Perth has its own Great Wall, the Swan River. A sparkling divide that somehow separates two entirely different worlds. No one remembers when the rivalry started, but it’s alive and well. People don’t pick a side; they’re born into it.
I was born South of the River, a first-generation crayfisherman’s daughter in East Fremantle. My childhood was grapevines, concrete backyards, loud cars down South Terrace and surrounded by a community of wogs, Italians, Croatians, Polish and Portuguese like me. Saturdays were for the Old Easts (the Sharks), Sundays for St Pat’s, and lunch was always at Ovo’s (grandma's). You could smell the garlic three streets away.
South of the River wasn’t fancy, but it was real. It was coffee before coffee was cool, thanks to the flat white kings at Gino’s and Papa Luigi’s. It was a community of loud families, bigger meals and unbreakable loyalty.
The North? That was foreign territory. People wore boat shoes, spoke softly, and seemed suspiciously intense about their lawns. God forbid any of my family owned a lawn mower, just a long hose. We only ventured North on Saturday nights to the clubs in Northbridge, and even then it felt like international travel. We’d pile into cars, cross the bridge, and hope we made it back before sunrise.
I stayed loyal to the South until my early thirties. I married a northern boy, convinced him to come south, bought a house, had two kids, and swore I’d never leave. He had different plans, water polo, multiple midweek training and weekend games, all north. My life became one long drive up Stirling Highway, dodging traffic lights and speeding tickets. Eventually, I gave in. Wembley Downs first, then City Beach.
When I settled in Wembley Downs, I felt I was being brainwashed. Am I closer to everything? Beaches everywhere. More shopping centres. It only took less than a year before I heard myself say to my sister, buy a house in Scarborough. Now, the thought of trekking south to see my family (none of them left!) kills me. Oh, the inconvenience of having to drive down the Kwinana freeway and it’s not to go to Dunsborough. Can I hear myself, what a traiter!
Still, every so often I’ll trek to Freo, past St Pat’s and have a coffee at Gino’s, and smell the salt and espresso, it still feels like home. It’s the nostalgia, the noise, the feeling that everyone knows someone who’s related to me.
So yes, I'm the person I used to make fun of, reusable cup, Volvo, and a fridge that has more sparkling water than actual food. I even said “see you at the club” last week and meant it. If my Ovo could see me now, she’d throw a sandal at me from beyond the grave.
