In Praise of Perth

A mention of ‘Perth’ conjures up images of Gina Rinehart gazing lovingly at a lump of ore, miners in reflective vests racing their Holden utes to the domestic airport and restaurant bills showing sums that look like the decimal points are in the wrong place.

Our city is no Melbourne.  People in Perth are more likely to be arrested for brawling on New Year’s Eve than to correctly pronounce ‘tempranillo’.  But when we hear of a new small bar that doesn’t stock Bacardi Breezers, we queue patiently and politely in all kinds of weather for the chance to perch on antique pouffes and nibble on polenta chips.  We are grateful for fresh additions to our nightspots; you will never hear us groaning, “I’m so bored of restaurants that shave truffles on everything and serve food in ceramic flowerpot bottoms.”

And when we find something that we know is good, Perth people are fiercely loyal.  After my first sip of coffee from Lowdown, I became a daily devotee, meditating on the ethereal mumblings of Bon Iver while the two hirsute hipster baristas ground and frothed and swirled.  My pilgrimage to caffeine Mecca was so frequent that we became friends.  I knitted them scarves, lent them books of poetry and pinched music from their encyclopaedic collection of modern folk artists.  On Friday evenings, I duck under the roller door that has been pulled halfway down and I loiter in the darkened café until one of them offers me a beer. 

Our public transport services are not as far-reaching or frequent as Sydney’s and we still cluster obstructively around the train doors as though we’re terrified we’ll never be let off.  But the train line snakes alongside the Swan River, the glittering artery around which our city grows.  Cormorants sun their glossy wings only metres from freeway traffic.  Intrepid dolphins flash their fins in peak hour.  The river – with its wildlife, bobbing yachts and banks thick with eucalyptus trees – is undeniably beautiful.  Instead of whinging that our shops are always closed, we should find solace in the Swan River’s perpetual opening hours and lie on tartan picnic rugs or barbeque beef sausages on the river’s shores.

I love my city. We may have smaller literary festivals, fewer micro-cinemas, summers without daylight saving and a large bogan population.  But I like knowing the names of waiters at good brunch places and starting conversations with browsers at second hand bookstores.  When I stand with fellow Perthites watching a ukulele band at a farmers market or listening to a poetry reading, I love feeling deep affinity and excitement at having found ‘my people’ in my city – a city that keeps surprising and delighting us.