The hostel I’m staying at has a cool surfing vibe, and the café bar area serves all day brunch, which is about the best thing I’ve eaten since I arrived in Byron Bay. The owner, Craig, must be in his early-fifties and still loves to surf at the crack of dawn every day.
His eyes scan me, and without me having to ask, he pours a black coffee and brings it over with the menu.
"I have a hangover cure that will put the pink back into your cheeks," he says. "But it involves raw egg and hot sauce."
I mime gagging and shove my hand out, palm facing him, to protest any further mention of such grossness. "I think I’ll stick with the pancakes."
"Good choice. Drink up that coffee and I’ll squeeze you some OJ too."
Smiling gratefully, I hand back the unopened menu and, while he puts my order into the kitchen, I swipe through my phone, catching up on the news from back home.
It was Carl’s birthday and Kyla has posted a cute photo of him surrounded by friends on her Insta. Allie tweeted about an article she wrote on the female orgasm, and I spend five minutes scanning through it so I can make a witty comment below. My dad’s Facebook page hasn’t been updated for a month. The anniversary of my mom’s death is looming, and he always withdraws for a while. Each year he writes a lovely post about her. Each year I’m worse for reading it.
I scroll through other friends, and family updates, knowing it’s probably a mistake. The more time I spend thinking about home, the more unsettled I am. To counter my homesick feelings, I scan through my camera roll, searching out some of the beautiful pictures I’ve taken since I arrived and uploading them onto Insta. I come up with captions like ‘A slice of heaven’ and ‘So beautiful it doesn’t seem real’ and use filters to give the natural beauty a vibrant and hyper-enhanced gloss.
There’s a picture I took of myself outside the hostel yesterday before I went to the bar. My smile is broad, my eyes are bright, and my arms outstretched. In the background there’s a dramatic, flame-red tree, so it has an exotic feel about it. Anyone looking at the image would assume I was having the time of my life, but all I can see is the pretense of my forced smile.
It might be fake, but at least it will please everyone back home. Admitting the truth would only make it worse.
When Craig returns with my pancakes, he flops into the empty chair opposite which I’d usually take as an invasion of space, but things here just seem more laid back than at home. "So, tell me about your plans," he says.
"No plans," I tell him, cutting a bite-sized piece and popping it into my mouth.
"Is that why you’ve been walking about as though someone killed your cat?" He stretches out his legs, and drops his head to one side, assessing me as if I’m a slide under the microscope. "It’s normal to feel like a fish out of water. The first time I went to a surf competition outside of Australia, I didn’t know what I was doing."
"Yeah," I say. "Even though you guys speak the same language, kind of, everything is different."
"Even the pancakes?"
"Even the pancakes," I smile. "But good different."
That seems to reassure him. "What about getting a temporary job? That would help you settle and meet some people."
Settle. That’s about the worst word he could have used to sell his idea.
"My buddy Jared has a bar and hostel called Cloud 9. They’re looking for some help with bar work."
"Bar work?"
"Yeah. It’s a cool place. Owned by nine guys who met here and decided this is the place they wanted to grow roots."
"Roots aren’t my thing," I say, chewing thoughtfully.
"It’s all beanbags and hammocks and drinks in fruits. It’s chill, and the owners are great. I think you’d fit in and have some fun."
Now fun is more up my street.
"How old are the owners?" I ask.
"Mid-twenties to thirties," he says. "Younger than me, anyway."
The white-toothed grin he sends me is meant to be self-deprecating, though it’s really laced with confidence. He knows he looks good for his age. Kind of a silver-blond surfing fox type.
"Anyway, if you decide to go, tell them Craig sent you. I’ll message you the details."
Of course, he has my cellphone number from my booking. "Sure. Okay. I’ll think about it."
I eat the rest of my pancakes as Craig serves a couple who’ve arrived and ordered lunch. With my day wide open, I wait for his message to come through and decide to take a stroll to scope out Cloud 9. If it’s a dive, I won’t bother going inside. But if I get a good feeling, maybe I will.
From the outside, Cloud 9 screams laid-back Australia. Craig is right, it does seem to have the right vibe. In fact, without even stepping over the threshold, I can tell I’ll like it.
Tropical plants spill over pots that surround the perimeter, and a circular wooden bar fills the center. A mixture of hammocks, beanbags and rustic wood and woven chairs keep everything at a low level. And even though it’s early, chill-out music spills from inside.
"Lachlan, do we need more sparkling water?" The voice is gruff with an Australian drawl.
"Yeah, and get a wee box of lemons while you’re back there."
Whoever Lachlan is, he isn’t local. Nothing like a Scottish voice to warm parts other accents don’t quite reach.
"Who’s making lunch today?" someone else asks. "I could eat a bear."
"You drink too much," Lachlan says. "That’s hangover munchies."
"You think what I had last night was too much? That’s nothing."
"Anything’s a lot to a man who doesn’t drink." The accent is so Texan I have to stifle a laugh. Scottish, Australian, and American. Interesting.
I listen to their banter, still hesitating about going inside. People pass me on the sidewalk and their gazes linger with curiosity. It’s hotter than Dante’s Inferno out here, and I’m sure I’m developing third degree sunburn as I stand here waiting.
This isn’t like me.
I’m the girl who sees opportunity and runs headlong into it. I seem to have an instinct for the natural direction that fate is pushing me in, and I love to go with the flow. If it means moving from place to place and person to person, I don’t care. Living life to the fullest is my most important priority. I touch my hand to the tattoo at the base of my spine, the one dad was mortified with. He couldn’t see how YOLO was something that anyone would want on their skin, but much like the yearly post he writes about my mom, the sentiment behind ‘you only live once’ is for mom, too.
I wonder what Mom would have thought about me working in a bar in Australia. She used to talk to me about all the different career options that might interest me, even when I was a kid. It’s as though she wanted to inspire me to think about my future, even when things were going so wrong in the present.
Who would I be now if things turned out different? Maybe I’d be like Kyla, settled down in a relationship and making plans that don’t involve giving up a job and a home to flee across the world. Maybe I would have hung onto Brett, who was a perfectly good guy and awesome in the sack, rather than sending him back onto Tinder to find a replacement for me.