For my fortieth birthday, my sister gave me flight. I flew from my home in Australia to hers in Germany, then we travelled – with my brother and her partner and their daughter – to Greece.
Most of the souvenirs I returned with were edible: never-before-seen lollies and chocolates for my husband and our kids, two litres of farm-fresh olive oil for entertaining friends, but the most unique souvenir I acquired weighed nothing: This is because the most unique souvenir I acquired was a tattoo.
We’d spent the weekend in Westerway, Tasmania, a town whose population could fit on a large bus. He was waiting on the main street, one bulging pack strapped to his front, another to his back, seemingly unbothered by the load. He was tall and strong with generic good looks.
I took one look at him and I knew his story. I knew the second pack belonged to his girlfriend – a tanned beauty with long legs and perfect teeth. I knew they were in their thirties – smart, with high-paying jobs back home…
