So I think I have hit the vibe of the place: A low rent Rick’s Cafe American meets the Greek system. As the line in the movie goes, “Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. . . . I’ll never get out of here. I’ll die in Casablanca.”
This is Perth, and I don’t plan on dying, but “Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.” seems the theme, as do the heat and flies. Me waiting for my bike. Others waiting for work, visa extensions, a hangover to die, or a buzz to kick in. There is even an old lady who I see late at night and early in the morning waiting. Why she waits, I don’t know, but she has breezed through three 400-page books in the three days too many that I have been here. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting, everyone glistens of sunscreen and sweat. Our feet tickle with the crawling of little fly feet. It’s bred lethargy and undeserved soporific-ness. I am waiting for my bike to come, and slowly getting depressed.