A Little WaWah

There was a serious pull on my heart-strings last night as Tim Carmeny and I drove the eight hours from Canton, Ohio back to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The tug came as we stopped to get gas (*cough*, sorry, petrol) at a Wawa.

Having not seen a Wawa in little over a month (being an eastern roadstop), I was overwhelmed with memories of camp and our miscellenous roadtrips to get slushies or hogies or just plane candy at the local Wawa. Being back on the eastern coast, so close to Philly and New Jersey and therefore camp,  I realised that essentially, I was home. Back to the old stomping ground that is the eastern seaboard.

When I rattle of the list of places I've been in the last month - from New York down to Miami, New Orleans, Memphis, Nashville, St Louis, Chicago and Ohio - it sounds like I've been on the road my entire life. But when I think about it, it feels like only yesterday that I was kicking back with the musos in Nashville, only the day before that Caitlin and I were cruising down the highway between North and South Carolina. So much has happened in the last month and it has rushed by just as quickly as the road beneath my bus's tyres. I've gone swimming on Miami's South Beach, drank bourbon on Bourbon Street, stood in the studio where Elvis Presley recorded his first song, played pool with future country music sensations and wandered the streets of Chicago with my jaw dragging along the pavement.

It's easy to look back and only remember the long slogs between cities on uncomfortable bus seats or packing then re-packing my backpack for the fiftieth time that week or lying on someone's couch missing my own bed and own bathroom and Sex in the City collection like crazy.

But walking through a new place (or even an old familiar place like Philadelphia) still gets me. It still instills in me the satisfaction and excitement of being in another country and of seeing different things and being foreign unto myself. Even when travelling gets fatiguing and the thought of climbing on another bus is enough to make me want to cash in my passport, just being here puts me back where I belong.

Ciao for now. xo

Can Do In Canton

After the hustle, bustle and business of Chicago, it was nice to board the bus and arrive in Ohio. Seven hours later, I'd gone from skyline city to farmland fabulous. Ohio is famous for producing corn, apples and pumpkins and with Halloween just around the corner, those beautiful orange orbs are just about everywhere.

Ohio also offers the Carmeny family and my accommodation for the six days I am here. Courtesy of Lydia and Tim Carmeny, who I met while at Appel Farm, I have been welcomed under the roof of their 'Gram' who is just about as cute as a button. Imagine the kind of grandma you'd want if you were featuring in a cartoon, turn her voice up a few pitches and put her in a chair playing Boggle. And where ever Gram goes, Buddy the rescue dog must also follow. Gram's house is a bit like a hostel in itself, people are always coming or going or staying. She keeps a guest book in the foyer for those who are visiting to sign and like any good host, is constantly checking in to see you're happy and satisfied (your stomach that is).

Not that I need to be satisfied. Ohio itself offers everything the weary traveller needs. Beautiful vistas of green trees, slowly starting to turn yellow and red with the change to fall. Once abundant crops of corn now singed to gold as they drop their leaves. Ohio is about as picturesque as a postcard and even more so now that fall is starting to poke its face around the corner. Even now, in the late September, I can see the slow change of seasons as the trees begin to morph their colours. The houses in Ohio are dressing their front porches with orange, yellow and red festivities with haunting jack-o-lanterns burning bright in the evening light.

It must be quite an experience to be here through October and November - the trees burning up in the frost and dropping their leaves until they're left naked and bare, the streets full of kids in their costumes as they call for trick or treats and everything covered in snow as warm bodies celebrate Christmas around stoked fires and plates of pumpkin pie (of which I just had my first taste).

The aesthetic of fall is just as romantic as all those movies depict.

Ciao for now. xo

Chicago in Three

I have much to rave in regards to how wonderful Chicago is, but so this post doesn't go on forever, I am going to limit myself to three main points of interest.

1. Food

After leaving Glenn in Logan Square, I moved to the AAE Panthenon Hostel, which left much to be desired, but was located in the heart and blessed soul of Greektown. Which meant, food food food. You couldn't swing an olive branch without hitting something delicious. Greek restaurants, Greek cafes, Greek bakeries, Greek butchers, even Greek take-out. I ate so much souvlaki and baklava, I now outweigh my backpack.

And if I wasn't eating Greek, I was eating pizza - famous deep dish pizza which is so deep you could practically swim in the cheese layering. So deep, so cheesy, but so good. The AAE Panthenon, while located in Greektown, was also conveniently located around the corner from Giordano's - a Chicago pizza institution. And as I couldn't find anyone to share a pizza with me because my hostel was a wasteland, I ate one all to myself. Now, my backpack is carrying me.

Along with these, there were also other delictable discoveries. Ear Wax - the vegetarian cafe on Milwaukee St, Wicker Park that makes wicked falafel and gives you a big dump of hummus as a side. And Nookies Tree in Belmont, where not only did I get the best vegetarian burger, complete with cucumber and mango salsa, but the gay waiter (this being Belmont) said that he liked my polkadot pants and that I was styling.

By the way - the vegetarian cafe, the vegetarian burger - I know it might sound like I'm turning vegetarian, but it's only because I am suffering from the sheer lack of vegetables in my life. I am still a meat-eater, I swear.

2. BeveragesAnd if I wasn't eating Greek or pizza or the occassional vegetable, I was drinking coffee. That's right, for the first time in the four months I have been in America, I FINALLY found first-class expresso coffee at the cafe group, Intellegentsia. Sweet, expresso relief. And while they may not make a flat white, or know what a piccolo is, one of their baristas was crowned the world champ at the 2010 Barista World Championships. Although, I would still argue that Le Monde is better. But then again, I am biased.

And there was also the occassional drinking of alcoholic beverages at assorted hole-in-the-wall bars throughout Wicker park.

 

3. The Art

Okay, so I know I've crooned this repetitively like a rooster but the art in Chicago really is unlike anything else. There is so much to look at, so much that isn't hidden behind a frame and a barrier in a gallery. It's all out there on the street and in the people you pass and the hopeful buskers playing blues ballads on the train platforms. The skyscrapers themselves personify Chicago - the way they reflect the sky's electric hue and force you to see the world from a new perspective.

 
Ciao for now. xo

Post A Comment...

Want to make the life of this lone traveller a little less lonely? POST A COMMENT! This blog is just as much my personal travel newspaper, as it is a forum for your own experiences or advice. Everyone's got their own travel tale or horror story or life-changing experience on the road to relive. I've told you mine, now I want to hear yours.

And it's super easy! Not being a rocket scientist is not a valid excuse! Simply click the comments link at the end of any post, write your desired message, select an existing ID or to remain anonymous and then click the big silver button that says Post Comment. And hey presto, you're done!

Happy commenting!

Ciao for now. xo

Travelling Alone - A Pro and Con List

Pro - You can crawl out of your miserable hostel bed at what ever time you please. You are your own alarm clock.

Pro - You can eat what you want, when you want, where you want and for how long it takes.

Con - Sometimes, sitting at the bar with nothing but a vodka and soda for company makes one feel kind of pathetic.

Pro - You can stop and shop in a store for as long as you like.

Con - But when you find that gorgeous dress that is about the same price as a few nights in a hostel, it would be nice to have a second opinion to make you PUT IT BACK ON THE RACK! YOU CAN'T AFFORD IT! HOW ARE YOU GOING TO EAT?!

Pro - Deciding what you're going to do, where to go to get there and how long you're going to be there before you move on to the next tourist attraction, doesn't take the entire day to organise. You're own itinerary is just that, you're own.

Con - When you're standing in front of the World's Biggest Blah Blah Blah, it would be nice to have someone to share it with.

Pro - You can take as many photos as you like without someone tapping you on the shoulder, telling you to hurry up because they need to pee/are hungry/are tired/will cut off your fingers if you take one more damn photo.

Con - You take so many carefully aimed selfies of you and said tourist attraction, even Facebook would be ashamed. Or, you have to do the awkward "Hi, can you please take a photo of me in front of Lake Who Really Cares?" and then try to smile while hiding the fear in your eyes that the good samaritan you just asked to be your paparazzi might suddenly make off with your camera.

Con - With no one to share the load, you constantly look like a pack horse.

Pro - With no one to share the load, you don't have to listen to people complain about how heavy your and their bags are.

Pro -  You can sleep on the bus/train/plane.

Con - It would be nice to have a friendly shoulder to sleep against on the bus/train/plane.

Con - When the old man who sat down next to you on the bus/train/plane starts telling you about his rheumetism, you'd sell your soul for a friend to turn to keep you conversationally unavailable.

Pro - When the cool cats you met at the hostel invite you to spend the day with their travel party at That Beach or That Park or That Neighborhood, or are also heading to That City on That Train and staying at That Hostel, it's nice to feel your little heart inflate. Ah, friends.

Pro - When people ask what you're doing and who you're doing it with and you say that you're travelling alone, the impressive look that crosses their face makes even your toes feel proud.

Con - Then the pride turns to fear as you worry that they might kidnap you or steal all your belongings, including your sacred collection of travel magnets.

Pro - When you're sitting alone in a cafe eating the most delicious breakfast you've ever wrapped your lips around, or on the train whizzing past burnt orange corn fields and electric blue skies, or standing in front of the most magnificent sculpture or building or creation, and you could share it with someone or you could just exist their quitely taking in the sheer awe of this inspiring world you're in, travelling alone totally trumps.  

Ciao for now. xo

Be'an in The Windy City

After spending the day in Chicago, I've definitely come to realise - summer is over.

The Windy City showed me just why she was christened with such a nickname as Glenn and I headed Down Town for the day. The wind whips through the city streets like a hot knife through butter and for the first time, I was confronted with the real cold of the north. Canada is certainly going to be an interesting experience...

But not even the cold could detract from the beautiful Chicago city. Beautiful doesn't even do it justice. When the clouds cleared long enough for the sun to pop its head out, you couldn't tell which was the city skyline and which was the sky. Every window in every skyscraper reflected the brilliant blue, creating a mozaic of sky and glass. 

Everything in Chicago - architecture, sculptures, gardens, pavements - is an opportunity to push the envelope in what is interesting and obscure. There's the art that hangs in meticulous position at the Chicago Institute of Art and then there's the gigantic eyeball that lies in the middle of the city for everyone to appreciate. Brick walls are covered in professional grafitti and gardens are filled with iron sculptures.

And then there's The Bean - a gigantic metal kidney bean which sits in the middle of Millenium Square. From every angle, the bent metal reflects obscure images of itself and the city, strange warped perspectives that make for the most interesting photographs. If my camera battery hadn't run out, I could have filled a few gigabytes worth just taking photos of every aspect of The Bean. It definitely lived up to the hype.

The more I see of Chicago, the more tempted I am to move here.

Ciao for now. xo

Welcome to Chicag-ie

Despite the six hour commute between St Louis and Chicago, I really had little to complain about. Taking the Amtrak train is like travelling first class compared to the flea-infested Greyhound. Rather than sitting next to an ex-felon or a woman who smells like bacon, I sat next to a lovely girl who did her trigonometry test and didn't say a peep. I stretched out in my luxuriously large train seat, ate a packet of MnMs and  took in the beautiful scenery flying by. Then I watched High Fidelity on my laptop, an ironic choice you could say, given that it was filmed in Chicago.

My intitial thoughts on Chicago are - New York? Shmoo-York. LA? Shmell-A. Chicago is the bitchingest city I've been in yet. It has all the city-cement you could hope for along with the arts culture I crave. Every corner boasts another vintage discovery, every street holds another fine dining experience and for the first time, actual acceptable coffee! But the best thing that Chicago has to offer is Glenn Hendrick.


After two weeks on the road by my lonesom, it's nice to be back in the company of a friend. Glenn lives in Lincoln Square in Chicago, on the edge of the famous Wicker Square. Today we wondered around Wicker Square, which was a bad idea, as the streets offer one vintage store after another vintage store. Sister Dearest's advice to me before I left continues to ring in my ears - "If you see something you like, buy it. You're overseas." And so I continue to acquire an interesting collection of clothing and crafts. However, my favourite discovery today (other than the black pinafore dress I bought) was the community book exchange - what looked like a newspaper dispenser bin but where people could leave and exchange books with each other.

I'm bringing this concept home to Sydney, along with my black pinafore dress.

Ciao for now. xo

Meet Me in St Louis (A Couch Surfer's Experience)

I survived another thrilling six hour adventure on the Greyhound to make it to St. Louis, Missouri (this time, there was a baby that didn’t stop crying from the moment it boarded the bus. You know the type of crying I’m talking about, the one that sounds like a death metal fanatic at a Metallica concert).

St. Louis is a cute type of city, much like a teenager that missed that part of puberty when they were supposed to get a growth spurt. This is in fact the story of St. Louis. Once upon a time, it was a booming metropolis, also referred to as the Gateway to the West. In honour of this namesake, St Louis erected the first largest freestanding structure called The Arch – a large semi-circle of steel which is situated between the city and the banks of the Mississippi. Apart from its historical reference to the city, The Arch looks like just that, a giant arch.

Anyway, St Louis began to lose popularity to larger cities around it – Chicago, Philadelphia, New York – and soon the population dwindled considerably. This is partly due to the political and governmental organisation of the city wherein St Louis and St Louis County exist as two completely different entities, meaning that each smaller suburb is responsible for itself and are able to streamline the caste system with their own governments to control taxes.

All this I learnt from my hosts, Hannah and Tony, in my first ever couch surfing experience.

Definition of Couch Surfing: Where a poor backpacker takes advantage of the kindness of strangers and sleeps on the couch or spare bedroom of people he/she has never met before.

Couch Surfing is not such an uncommon way to travel anymore and while at first I had my reservations, friends who had surfed and survived with little to no horror stories, recommended it as a worthwhile experience. So I joined the online community Couch Surfing.com and found myself a cute couple, Hannah and Tony, who lived with their three cats on the outskirts of St Louis.

While most couch surfers do just that – surf/sleep on a couch – I was lucky enough to get my own room at Hannah and Tony’s. They were very welcoming and went to great lengths to make me feel as safe and at home as possible. While both studied (you guessed it, politics), I was left up to my own devices during the day.
As discussed, St Louis is a geographically divided city, with each of the suburbs almost like a different city unto itself. After visiting The Arch and taking a million shameless photos, I made my way to the City Museum, the main reason I had come to St Louis in the first place. The City Museum is a playground for children and adults alike, made completely out of recycled materials (tin cans, train carriages, yellow school buses etc). But I got there to find that, between Labour weekend and March, it’s shut Monday and Tuesday. And what two days was I in St Louis for? Yah – Monday and Tuesday.

So I put my disappointed butt back on the train and headed out to Maplewood and The Loop for a spot of retail therapy. The Loop is known as one of the 10 Most Famous Shopping Strips in America and is a retail playground of vintage thrift stores, boutiques and independent handy-crafts. And you know how I can’t deny a good handy-craft...

After breakfast with Hannah this morning where we talked more politics, I spent a few enjoyable hours lazing around the house watching cable and playing with the cats. Then, for what felt like the thirtieth time, I squeezed my belongings and fresh purchases into a bag that I swear has the magical powers of Mary Poppins – I continue to procure and it continues to somehow accommodate.

And I boarded the Amtrak train and was left wondering what I’d been missing out all of these weeks, schlepping it out on the dirty bus when such heaven existed on the railway tracks.

Ciao for now. xo

Music City

After spending four days in Nashville, I was generally disappointed to leave the place. I found things there that I never expected. For the first time since being on the road by myself, I didn't feel the pulsing pressure to go out and see as much as I possibly could. There was something about the daylight in Nashville - it just makes you want to be and appreciate, without a map or an itinerary or a camera. I found myself falling in to step with the world and finally finding my stride as a traveller.

Without a doubt, the best part about Nashville was the music. Every night offered a new buffet of talent. On my last night, I went and saw the Dirty Dozen Brass Band - a brass band from New Orleans who played southern jazz like you've never heard before. But it wasn't just about the bands in the bars. It was the people I was staying with at my hostel. Everyone harbored some secret talent for music and some of my favourite memories involve sitting around the hostel at 3 AM listening to these incredible musicians playing music just for the hell of it. I was exposed to some incredible people who have encouraged me and changed me and certainly left their treble cleff imprint on my travels, each in their own way.

Ciao for now. xo

Beneath the Brim

What is most interesting about Nashville is not the hat-wearing-boot-scooting cowboys or even the music they play. It's all the things that lie beneath the stereotype that make Nashville more than just a hicksville city.

Like the fact that in Centennial Park, there sits a giant replica of the Greek Parthenon. Giant. And it's surrounded by the lush green grounds of the park where ducks wonder between the fountains.

Or at The Frayed Knot - the local bar for the Vanderbilt collegiates - they actually play beer pong, on tables designed and designated strictly for beer pong. And dressed in their deck shoes with the sleeves rolled up on their salmon pink Ralph Lauren shirts, they get very drunk trying to prove their masculinity by bouncing a ping pong ball into a slightly-full cup of beer.

Or how the music is not strictly knee-slapping-swing-ya-girl-round country tunes. The live music (of which there is plenty to choose from) is a hybrid mix of country, pop, jazz, soul and even hip hop - a rapper beatboxing with a violin is quite a scene to behold. Even my hostel, AAE Music City, is overflowing with talent. A piano sits in the lounge room where people lay down honky tonk tunes when the feeling suits them, or each pick up a guitar to play the Dueling Banjos or their latest musical creation.

That's what makes this city Nashville.

Ciao for now. xo

Thank God I'm A Country...er...Girl

After another pleasant journey on the Greyhound, (I sat in front of a man who was having a phone conversation about an ex-friend who just got out of jail - "He was let out with nothing but the clothes on his back, a bag of Cheetoes and a bible" - direct quote), I arrived in Nashville, the home of country music.

I feel every night spent out at the Toyota Country Music Muster listening to country rock, every performance I've seen courtesy of the School of Country Music and every time I've sung Keith Urbans' 'Love Somebody Like You' at the top of my lungs has prepared me for being in Nashville.

Even on a Wednesday night, Down Town was a side-show fair of bars bursting with people listening to local bands hoping to make it big. With some new friends I met at my hostel - AAE Music City Hostel (a winner) - we saw a cover group who were like a countrified beer garden band. The streets are full of buskers, some playing spoons and using a suitcase and a kick as their slapdash drum kit. Every corner boasts another leather boot store and everywhere everywhere, cowboy hats. It's like the Muster on uppers. 

But as tantalizing as the music has been, I got to Nashville with only one thing on my mind.

Cowboys.

Ha, just kidding.

The one thing on my mind was - vegetables. Fresh fruit and vegetables. For days, I couldn't work out why I was so lethargic and tired until I realised, I haven't eaten vegetables in weeks (well, months if you gloss over the sad excuse for vegetables we got served at camp). My poor body has been running on bagels and granola bars and the occassional serving of pulled pork (my new favourite American pastime).

So armed with eyes bigger than my backpack, I made a trip to the Farmers Market on 8th and Jackson where I found manna from heaven. Beans, eggplants, peppers (capsicums), squash, cucumbers, onions, avocados, peaches, nectaries, apples, oranges, bananas and tomatoes as big as your face. And with the intention of eating it all, I arrived back at my hostel with enough produce to open my own stall.

And tonight, I'm cooking me a feast.

And then finding a cowbow.

Ciao for now. xo

A Little Less Conversation, A Little More Elvis Please

Being my first time really travelling and all, I've been very conscious of being too much of a 'tourist'. I want to be a 'traveller' and have done all I can to steer clear of feeling too much like a photo-taking, souvenier-buying, oohing-ahhing bright eyed tourist - and that means, occassionally foregoing some of the more tourist-heavy hotspots.

But I couldn't come to Memphis and pay hommage to the King, right?

So I donned my blue seude shoes and made the epic trip out to Graceland to say G'day to Elvis Presley.

And when I say epic, I mean epic. The public transport in Memphis leaves much to be desired. Trying to get from my hostel (which is on the outer suburbs in the middle of nowhere) to Downtown via bus is a touch-and-go experience. One morning, I made it all the way with my connecting buses arriving on time - a small achievement for a traveller. Today, I ended up walking about 4 miles to get back to my hostel from the city (simply to save the 10 bucks I'd have to shell for a cab). Thankfully, a free bus runs between Graceland, Sun Studio and the Rock n Soul Museum so once you make it to Down Town, it's fairly easy to get between all three.

Anyway, on to Elvis.

Graceland is a 10 minute drive out of Downtown Memphis and is just one part of the sprawling metropolis that is Elvis Boulevard. There's the Graceland mansion itself and then there is every touristy extra you could ask for - gift stores, additional museums showcasing his cars and airplanes, photobooths, Heartbreak Hotel for the real Elvis enthusiasts. It's all quite an experience.

As is the mansion itself. Okay, I'll admit. Me and my tourist-allergy were dubious of both the mansion and the $30 I had to pay to get in it. But that being said, the experience itself was kinda, sorta, just-a-little, okay, pretty damn worthwhile.

I was in the house of The King! The man who changed music forever, the man who has sold more records than any other musician in history. In his very house where he walked around in his pyjamas making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That's pretty cool, right?

The mansion isn't all that big, but the furniture and interior decorating makes up for the size. The rooms are still fitted out with original interiors, which include a 'jungle room' that's full of fur furniture and plush green carpet and an indoor racketball court that Elvis had made escpecially - seems he was a bit of a racketball enthusiast. There's a field for horses, a basement dedicated to televisions and Lisa Marie's original swingset.

And then, out by the pool, is Elvis's grave which is now more of a shrine than a grave site. He rests next to his parents and grandmother and the whole 'meditation garden' (as it's been coined) is covered in dedications - posters, floral gardens, candles - that his fans have brought from all over the world. More come every day and it's the rule of the mansion to accept every dedication and keep it by his grave until it wears or withers.

The most touching tale I heard was while I was waiting in line for the bus back to the Elvis-epicentre. One of the mansion staff was remarking to a couple about the amount of visitors they'd had in the last month (having recently been Elvis's birthday). She said a family with kids arrived and the kids started asking when they would get to see Elvis, eventually bursting into tears when their parents explained that Elvis had passed away.

A story like that melts even an anti-tourist's heart.

Ciao for now. xo

Walking in Memphis

It took me 10 and a half harrowing hours on the Greyhound to get to Memphis, Tennessee. Let's just say, Greyhound buses in the USA have a bad reputation for a very good reason. The people who ride them look like those gracing a prison line up. Actually, most of them probably have.

 Anyway, I eventually arrived at the Pilgrim House Hostel relatively unscathered and sporting a very numb bum.

Memphis - home of the rhythm and blues, Beale Street, Sun Studio and Elvis's plantation home, Graceland. For a city with a reputation that proceeds itself - I mean, it has a song dedicated to it, after all - Down Town is fairly small and a part from the tourist draw cards, there isn't much else to explore.

The first stop I made on my own Memphis Tour was the Memphis Rock n Soul Museum - a good place to start as it definitely made me inspired to be in the city. The museum treats you to a video presentation, which is followed by a self-directed audio tour through the displays. The museum covers every notable moment and Memphis megastar in rhythm and blues history - Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, Howlin' Wolf and of course, Mr Elvis Presley (more on him later). A little over-priced for what it offered, the museum definitely helped me come to grips with just how much talent had passed through the Memphis streets. Beale St, now covered in bars much like New Orleans' Bourbon strip, was the epicentre of music and the length that rhythm, blues, soul and even country has come in the last 50 years can be contributed to it.

After getting my music fill at the museum and a fill of pulled pork for lunch (a Memphis specialty), I moved on to Sun Studios. What was originally the Memhis Recording Studio, opened by Sam Phillips back in the day, Sun Studios made a name for itself when it recorded the first big hits of the bluesy big-wigs. The above names have all graced its floors at one point or another and can owe the start of their careers to Sam Phillips' small studio.

I have a feeling that Memphis is not the sort of place a female, 20-something backpacker comes to as I got a few stares as I wandered throught the studio alongside the rockin, 50-something 50's fans. As much as I enjoyed seeing where some of my own favourite music was first created, seeing the oldies get all in a tizz because they got to stand in the exact same place that Elvis first recorded 'That's All Right' was an amusement in itself.

But more on Elvis later.

Ciao for now. xo

Bourbon in New Orleans

I'm going to dedicate an entire post to bourbon.

I've never really liked bourbon much. It really used to annoy me when I asked for Rum and Coke at Union Jacks in Brisbane and they would accidently give me bourbon and the sweetness of the alcohol would slap me straight across the face. But after being in New Orleans, I feel I've developed a respect for bourbon.

Not so much for the alcohol itself. I still think it's gross. But bourbon in terms of the AAE Bourbon House Hostel and Bourbon Street, New Orleans.

I really struck it lucky at the AAE Bourbon House Hostel and would encourage anyone travelling to New Orleans in the future to stay there. The couple who run the hostel are young, hip and so willing to help out travelers. They even dropped me at the Greyhound station the day I checked out. The hostel rooms are nothing flash - your average uncomfortable bed - and it's a little distance out of the city, but it's got a great communal vibe about it, which really makes a difference in a hostel.

I was fortunate enough to be sharing the hostel with about 10 camp counselors from around the country - a few Brits, a few Aussies and not to mention, a few hotties, and simply having camp in common got us all off on the right foot. They took me in and they took me out.

Bourbon Street may be trashy in the harsh light of day, but at night time, the street comes into it's own. Between the 8pm and 11pm, the street is full of the live music you come to New Orleans to see. After that, the bars wind up their disco balls and many turn into clubs. The particular weekend I was there was also Mardi Gra, bringing a whole other aspect to the people of the street. Everywhere you looked there were semi-naked men, all covered in shiney plastic beads they would eventually palm off to us as we made our way down the street.

So my last night in New Orleans was spent appreciating 'the bourbon' - the friendships, the alcohol and the street - and at 8am the next morning, covered in dancing sweat and strings of plastic beads, I boarded a Greyhound bound on a 10hr trip to Memphis, Tennessee.

Ciao for now. xo

City Life, Spooks and Cemetaries

Despite not being one for horror movies, spooky stories or ouiji boards, I decided to put on my big girl pants and spend the morning with the ghosts and graveyards of New Orleans.

Lying alongside the Mississippi River, the city has long been prone to flooding and the locals soon realised that when they buried their dead in the ground, the floods would wash the bodies back up to the surface. To counteract this, the many cemetaries in New Orleans became filled with mausoleums - large marble or cement (depending of finances) tombs to house the bodies. In the old days, funerals were followed by a funeral procession where the congregation would walk the hearse to the cemetary singing melancholy gospel tunes.

The St Louis Cemetary is the most famous of the many cemetaries in New Orleans and is a mixture of decrepid mausoleums and extravagant dedications to the dead. The tombs stand gaurded by wrought iron bars and crucifixes, with a few still remembered by collections of fading or wilting flowers.

Moving from site to site was a little spooky - I'll admit - and it felt like at any minute a gangly dead hand was going to shoot out of the ground and grab my unexpecting feet. St Louis Cemetary 1 (as there are two within a short walk of each other) is also now home to  Marie Laveau, New Orleans anointed 'voodoo queen' (just to make things a little creepier). Marie was believed to have special voodoo powers and many people still come to her tomb in search of her wisdom and blessings. The belief is that after asking Marie's guidance or wisdom, hopefuls must leave a donation at her grave site. When their need is fulfilled, they must return to her grave and mark three x's (XXX) in honour of her help. Hence why, her cement crypt is covered in what appears to be grafitti.

There are plenty of tours which visit the tombs (day tours, night tours, full moon tours, ghost tours, scandelous cocktail tours) which I'm sure indulge in the spooks of the city. But walking around the cemetary in the middle of the day, was all the creep I needed.

Ciao for now. xo

Jazzed To Be Here

Imagine if Byron Bay and the Amsterdam Red Light District had a love-child - all the blues-tooting, grass-smoking genetics of Byron Bay mixed up in a petrie dish with the bright lights and dirty street germs of Amsterdam. What do you get?

New Orleans.

Sorry, N'awleans.

As I flew out of Miami, bound for The South, the realisation that I was going to New Orleans and would probably end up dead in a drive-by-shooting really hit home. I believe, 'Kristen, what the hell are you freaking doing? Are you crazy? Are you freaking crazy for walking so blatantly to your GRAVE?!!' passed through my head a few times before we touched down on the tarmac.

But New Orleans is not the delapidated dive I expected. The city is a bustling hub of street cars shuffling people between districts, as old, toothless men blast jazzy tunes from the sidewalks. The houses stand two, three stories high, supported by pillars and curling cast-iron gates where hanging plants dangle like christmas decorations.

Like most major cities, there seems to be more tourists than locals, but those native to New Orleans possess a pleasant and polite kindess that identifies them from the crowd of photo-snappers. On my arrival at the AAE Bourbon House Hostel, the receptionist was helpful enough to show me where everything was in relation to the hostel and how to get there. It's these simplicities that make travelling alone not quite as daunting.

It was a relief to be able to wander around the city today with only my self and my feet to determine the direction. The French Quarter, the main draw-card of New Orleans, is a standard block layout and is easy to negotiate with a map. Bourbon Street, much like Kings Cross or the Red Light District, is where the music and mayhem happens at night. But in the cruel light of day, all its dirty corners and cheap illuminated strip joints look trashy and tasteless. Stores selling cheaps New Orlean nicnacs are everywhere - everything from magnets and postcards to feathered masks and giant plastic necklaces sporting peace and marijuana symbols.Turn off Bourbon and onto Royal Street and you meet a totally different vibe, with gallery after independent gallery line the street walk.

Around lunch time, the hopeful musicians begin to drag their music cases out into the street and turn the place into an outdoor jazz club. This, served with a side of Gator and Shrimp Gumbo is exactly how lunch should be spent. It's easy to enjoy their sexy, sultry sounds and think nothing more of it, but at the end of the day, they're just as much a business as the restaurant you're eating at. It's something the New Orleanians seem to respect and appreciate and the tip jars and music cases are consistently filled with beer-soaked one dollar bills.

It's been five years since Hurricane Katrina ripped a wound through the heart of New Orleans and while the city has rebuilt itself, 'the storm' is still referred to in quiet reverence by tourists and locals alike. The storm remains a historical scar that is referred to much like Christ's crucifiction - 'before the storm' and 'after the storm'. Tours can be taken along the Mississippi River where the majority of Hurricane Katrina's damage was directed, but like visiting Ground Zero, there seems to be something immoral about turning a memorial into a tourist exploit.

As much as I'd like to think I'm safe walking from place to place, I can't help but feel like I'm looking over my shoulder 99 percent of the time. Down Town and the Garden District feel like safe havens, but there are definitely areas you wouldn't want to wander into in the middle of the day, let alone after dark. Going for a 'wander' is potentially dangerous, as the good and bad streets seem to be intermingled. 'Walk where the crowds are walking' was the advice I was given and that's what I've been doing, with one hand clutched firmly around my bag.

But I'm okay, Mum. I promise.

Off to get some gator sausage. Delish.

Ciao for now. xo

Welcome to Miami

As if I could call this blog post anything other than Welcome to Miami - right Appel Farm?

I wasn't sure what I was expecting of Miami other than the comfort of Caitlin's house and having a bed and a room all to myself. The image I always had of Miami was of beautiful women in skantily clad outfits rollerskating along the boardwalk of the beach. And while I did see some beautiful women and plenty of skantily clad outfits and the occasional boardwalk, I didn't see any rollerskates.

Thank God, because they're so 10 years ago.

Miami has all the goodness of a tropical getaway with just enough trashiness to satisfy the tourist-at-heart. Her beaches are long stretches of emerald sea, hugged by a golden shore, and lying in the sun (that still refuses to burn me, hurrah!) I was reminded of the coastline from home. Much of my stay in Miami involved just that - lying on South Beach, finishing my book and soaking up as much blessed sunshine as my skin could take.

Being home to a strong Cuban and Latino community offers a cultural zing to the Miami experience - much like a lemon squeezed across a fish taco. The Cuban taxi drivers honk as you walk by, in a way that is innocently pleasing and there is a satisfying selection of authentic Cuban and Spanish foods to try and test (best eaten on the beach). We ventured to Little Haiti, a suburb which plays home to the Haitian community of Miami, where we visited the Red, White and Blue thrift store. This is an experience in itself - the biggest thrift store you've even seen filled with more Haitian men and women than you've ever seen, all fighting for thrift store supremacy. I scored a new satchel bag (leather and Coach - $7.49) and a black tuxedo jacket ($6.49) and a cultural experience to boot.

My favourite memories from Miami however were simply my last two days with Caitlin, my friend and tour guide. Yesterday, we rode her parent's bikes around her home suburb, up to the post office and the ice-cream store and then down to the Bay where we sat on the dock in the afternoon sun. We went out for Mexican at El Rancho Grande and ended up sharing a table with a boy who insulted Australia every chance he got and inevitably made an ass out of himself. She cooked me eggs in the morning and we ate breakfast in silence - the kind of comfortable silence that can only be acquired with a good friend.

And after six days of driving and two days of relaxing, we had our last cup of so so many communal coffees together before she drove me to the airport for our last goodbye.

I think in that moment, I realised camp was over. The last week or so with Caitlin felt like I was squeezing out the last, precious drops of camp. But as she drove away and I was officially on my own in the world, with no camp or counselor-friend to come home to, it felt like the final nail in the camp coffin.

And so, with one last hug and after throwing my near-busting backpack into check-in, I boarded my plane to New Orleans.

Ciao for now.