Australia's Tropical North: Life Under a Palm Tree

What if I said, 'Let's run away'?

A one-way ticket to an exotic place

Dance and scream and shout in the pouring 

rain

Find serenity in the great escape

-MAGIC!

I feel like having a cup of coffee, so I walk to the white-walled restaurant with the white veranda railing. Once there, I sit at the bar, my bare feet dangling and my back to the sea. Inside on the high, white ceiling, the blades of a listless fan cast intermittent, elongated shadows on the coffee machine, and I stare at them for a moment. Ever since I arrived in this town, my mind has slowed down.  Stress, that racehorse that usually spurs my reactions, now trots lazily along the fibers of my body, which takes a fraction of a second longer than before to process directions.

-Cappuccino? 

the barista asks in an unmistakable Italian accent, playfully pulling a face as if I’m being a nuisance in his deserted bar. I just smile, because I work here and he makes my coffee every day.

The echo of the thump thump from the coffee grinder is the only disruptive sound on the esplanade at this time in this Australian coastal town. The sea, air mixed with the aroma of freshly ground coffee, smells like there is no other place in the world where I should be right now. It is the month of June and it seems as if this place has just opened its eyes to a new day after taking some time out from the excesses it gave himself up to during the summer. As it happens, the tropics have a passionate heart, and burn with choleric heat and drown in full-on deluges from November to March. But, at this time of the year, it manages to curb its temper in such a way that, right now, it is calm and full of peace. 

When my coffee is ready, I stroll towards the beach cupping it in my hand. Pausing for a moment under the palm trees, I commit this second of life to memory: the playful breeze, tinged by the golden light of the sun, gambols around the dress of a girl walking by the shore; it tousles a golden retriever’s hair, and whispers soflty to the leaves of the palm trees making them shiver. Considering how I ended up in Palm Cove a second time, I take a sip of my coffee, slowly sit on the grass, and get my travel journal out of the bag.

Summer of 2019.
 It could have been any month of the year.

That was a typical afternoon off work while I lived in Far North Queensland, in the Australian tropics. By then, I wrote only sporadically. My journal was a few years old, it had seen several countries and it had many pages. That afternoon, I parted them open at random, thinking I’d read whatever I set eyes on first.

Dublin, Ireland, May 2016. 

If the mind could transport me I would have already lived in at least four different countries including Australia and New Zealand, I would have travelled the whole world chasing the summer and I would now live under a palm tree on some beach.

Occasionally, while reading old journal entries, I find what appears to be subliminal messages, questions, and even bad jokes that weren’t mean as such at the time but that inadvertently, I left behind like a trail of white pebbles leading up to the still unexplored corners of my own mind, for my future self to discover and unravel. In any case, that particular entry didn’t represent a mystery, I always gravitate towards the beach. It was just that I probably hadn't considered it could become such a literal reality. 

The warm, sweet  scent of summer kept my head against the cool grass for a long while that afternoon. As I drifted in and out of a light sleep, I was vaguely conscious of the overhanging palm tree leaves, a quivering canvas of long, green blades now blocking, now exposing the gleaming light from the sun above.  At some point, I was suddenly reminded of the time I spent working as a cocktail waitress in a Melbourne five-star hotel which was right in the heart of the city and I felt the corners of my mouth curl up in a smile. The unexpected thought brought me back to full consciousness and I opened my eyes in slight surprise at a sudden realisation: that was a period of time which I had spent balancing trays of fine crystal glasses, and not spilling a single drop. Even if I worked clad in one of those pencil dresses that only allow short steps, the Espresso Martinis would land safely on the low lounge tables of the rooftop bar. My smile widened under the palm tress. After the experience of those past few months in the tropics, I wondered how I had managed in Melbourne to come out unscathed. Perhaps, the key to it had been in what I wrote down shortly after arriving in Australia:

Melbourne, Australia, November 2017

I have tried looking for a job near the coast, but the beach is too distracting, I always end up taking my shoes off and popping my earphones on to go for a stroll down the beach on the mushy sand. I think living near the sea is going to be counterproductive until I find a job. Although, Melbourne is no palm tree paradise, and the weather here is quite temperamental -I will probably have to keep looking some place else.

It had only been months later that I had jumped into a caravan and had got off 2,800 kilometers further north, in Palm Cove beach. Here, I discovered that there is no real need to put on any shoes at all when you're in the tropics.

Cocktail waitress look.
QT Melbourne.

I had already predicted it in my notes, here the Espresso Martinis would not fare as well as they had done in Melbourne. How could my mind not wander off in a place like this, where summer is everlasting and I could lie down on the sand to watch the sun go down and the moon go up on the edge of the sea? As the days went by, I also realised that here I risked life as I knew it by only walking home after sunset. It was just not the same as anywhere else. The short walk would get me soaked with glimmering starlight  and, if the wind blew in the right direction, the tide would count my steps in murmurs until I got home.

There were no tall buildings here, nor was there too much traffic; the town was so small that I could walk anywhere and yet, every day I found myself looking at the staggering vastness of open spaces that extended further than the eyes could see. Like the beach at night, when it was full moon and the sea, the horizon and the sky appeared, fold upon fold, like a pitch black and silver vision. That afternoon lying on the grass, somewhat enraptured by the hypnotic warmth of the afternoon, I thought about all this, too, and marvelled at how it had all become part of my daily life, thanks to my nomadic tendency.

It was my second time in the tropics and I had had enough time to see how some petty whims of my less worthy self became less and less notorious here, up to a point when they had started blending in with the vegetation, the water and the sand until I could barely see them anymore. 

Cape Tribulation, not far from my palm tree.

In these open spaces there was little background noise and it was easier to tune into positive thoughts and emotions. For me, this was a time of peace, to the point that the only other period I recall being that carefree, was childhood. As it was, the thoughts  in my mind where airy and so light-hearted that it was no wonder I was often in the cloud.

- Sometimes I wonder what's in your head.

Said one day the same bartender who made the cappuccinos , while he polished glasses behind the bar. He had a smirk on his face, but his eyes were curious. The disposition of the restaurant was such, that the bar was in the centre of the place, with a 360 degree view. This meant the bartender could see almost everything that happened outside of his cubicle, and could pretty much keep an eye on everyone who was on the floor.

 - You swan around like you’re in a different world of unicorns and butterflies. 

He insisted, his smile widening and his hand gesturing to imitate my walk. I shrugged and laughed heartily. It was true that, on occasions, I caught myself humming or singing under my breath while setting up tables for dinner. I would also laugh vaguely at things I was maybe not supposed to, but it wasn't just that. He knew that those things could quickly spin out of control, turning into a bit of trouble -not only for me, but for others, too. I would come up to the bar and stand there with a blank mind, trying to remember an order I had just taken and had just as soon forgotten. If he was neither too busy nor too bothered, he would laugh at me.

-Where did you park the unicorn today?

But when he was busy, it wasn't laughing matter. At least not for him. He had an eye for detail and low tolerance for mistakes, being Italian as he was. 

Once, attempting the do the hazardous task of loading drinks on a tray, I failed miserably and spilt two gin & tonics and an Aperol spritz on my chest, right in front of the bar. Yes, that’s right, I hadn’t moved an inch away. It’s hard to explain how that happened but, all the same, I had to laugh at the absurdity, and at the other waitress’ look of astonishment. It was a busy night and drinks had been sitting on the bar top for long minutes, waiting to be delivered, the ice melting away -not a time to taunt the bartender’s nerves who, of course, did not laugh with me. Later, when the incoming flow of diners had subsided, A., the waitress who had witnessed my impossible clumsiness, came up to me. 

-I don't know how you can do that -laugh… in front of P., I mean. AND in the rush of dinner. I would have locked myself in the toilet and would be hyperventilating by now. 

While a part of me was away in wonderland, the other part seemed to find waitressing a challenge, sometimes. This, of course, did not escape the supervisor’s notice, a Frenchman who never blamed me or put me down for anything, but who used to put me in charge of the smallest section of the restaurant, to minimize damage. 

This brings me to a source of potential damage that did actually lurk in the area of Palm Cove: crocodiles. I did not get to see any, but they were part of the native fauna, and so there were signposted warnings along the coast. When I first moved here from Melbourne with a friend, this was a novelty. One of the first few days, we had been walking along the esplanade and chatting, when my friend’s face lit up with an impish smile.

-I know what I’ll call you... Coco! because of your big smile, like the crocodile's ... 

From that day on, not only my friend, but almost everyone in town, called me ‘Coco’. And perhaps life in the tropics infused me with some of the animal’s traits: slow after basking under the sun for a while, imperturbable 'smile', unfit hands for a dexterous use of trays. But my skin did not become scaly at any point, so I was not bothered. It was true that I had been working in hospitality for years, but being prone to blunder was a newly discovered skill, and I had no option but to embrace it -which I did, to the very last disaster.

It happened on Christmas Day. Australia works half a day of the 25th of December, and so the restaurant where I worked offered an exclusive six-course menu. People made reservations well in advance, and everything had to be carefully planned and organised as it was, obviously, a special occasion. When the day came, everyone and everything looked sharp and christmasy. The wooden tables, usually bare, were now covered in white linen and rearranged to give the place a sense of occasion  and elegance, and to accommodate larger groups of customers.

Christmas crew.

That day everything was in sync, each one of the members of staff operated like cogs in a well-oiled machine, and things ran smoothly. Around four o'clock in the afternoon the numbers of diners had dwindled considerably and most of the tables were already lonely white patches with scattered crumbs and red wine marks. Only some groups of the second seating were still going, and one of them was in my section. 

They had had their six-course meal, together with the corresponding drinks and, to finish off with the last thing they would be able to consume for the week foodwise, they asked for a round of cocktails. Four lychee & dragon fruit daiquiris. In the restaurant, this cocktail was made with enough processed ice and fresh fruit that, when served in a Margarita glass, it looked watery but thick,  like a purple ice cream. With four of these dessert cocktails on my tray, I reached the edge of the table. It had been good to serve this group, they were nice people. Now, we exchanged a few words while I unloaded the drinks with one hand and held the tray shoulder-high, with the other one.

-After this you are going to have to push us down the street so we can roll home.

I put the first drink down on the table, laughing at their joke. I was standing right behind one of the ladies and, as the other side of the table was blocked by the railing of the veranda, I leant forward a bit to hand the second drink over to the person sitting on the far end, between the railing and the table. I felt it I before I even saw it. The weight of the two remaining cocktails had been lifted from my tray, which had suddenly become lighter. I had to turn and look to see what had happened: the two daiquiris had duck dived into the back of the closest lady's Christmas dress, splashing purple flavoured ice onto her hair and her face, into her open bag and into her shoes.

In circumstances like these, there is not much that can be done, other than apologising profusely. That day I did so but, in the spur of the moment, I also yank the tablecloth out from under the vacant table behind me, just like a magician trying the whip-off-the-tablecloth trick would do, except there were no dishes on the table, and the movement was much less graceful than would be expected in a show. And yes, I did wipe the lady's back with the used linen. Not only that but, if I remember correctly, I also handed it over for her to wipe her bag and shoes. 

It was the last table I had left and that was the last order I took. What were the chances of that happening at all?  well, of course it was going to happen, it was I who was serving them. However, by the work and grace of the tropical air, these people did not utter a single word of complaint in the end. 

Contrary to what the stories about my poor sense of balance and my wandering mind might imply, I got along with all the staff at work, and that evening I was going to share Christmas dinner with them. That afternoon after work, found me at P.’s -the bartender- place, helping to load his car with boxes of bottles and glasses and other utensils he needed to set up an express bar in the house where we were all getting together. We were still getting things ready, when the host for that night called asking if we could please take extra plates with us, because he was short on dishes. I got a dozen or so plates from the kitchen and took  them to the car.  Soon after we were all set, and we drove off. Just as we approached the first corner, seconds away from his front door, P. sighed and brought up  lunch.

-I didn’t say anything earlier because it’s Christmas, but seriously, you haven’t lost your head yet because it’s attached to your neck.

Had he known that by bringing that up he was conjuring what seemed to be my superpowers, maybe he would have decided against it. As he took the corner, I had no time to reply -or even laugh, for that matter-, because the din of cascading ceramic smashing against the asphalt startled us both. P. hit the breaks and we looked at each other for a second of realisation, in which I could hardly contain a smile. There was a car circulating the opposite way and it had to stop in front of the obstacle. The person on the passenger seat stuck his head  out of the window and pointed.

- There are two left on the roof! 

It was the plates. Earlier, just after I had put them on the passenger seat, P. had moved them onto the roof, so as to make room to keep fitting boxes and stuff in the back of the car, which he could only access from the one door. But he had not replaced them, and by the time we double-checked we had everything, neither had I. A mere thirty seconds later, we were short on plates again, when they ended up strewn across the street in a thousand pieces. Of course, the blame fell on me, because who else would be capable of pulling off such a feat? 

That is how my days were spent in the tropics, where I kept tripping over my own two feet and laughing at it. In the end, I was amused even by the restaurant manager's look of incredulous helplessness the third time I handed in my notice  -I planned on leaving twice in my last couple of months, but couldn’t bring myself to do it until it was impossible to put it off any longer. 'She will laugh at anything, even bad jokes', I heard someone say one day. In the end, when I had squeezed every drop out of my Work and Holiday visa, I did leave the tropics.

Palm Cove, Queensland, January 2019

My six months of simple pleasures and cheap thrills in the tropics are finally over. All those sunrises and sunsets, full moons on the beach and walks home under the stars can’t be put into words. Anyone who has ever laid their heads on the grass on a sunny day to look up to the sky through palm tree leaves, feel the warm breeze on their face and just contemplate how good life is, will know what I’m talking about. Although paradise is also what you make of it, and the warmth of the tropics wasn’t just a climate thing: I’ll miss the family I found in this hidden gem of a town here in Far N0orth Queensland. 

As I step into  2019 and take yet another flight, I feel lucky and I feel grateful.

Who will call me 'Coco' now? lol

Coco is short for 'cocodrilo' in Spanish.
New people would often ask why they called me 'Coco'.
I would -of course- just laugh in reply.

After I left, it didn't take long for me to realise what made me laugh so much and so often while I was there. I had loved life, and life had loved me back and, when people are in love they are often under the impression - like fools are - that there doesn’t exist a happier or more fortunate person than themselves on the face of the earth. And so they laugh at everything and at nothing in particular, and laughter springs from their chest as if it was the flutter of wings of a flock of swallows taking to the air and flying high and away, always towards warmer weather.