Kindness of Strangers

Sunday, October 19, 2008

We are well into our Western Australia tour, having begun in Fremantle, a hip suburb of Perth, then winding our way south through the wine valleys and tall tree forests that the southwest region is famous for. As I walked around Fremantle that first day, I was struck by a feeling of familiarity that I couldn’t quite place. The tidy mom and pop storefronts, an historic city hall, a small park, shopping arcades around each corner. Then it hit me: I had walked into 1950s Main Street USA. Not an exact version, but an alternate reality. It’s as if Ward and June Cleaver moved out and the hipsters moved in, leaving the buildings behind. The town isn’t trapped in time; there are trendy hair salons, chic boutiques, and more upmarket coffee shops and juice stands than you can shake a stick at. But I got a glimpse into what the communities of the US would look like today had the megastores never encroached. I finally understood what my dad has been nostalgic for my whole life.

On our first night in town we ventured out for dinner at 8 pm, expecting this trendy town to be abuzz. Instead, the streets were completely deserted, the full moon casting a spooky glow over the Gold Rush-era buildings. Where were all the people? We breezed into a local fish and chips restaurant and were shocked to learn that they were closed. The rest of the town had followed suit, and we were left with one choice, a hip brewery that didn’t seem to be closing its doors anytime soon.

The next day we headed south, weaving our way through towns with names like Yallingup, Mandurah, and Cowaramup. We stopped for a fish and chips lunch at a cozy dockside restaurant in Bunbury (we were getting our fish and chips one way or another), and discovered the same charming town planning. A bakery, cafes, banks, a hardware store, and a bookstore lined the short blocks, nestled between stores selling trinkets and souvenirs. We worked our way south along the coast, passing rolling green pastures dotted with herds of lazy sheep and huge stands of wild calla lilies. Sometimes the backdrop was celery stick trees growing out of great hills; other times the cerulean ocean loomed in the distance. Were it not for the palm trees and Birds of Paradise lining the roadsides, I could have sworn I was in the UK.

We stopped for coffee at a beachside cafe; it was 4:15 pm, and they had already closed for the day. Undeterred, we walked down the faded boardwalk, taking in the sweeping sandy beach that disappeared into the aquamarine water. We reached our day’s destination, Margaret River, around dusk. The heart of a major wine producing region, the golden light fell softly over lush fields of grapevines. We zoomed down country lanes, shaded by tall trees who arched their great backs over the roadway, kicking up heaps of dust in our wake. Known for superb food and wine, we ambled around town in search of a great dinner. We were bowled over: most entrees ran $25 – $30, and most restaurants were closing their doors by 7pm. Even the grocery store was shutting up shop.

By the time we made it to Pemberton a few days later, we had grown wiser about business hours. Most shops are open 9-5. Wineries and attractions close by 4. Bars don’t stay open much past 8 or 9. “Why do things close so early?” we kept asking the locals. No one seems to think these hours are unusual, and some grow defensive at the suggestion that there’s something wrong with this way of doing business. “It’s not Europe, you know,” one woman bristled. The prevailing attitude seems to be, why do you need to be out past 6? You should be at home eating dinner! Of course that’s hard for a tourist to do, but I guess that’s the point: these are truly small, everyday towns, not tourist havens. Everyone plans their day around store hours, which is what we’re learning to do.

It’s easy to glorify the quaintness of these small towns while, in the same breath, criticizing their hours of operation. I’m beginning to understand that the limited hours are what helps to keep them quaint. Most are family-run businesses, whose staff is extremely limited. They need a break to. While I can moan about the one grocery store closing at 7pm, I am delighted when I step foot in its doors. Despite its diminutive size, nearly all the produce is locally grown. Instead of shrink wrapped packages of funghi, crinkly paper bags simply marked “mushrooms” fill the stands. Bins of local walnuts abut the aisles. Everything in the meat and cheese case is local, and the lion’s share of dairy product is from Margaret River. This, I am happy to say, is the flip side of staying small.