I arrived in Margaret River, Western Australia, completely alone with my backpack and my surfboard. After months of traveling surrounded by friends, I now had to start over to find farm work and earn my second-year visa. Again I had to build a life from scratch in a small, slightly run-down hostel that felt more like a shared apartment than a place for travellers passing through.

I didn’t expect to find family there. But within days, I did.

The kitchen was always full. Italians, Argentinians, Israelis, all cooking together, filling the room with an energy I can only describe as familial. A guy with dark curls and a charming smile offered me tea before I had even unpacked. There was help finding a job before I had even asked. When my backpack was stolen with my phone, my wallet and my grandmother’s ring, I came back to the hostel and everyone was there for me right away. Don’t worry, we can feed you. If you need money, I’ll lend you some. We’re here for you. People I had known for barely a week, acting like people I had known my whole life.

Among them was my........

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