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Annie
Bush, coast, farmland, suburbia. I watch the landscape change all the way to Canberra.
It’s surprisingly cold when I finally step off the bus in the sleeping city, especially given how far north I’ve travelled. There are no skyscrapers, but there are plenty of trees.
‘What time does the bus depart?’ I ask the woman in the booth when I buy my ticket.
‘Six sharp,’ she replies without looking up.
I thank her and glance down at my watch—1:37 a.m. Suitcase in hand, I make my way over to the coffee vending machine and dig around in my pockets for coins. I carry the hot cup to some empty chairs and get my coat out of my suitcase. Then I sit with both hands wrapping the cup and people-watch for the next four hours. I need to stay awake, so whenever I run out of coffee, I go and grab another cup.
So much for drinking it in moderation.
Whenever Mum thought I was drinking too much of it, she would simply forget to buy it or say she was waiting for it to go on special. I ended up buying my own jar and keeping it next to the kettle at work. When Maggie realised I was bringing my own coffee in, she bought the largest tin of instant she could find to ensure I never ran out.
I’m on my sixth cup when I hear the announcement for those travelling to Sydney to make their way to bay fifteen. My blood buzzes as I stand, and I pray to a God who’s no longer listening to me that I don’t have a stroke on the bus.
Four hours later, I arrive in Sydney. I barely have time to register the chaos and noise before I’m climbing aboard another bus and pulling back out onto the road. I stare out the window, eyes blinking with fatigue, watching people and cars moving in all directions. When the Opera House appears across the water, I sit up straight and stare. Then a minute later we’re crossing the Harbour Bridge. I can’t help but smile. I’ve just crossed two items off my bucket list, and it was all included in one sensible ticket fare.
As we exit Sydney, I start to come down from my caffeine high. I thread my arms through the straps of my backpack so it can’t be stolen and place my jacket between my head and the window.
Finally, I sleep.
Sixteen hours and thirty-four minutes later, I step off the bus in Brisbane. The air’s different, thick and wet. I take my suitcase from the driver and wheel it away from the small crowd, then strip off as much clothing as I can. I’m going to need a map, because wandering aimlessly will most certainly result in dehydration. I find one at the information booth, and when I step outside again, it’s raining. Not just a shower but a full torrential downpour.
‘Welcome to Brissie,’ a man says as he passes me.
I sit undercover to wait it out, but it doesn’t stop. It just falls and falls and falls. With a resigned sigh, I put the map in my backpack and step out into it. I’m thoroughly drenched within seconds, so there’s no point trying to rush. Every few blocks, I stop to check the map. Eventually, I find my way to the heart of the city. I have no idea where Bridget is. I only know that if she is here in this city, she’ll be close to the cultural hub. But that search will take planning and time, and right now I need a place to sleep.
I’m standing outside what appears to be a pub. The sign says Imperial Tavern. I enter and look around. This is my first time in a venue like this. The man behind the bar looks up, eyes travelling down me, all the way to the water pooling at my feet.
‘Can I help you?’ he asks.
The man has one of those friendly, approachable faces. Judging by the grey peppered through his hair, I guess him to be around forty.
‘Sorry.’ I look down at the mess I’ve made. ‘It’s really coming down out there.’
He throws me a clean tea towel. ‘Here.’
‘Thanks.’ I clean myself up, then bend to wipe the floor. ‘Do you know where I might find some cheap accommodation?’
He regards me as he’s drying glasses. ‘Motel cheap or hostel cheap?’
I’m distracted by another staff member appearing to pour a beer. It’s fast, messy, and completely fascinating. ‘Ah, whichever one’s cheaper.’
‘Hostel’s cheaper if you don’t mind sharing a room.’
Do I mind? I assume it’s safe if other people do it. ‘I don’t mind sharing.’ If it’s awful, I can always leave.
He points. ‘River Backpackers is a few doors down. They usually have plenty of beds. Plus there’s a rooftop pool.’ He observes me a moment. ‘Can I get you a drink? Food?’
I’ve survived on coffee and processed food for the past two days. I desperately need some proper food, but I also need to be really careful with my spending.
As though reading my mind, he says, ‘We have a $10 steak special on Sundays if you order before five thirty. Comes with salad and a pot.’
I salivate at the mention of meat. ‘A pot?’
He holds up a glass. ‘Of beer. Or soft drink if you’d prefer.’
