Oh! I Who Love Thee

Crystal Voyager by George Greenough

Demolishing the rest of my burrito from the Guzman Y Gomez just across the park, I walk through the entrance into the large outdoor seating area of the Railway Friendly Pub. Or, as the locals call it, simply The Rails. It is half past four, and for a free outdoor mini-festival , I expected the place to be more full. I loop the outdoor area and the indoor bar section and, seeing no one I know, I drift into the toilets. After a comforting dose of screentime, I emerge fifteen minutes later and buy myself a cider. Attempting to relax, I sit-stand at the back table, partly obscured by a wide column. God, why weren’t there more people? I should’ve come way later. Leaving and coming back later has been significantly hampered by buying a drink.

My eye lands on the head of Tommie and his friend, both of whom I’d met at kayaking that morning. Tommie and I had both come as solos, so we’d partnered in the two-person boat. After the pleasantries and the establishment of common interests, we’d moved on to sibling relationships and disillusionment with modern capitalism. The sun was warm on my skin, and the water a sharp turquoise. Pods of dolphins swam in and out of the bay, their fins glistening. Tommie and I got each other’s Instagrams and said we’d see each other in the afternoon.

It was now afternoon and a pit had formed at the bottom of my stomach. The inevitable admission was coming.

Feigning nonchalance I approach the group, seamlessly sliding into conversation, it’s a beautiful day isn’t it? Friedrich from Germany and Lavi from Israel (whose favourite band is the Italian rock band Måneskin), Tommie’s friends from the hostel, are standing around the wooden bench.

“Do they have mullets in Germany?”

Apparently they do not. Not in Germany, nor in Israel, nor in Italy I find out later. Lavi informs me that if someone has a mullet in Israel people cross the street to the other side. I tell them Australian girls love them (I am ‘Australian girls’).

Tommie pulls me aside. “I think you’re really cool and attractive and I fancy you,” he tells me, his arm around the small of my back.

“I also think you’re cool and I appreciate the honesty but the truth is that I’m just not horny. Could we leave it just as friends?”

He assures me that yes, for the rest of the night we will indeed be friends. “This isn’t going to end just because a root is off the table?” I inquire. No no, of course not.

The place is packed to the brim with sandy blonde hair, loose collared shirts and tees, Docs and scuffed Vans stepping over one another. The crowd compacts near the stage, heavy guitar and bass guiding the quaver of heads and shoulders. Indignant vocals pulse through the speakers. Their Spotify bio tells me I will hear “vintage blues as well as modern-day psych and stoner rock influences.” I swim through the influences.

The next band is on. Tommie snakes his arm through mine pulling us close. Soon another arm lands around my shoulders, our bodies pressed together. I hear him woooo behind me. Can you woooo with a Manchester accent? My bopping is hindered by the weight of another. Restricted. Chants of I’m Fine, I’ve Said Too Much, But How Are You? encircle us. I peel the arms off me, ask Tommie to be gentle – “I’m tired,” I justify.

The headlining band strums their first chord. I’ve heard them before and feel the familiar progression move from my feet, deep into my veins. We navigate through the coagulation of bodies and end up in the front corner. The spaces between people constrict. Sweat that isn’t mine glimmers on my skin. Drink that isn’t mine lands on my hips and jeans. I close my eyes and imagine a little orb forming my private dancefloor. There’s a guy with a dropper of shrooms – apparently you can do that? A mosh opens up a meter from where I stand. We all stumble and heave from the weight of others losing motor control. Yells of so sorry! met with smiling understanding.

I tell Tommie I’m going into the mosh, tucking my dangly earrings into my pocket. I can’t hear his confusion over the speakers, but let him know I’ll meet him after. The guitar guides me through, the rhythmic mangle of bodies a welcoming home. I think of the Fidlar concert back in 2019 where they made a Girls Only Mosh for one of the songs. Still my favourite embodied experience to this day.

The crowd lurches forward and backwards, the stage barely raised ten centimetres above the pavement. Silence is imperceptible in the electric buzz left after the lingering note of the last song. The vocalist starts speaking to the crowd, every word soaking into every pore “You’re all beautiful just the way you are. Don’t be afraid of being yourself because of other people’s judgement.” Advice given since picture books, yet it feels real and raw between loud and grimy surf-indie refrains. My eyes meet the those of the girl across from me who smiles and shakes her head in time with mine. “We’ve got one last one for yah” reverberates through me and her and the bodies surrounding us. My fingertips float through the air along sound waves felt in every fibre of every being in this moment.

The hum subsides and the crowd flushes out. I find Tommie and his friends, tell them I transcended in the mosh. Tommie is confused “It’s like you’re into me but you’re not, I just don’t get you.”

“I’m not into anyone” I respond. Hadn’t we been over this earlier? I attempt to explain. “You know I’m just doing my thing, just trying to have a good time. I’m doing a solo holiday for a reason.” He’s still confused, doesn’t understand why two people with such a ‘good connection’ are ending it like this. Dude I just wanted to dance on my own and literally told you so hours ago.

He leaves, and I’m left standing alone in a thinning crowd. Feel like a bit of a baby animal, leering eyes about to pounce in every corner. Try to find a group of women bopping along to the DJ that I can join. “Hey everyone I know has left, is it okay if I dance next to you”? She nods and, smiling, says “of course.” I relax, regaining some autonomy over my body and space. We’re both enjoying the rhythmic boom throbbing above until I have to lean over and tell her “Just letting you know that a guy has started dancing on you behind you – tell me if you want to swap”. She adjusts and soon enough they’ve switched off the music and closed the bar and told us the night is over. “You saved me,” she says before inviting me to come meet her friends. She’s from Uruguay, leaving for North Stradbroke Island (or Straddy like she says) tomorrow, and her friends are two guys from Argentina. I ask them what they’re doing in Byron and Felipe looks me in the eye and says “I follow the line of chill.”

We stumble home through fragments of conversation and a visit to the 24-hour bakery.

I meet an Australian guy called Archie. Turns out he’s just graduated from ANU, packed his car and moved here two months ago. I make the mistake of getting a custard tart that jiggles tastelessly on the first bite.

Archie walks me home, the rocky path illuminated by the full moon. The tide is out and the lulling waves shimmer under the moonshine. “I’ve never seen the beach like this before,” he murmurs. Archie says art history classes were his favourite while at ANU, “do an art history class if you can.” I bid him goodbye at the gate and thank him for walking me home.