Aushiker wrote:Caravan Park or backpackers would do the trick.
Many of the caravan parks are out of town quite a bit. I liked the idea of a bed so I voted for a backpackers.
There are a lot of backpackers right in the heart of town, Mitchell Street. Good location but they are mostly upstairs, often above a bar. Mitchell Street is, um, a bit rowdy, kinda like staying in Northbridge, it's party central.
I stayed at Frogs Hollow which is less than a k from the centre, close to Woolies, and separate from the rest of the mob of drunken Irishmen. There's a pool fence out the back to lasso your bike and trailer to. Only one flight to go up. Seemed to be more women there and a fair sprinkling of long stay types who tend to look after things a bit better. Bedrooms airconditioned, of course.
Everyone should have a little experience of a backpackers, it's another world.
I had a few words to say about my accommodation elsewhere, Perth, but they can be much of a muchness. Refer:
http://www.cycletrailsaustralia.com/7b- ... -in-perth/
The (backpacker) accommodation here in Paradise is amusing enough, the manager, another ex-Kiwi, ex-chef and also somehow ex-carpenter, is a full on, fall down drunk most nights, entertaining the guests for the last 5 years with his fiercely insane rant against the world punctuated by the occasional “F**k You Australia!” at full volume, smashing random items while staggering around, a table or pot plant doesn’t have a long half life in this joint, before collapsing in a horizontal position out of sight, mumbling to himself down there in the shrubbery in the darkness. We’re polite enough to let him take his little rest, after all there’s a momentary decibel drop before his sonorous nose notes crank up and the focus switches to the usual multicentred cacophony from the rest of the troops ...
it goes on a bit more ...
Or down in Albany ...
Last night I was cosy in my backpacker’s bed, man they are comfortable, that’s beds in general but this one was ok.
About 1am four strangers staggered in from the pub into the eight bunk room, 2 gals and 2 blokes, 3 Poms and a particularly loaded German.
A cell phone started ringing, building intensity with some unidentified tune relevant to the owner’s circumstances no doubt, but she certainly wasn’t going to get up. Couldn’t.
Ring again after maximum volume had been attained for a while. Repeat. Then again insistently. Finally the Pom guy lurched up and somehow killed it.
Plenty of incoherent giggling masquerading as conversation abruptly halted by the German’s single short profane sentence that immediately transformed into melodious snoring. Eventually, as a crescendo was reached the other German bloke, who has to start work at 8am, dragged himself groggily from his bunk and whispered something in German in his ear. Whatever threat had been issued certainly penetrated his unconciousness and then there was finally silence of the kind that seven strangers in a room together share.
Meanwhile out on the street others were smashing stubbies on the road and listening to the glass roll down the steep Albany incline.
