It's 3am. A car alarm goes off, somewhat upstaging the drunk 18-year olds who have been partying like its 1999 for the last hour outside our bedroom window. Adding to this, the hefty 'face like a slapped arse' girl in the bed below makes an interesting bunk companion; every time she rolls over it's like 9.4 on the Richter scale. It doesn't matter though, in my packed eight person dorm room (should be advertised as a cupboard) I'm adjusting to not sleeping. The last two weeks in Australia have been a shock to the system to say the least. More so than Japan, whose eccentricities I viewed from the safety and comfort of my pristine hotel room.

My conditions of hostel living hadn't been that bad at first, despite the inevitable stresses of locking up my valuables everytime I left a room and wearing flip flops to the bathroom (to prevent the bacterial fest on the floor tiles invading through the soles of my feet). And then there are the communal kitchens. More on that later.

Then I arrived at the house of my first CouchSurfing stay. CouchSurfing is a fantastic networking site where travel-minded people can meet other travellers and even offer up their couch/spare room as a place for them to crash. You meet people from all over the globe and experience places from an insider's perspective (reviews are left online afterwards so you can be pretty sure your host isn't mental). I'd arranged to stay with a local medical professional on the East coast and rocked up at the house (I use the term 'house' in the loosest sense of the word) to find my host crouched around the side of the building, stripping paint from its crumbling exterior wearing nothing but a gas-mask style respirator and a pair of shorts. This wasn't some crystal meth experiment (despite the 'Breaking Bad'-style old trailer in the driveway). My host had recently bought this place and was having a bit of a DIY crisis since discovering lead in the paint covering the house (as a doctor he was fairly concerned about stripping it without brain damaging the local commuity). We sat on his back porch with cups of tea and mulled over this predicament. When I told him he'd be better off hiring a professional to do the job he said he'd rather spend two weeks doing it himself and put the money he'd save towards the second-hand piano he had been eyeing up on Gumtree. Huh. I have to say I had nothing but respect for this guy; getting his hands dirty converting this dilapidated old house into a retirement home for his parents. Everything in this place was second-hand; mismatched '70's furniture either bought from the 'op-shop' (charity shop) or found at the side of the road, abandoned by their owners. Had this guy watched Toy Story one too many times?! This place was a rescue home for the unloved and unwanted. He offered me the use of his washing machine; lid-less with a butter knife poking upright in the top mechanism to get it going. He'd carried it across town by himself in the vague hope that it still worked. He'd recently rescued a '60's slow cooker in which he'd prepared for us a delicious lamb casserole, which turned out to be, well, delicious. I was particularly impressed when he pulled out an old household iron to crush the rock salt for seasoning. I'm thinking - this is the kind of bloke you want as your neighbour when the next hurricane hits! At some point he broke the news about the cockroach infestation. Suddenly those pristine Japanese hotel rooms seemed very far away indeed. This was definitely out of my comfort zone. My first instinct was to move on asap but transport options weren't all that regular and, I'll be honest, I was enjoying hanging out with this musician/doctor/fixer-upper extraordinaire. So I spent the first night on a mattress in his spare room with several items of clothes shoved under the door to prevent any midnight insect invasions. After a trip to the local Koala hospital the next day I came back to find the Doctor trying to resuscitate an old vacuum cleaner which he'd found down the road. Mid-surgery, it was unclear if the poor thing would pull through but by god he was giving it his best shot. Later we sat on his kitchen floor enjoying the fruits of yet another slow cooked feast and laughing so much I almost forgot about the cockroaches until I spotted one hanging out on the stereo speaker, just enjoying the vibrations. I realised that these little fellas had as much right to be there as I did. We were both freeloading off this guy who didn't seem to mind either of us cohabiting, happy as he was playing his guitar and fixing up whatever was in need of some attention. He asked me what my purpose was for my travels and I didn't know what to say. I'm still thinking. Here was a man who before I had even woken up had showered, pre-prepared our dinner, cooked eggs Benedict for brekkie for his sick mate, stripped one outside wall, had another shower and seen a man about a paint-stripper. He may have an unconventional way of living but his enthusiasm for life was contagious. We sang songs under a plastic sheet out in the rain and I showed him how to do a Tim Tam Sam with our cups of Peppermint tea. I felt completely at home in this most unlikely of places but was relieved to leave the roaches behind the next day.
I arrived in Byron Bay late in the evening after a long train journey and brought the English weather with me. It was grey, pouring and miserable and I was sporting the only jacket I had - a gregarious anorak (camply referred to by the manufacturer as 'sangria' coloured) with hiking shoes and a panama hat balanced on my travel-weary head. Walking into the hostel where some friends I'd met earlier in the week were staying was like walking into school on your first day; people amassed in little cliques, all eyes turning to the new girl, assessing from head to toe. Suddenly very aware of my appearance I was in the midst of my very own 'black sheep' crisis situation. Only I was one bright pink water-resistant sheep in a sea of Abercrombie and Fitch hoodies and Grecian sandals. Whatever happened to not caring what you look like as a backpacker?! Much like the recent 'Glamping' phenomenon, 'Backpacker chic' seems to be corrupting a gloriously grubby tradition. Luckily my friends had a beer and huge smiles ready for me which seemed to dull the nerves (though not the sangria jacket unfortunately). The cost of living in Australia is manageable if, like many of my fellow travellers, you earn $20 (£14) an hour pouring pints. If you're not working however, the prices are stomach-churning and dining-out becomes a luxurious event. Suspiciously inspecting a half-washed colander I remembered my first year at University when I shared a tiny kitchen with eight people, some of whom thought washing dishes was a woman's job (i.e. not the women). Now I was cooking in a kitchen with THIRTY other people, vying for a working hob and one of the precious crap saucepans in which to re-create that old friend of mine...tuna pasta Dolmio. I felt physically sick (much like I probably did during Freshers Week ten years ago). However, I'd adjusted back then, just as I would now and I stuck with the place. I'm actually glad I did.

So there I was, 3am, not sleeping. I got up and spent the next couple of hours in the lounge swapping bizarre accommodation stories with a drunk Canadian guy who had just returned from one of the bars. At 5am about ten of us (including the boozed Canadian) made the 2km trek up to the lighthouse to watch the sunrise and catch the partial solar eclipse from the most Easterly point of Australia. We were all too tired and excited for the superficial backpacker chat. A collection of strangers from all over the globe staring out at the Pacific for about an hour, waiting for the sun to pull its fancy magic trick. When it did, the effect was fairly underwhelming but I won't forget the hours we spent up on the hill; practising my Italian with a guy from Milan, listening to the drunk (soon to be hungover) Canadian talk about his ambition to become an actor, swapping favourite iTunes songs with a bunch of Germans. Not to mention the swarms of local hippies meditating on yoga mats, chanting away to their heart's content as the temperature dropped with the shading of the sun and the bewildered birds fell silent. There was even a digeridoo. :)