It rains in Adelaide like a thief. It creeps in — silent and hushed — and winds out of sight. No thunder. No drama. A silence as though the city pressed the pause button.

I've lived in hotels for half my life. I travel to places I wouldn't have visited otherwise as part of my job with SA Power. One week, I'm beside a substation. The next, a motel with paper-thin curtains. One week, one town, one bed, one different view — looking out a rented window. Sometimes, when luck allows, I take a room by the sea.

The nights along the sea are gold. I take the stiff hotel quilt outside, wrap it around me, and sit on the patio. There's a salty, wet eucalyptus smell in the air. The clouds are pink and grey. The waves come very, very slowly. I sat there all by myself and just kept breathing — letting the sea and the sky talk to one another while I remained still. It was the sort of silence you don't get at home. The kind that makes you conscious of your pulse.

Golden hour over Adelaide

Back home in Elizabeth, life is blessed with smaller rituals. I shop at Coles, Aldi, or Woolworths — depending on whether I'm looking for a bargain or convenience. Some mornings, I feel more woken by the freezer section than by coffee. That cold wind on naked arms? At least as good as an alarm clock.

Evenings belong to my partner, the children, and a house that is never really quiet. Jokes, clutter, and table games that nobody finishes. Barbecues on the weekends, smoke rising into the gum trees. Everybody overeats, then swears they won't next time. (We always do.)

And then there's footy. I was brought up by the Portsiders (Port Adelaide Football Club fans); it's not that I support the team — it's a religion in my father's veins. To attend a game is like standing in the centre of a thunderstorm that doesn't harm. The ball splits the air in two. Thousands of strangers breathing in unison. It's chaos, and I love every second.

But not all has been noise and joy. Years ago, I thought I had planned my life with someone. We were getting married. Our families got along well. I was 100 percent in — until I wasn't good enough for him, and he replaced me with someone new. I've made attempts, but some doors stay shut no matter how hard you knock. The loss of the beloved taught me to be guarded, even now.

Still, it's the little things that save me. A Netflix night with buttered fingers. A friend who once burned sausages and is now called “extra smoky.” Barefoot children giggling all over the pergola and lawn.

And sometimes, the universe even brings comedy. At one of the motels I stayed in, the bathroom window looked out onto a fish-and-chip shop next door. Whenever I was showering, I could smell people eating hot chips on the bench outside. The scent of salt and vinegar would drift in through the vent. It was absurd — and I couldn't stop laughing. Imagine shampooing your hair and suddenly wanting dim sims. The result was that I threw on the quilt, doubled next door in wet hair and thongs, and ordered a battered sav like it was some gourmet treat.

That is Adelaide, as far as I know. A place of unexpected things every day. Rain-polished streets. A barbecue that runs late. A stadium where people who don't know each other feel like family. Or a motel bath that reeks of takeaway food.

It's a city that glows after the rain. As fresh as air to drink. Adelaide never screams. It hums. A murmur. A dull, regular hum that follows me — whether I'm safe in my home in Elizabeth or snuggling into a hotel blanket by the seashore.

Simple. Strange. That is Adelaide to me — at times funny. A city with its own musical rhythms, post-rain light, the habits that keep you steady, and surprises that remind you you're alive. A place that buzzes with a constant, reassuring presence — even when you're still waiting for the rain to stop.