the things that remain the same. I spend a week in the city, hopping from one house to another, trying to make sure no one feels left out. I’m not sure I succeed. Perth is a city where a car is a necessity. The sprawling city is only serviced by four train lines, and a sporadic bus system which can never be trusted. “How was it easier to organise ourselves when we lived in two separate cities?” my friend, also visiting home, asks. My family lives south of the Swan river and hers lives to the north. It really was easier to bridge the distance between Canberra and Sydney than the distance between the north and south of Perth. We manage it in the end, feeling strangely triumphant at having overcome what used to be a non-existent hurdle when we lived here. My last day in Perth is also my sister’s birthday. It’s why I flew over - to celebrate with her. She has taken the day off work and we decide to tour the port-side city of Fremantle. We sit on the white sand and the sun sears my skin. The waves are cold but not unpleasant. I remember when coming to the beach was easy, when I would drive here after work for a quick stroll and swim before heading home to cook dinner. In Canberra a visit to the beach means a two hour drive and crossing state lines. I remember being able to smell the sunlight on my clothes after hanging them on the line. This is what I used to enjoy about Perth. All the tiny, in-between moments. In my desperation to run away from the desert-like landscape and economic deterioration, I had forgotten. When I’d shed the skin of my youth I’d also pushed aside all these small moments of joy, pretending I’d outgrown them. Maybe the real problem isn’t Perth at all.