A Melbournian walks through shit-covered laneways with no umbrella and looks like a model carelessly late for a cover shoot. They eat and drink like savages, mostly fried chicken and kebobs, but have god-like bodies airbrushed by the sun. In the city, they have shining white teeth, further out, they may have some of them left, but still very white.
In those coastal towns working northward, the ones they don’t want the world to fully know about, they wear only bare feet in the IGA Express or Woolworth’s. “Did you surf today,” they’ll say. Others will reply, “nah, worked mate.” These are the richest folks with the least funds. They eat the loosely-named ramen and have a glint in the eye. The old boys have wrecked shins from fishing mishaps, their wives, a permanent swimmer’s cap wrinkle.
The European bush-people that come to the cities for work drink too much, don’t like the crowds or the traffic, and speak in a way to let you know it. The taxis, bus-drivers, shopkeeps and servers talk too much, or not at all. There is no in between, because why bother?
It’s all to say that things aren’t any different here than in any other city, people-wise. Only that they are multiplied and magnified by the sun and the sea.
