After leaving Perth in a huff, our grumpy old backpacker continues on to Fremantle…
Two hours later, feeling tired and grumpy I arrive at the BP Inn Fremantle YHA. There’s no queue and even though I’ve arrived before the official check time, the receptionist is happy to let me in early.
He checks my ID and notices that it will be my birthday in a few days. He rummages under the desk for something to give me as a birthday present and resurfaces a few moments later bearing a Columbine. I have always liked Columbines. I happily accept my gift along with my key and bundle of bed linen.
I head off to my room down a creaky corridor with very tatty two-tone carpet that has puckered in several places. The room is pretty spartan compared to the one I had in Perth. There’s a bed, a stool and a locker that looks like it’s been lifted from an American high school. It smells a bit musty too. No private bathroom this time. I have to go upstairs and along a corridor to use shared facilities. This is what you get for $67 per night on a weekend in school holidays. Not a bad deal.
On the back of the door a poster outlines the rules of the hostel. One bans sex in dorm rooms and reminds amorous guests they should get a private room. Someone has scrawled on the sign “this room was perfect!” Gross! That was a piece of information I really didn’t need to have.
After some quiet time in the common room I venture to the shared kitchen determined not to be driven out however noisy or crowded it is. I prepare myself some microwave rice and vegetables and eavesdrop on the backpackers while I eat. They move around me like I’m invisible as they plan their night out at the pub. The sounds of a loud drinking session in the courtyard outside float through the open window and I think “here we go again.”
But a strange thing happens to the hostel later in the evening. When the dinner rush ends and all the 20-somethings have headed out for the night, the noise level drops completely and new faces emerge from rooms to take charge of the kitchen and common areas.
A French couple in their sixties prepares a delicious smelling meal. An elderly Japanese man snoozes in front of the television where he’d been watching Iron Chef. Not exactly a hot night out on the town but it’s all very calm and pleasant.
I sit down at the reception counter and chat with Eric the night manager about some of the characters he’s met in his four years on the front desk. His eyes light up as he tells me about the old Dutchman, now 78, who has earned the nickname Father Christmas because he always comes in December and has a long white beard and hair. Last year he hiked the final stage of the Bibbulmun Track. He walked a different section of the track each year until he’d done the lot.
Then there’s the Welsh seaman, now 84 years old, who comes every year for three months and entertains the guests young and old with his tales of old Fremantle and how the town has changed.
Later I drift off to sleep reflecting on how nice it was to sit still and listen to Eric’s stories. I’d love to meet the old Welsh seaman and Father Christmas myself some day.
Checking out the next morning the friendly receptionist calls out “Happy Birthday for next week. See you next time.”
“Sure thing,” I reply and I might just mean it this time.