Return To The Farm

In my wildest dreasms, I never expected to be back at Appel Farm as a member of their staff. I thought I would get tangled in the yards and yards of immigration red tape or I wouldn't have a dollar to my name or someone in Australia would be willing to employ me and I would be on the first flight home. But somehow, the cosmic planets aligned and I find myself right back where I started 12 months ago.

It's strange being back in the place where my elongated journey began. It was the place where I first became a 'traveller', where I remembered what it was like to be a teenager - to be 13 and have Matt Eaton call you 'weird' and know that he was right, where I rediscovered talents I'd left to rust from lack of use. The summer of 2010 set me up for the year that I've had. It prepared me to embrace opportunity and to not cower in the shadows out of fear or the distance from familiarity.

But this is no longer 2010. This is 2011. The staff is not the same staff I shared so many memorable experiences with. The campers will not necessarily be the same campers I taught to write haikus and who told me about their temporary boyfriends. The buildings are the same and the grounds are the same. Everything is exactly the same, but yet completely different.

I knew this feeling would flood me. It was my greatest fear in returning. How could anything possibly trump my 2010 experience? How could anything come close? What if I made the wrong decision? What if the new and returning counselors couldn't meet a middle ground? What if I couldn't find the place where I belonged in this new cohort of counselors? What if everything goes pair-shaped and my perfect 2010 is ruined by a miserable 2011?

As the new counselors clung together and the returners tried to work out where they belonged, I realised we were equally intimidated by each other. We each wanted the same thing - a memorable summer - and it was equally up to us to make that happen.

It doesn't happen overnight, but it does happen. Somehow, during the training and the workshops and the never-ending meetings and the social activities held during Staff Week (okay, and the alcohol-induced karaoke at Steakouts where I unintentionally won myself a position in the Steakouts Karaoke Championship), we came together. We worked out how to free ourselves of our high expectations and we bonded over the most obvious thing - camp.

It's the day before the campers get here and I remember exactly how I felt in 2010 - hungover from the previous nights' staff party, overwhelmed with information, terrified one of the children was going to hot glue their hands to the art table while under my lack of watch and absolutely, positively exploding with excitement. This year, I'm cool, calm and collected. If not still a little hungover.

I guess some things don't change.

Ciao for now. xo

The Corss-Country Chronicles: The Long Road Back

After 18 days driving across 12 states, listening to 27 hours of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and drinking more bottles of Lemon Snapple than I have digits to count with, Molly and I finally made it to Philadelphia, PA - the last destination on our long road back to Appel Farm Summer Arts Camp.


After regretfully leaving New Orleans, we made a few pit stops on our trip back north. We spent a lovely 12 hours in Nashville where I was lucky enough to catch up with an old Appel Farm friend and re-sample the musical delights of Nashville’s downtown. From there it was on to Winston-Salem, NC where we watched the NBA finals and slept on the floor of Molly’s cousin’s apartment. We then drove on to Washington DC, playing chicken on the highway with a semi-trailer so Molly could take a photo of some travelling piglets. We stopped for a day in the US capital to give our best wishes to Barack and hang out with some old friends of Molly’s. Then after packing up the car one last time, we drove the final three hours of our trip where Molly dropped me off in Philly before heading onwards to New York City.

After the long slog to get back to Philadelphia before Molly had to be at camp, it was a relief to finally be somewhere for more than 48 hours. And it was a comfort to be back in Philadelphia - the city which had come to represent 'days off' and escapism while working at camp last year.

We had a little reunion in Philly with my closest camp girlfriends and when I wrapped my arms around them and looked into the faces of these people I never thought I would see again, it hit home that camp was about to start. The long wintery months spent pining for New Jersey and intolerable humidity and my creative companions had finally become a reality. A reality that hit the pit of my stomach and sent in reeling.

A few of us journeyed to Atlantic City to catch some last minute rays and relaxation before we made the one hour drive to Elmer, New Jersey - a car trip that was mostly spent squeeling with excitement, like only girls can.

And when we came to that all-too-familiar stretch of country road and the Welcome to Appel Farm Arts Camp, I knew I was home. After 12 months of travelling, a complete year since I first left Australia, I was finally home.

Ciao for now. xo

The Cross-Country Chronicles: And All That Jazz

I wasn’t born on the Bayou but I feel a special affinity with New Orleans.

It marked a lot of firsts. The first destination I visited on my backpacking adventure last year. The first city I explored solo. My first taste of The Deep South and the first place where I felt so beyond my comfort zone and so thrilled to be so.

While I feel I have grown immeasurably in the last ten months, I was glad to arrive in NOLA and find it unchanged. As was the AAE Bourbon House Hostel where I stayed last year and where Molly and I would be spending our first night.

With the city feeling a little like my stomping ground, I was eager to show Molly a memorable time. However, she seemed to find it all on her own, taking all of 48 hours to confidently decide she wanted to someday call New Orleans home.

We scraped together enough energy to spend our first night wandering between the bars on Magazine Street in the Garden District, but our hostel beds were quick to claim us after a long day of driving. We returned in the morning for breakfast and to mosey from one vintage store to another. Despite my dwindling bank account (damn, those hard earned savings deplete quickly) and my already bursting backpack, I couldn’t resist buying yet another item of vintage clothing. This tends to happen when I see something I like (or simply fits) and the advice of my sister rings in my ears – “Don’t live to regret not buying something you wanted when overseas.” That and the thrill of wearing something, ANYTHING, that I haven’t been wearing for the last 12 months.

With our attempts to couch-surf leaving our accommodation wanting, Molly’s mum was kind enough to shout us a night in a hotel in the lower Garden District for our second night. After an afternoon of revelling in front of the cable TV, each on our own plush queen bed, we pulled on our dancing shoes and headed to the French Quarter. 

Ah, Bourbon Street. Once again, her shock tactics were as resplendent as ever, never failing to astound and disgust. The night clubs, the strip joints, the flashing lights, the naked women – where’s the jazz again?

While I learnt my lesson last year, there are some things you just have to experience for yourself. I allowed Molly just long enough to get a good, hearty whiff of Bourbon Street’s beer, barf and bad decisions before we grabbed a bite of some southern-style cooking and headed to where the real music magic happens – Frenchman’s Street.

I didn’t spend nearly enough time here on my last visit and I was relieved to know better than to waste my time looking for the true New Orleans experience on Bourbon Street. While we got a little lost on the way there, once we turned the corner and I saw the seven-piece brass band playing for tips on the side of the street, I knew we were in the right place.

We visited my old favourite – The Spotted Cat Music Club – and listened to a sultry but sassy swing band. It was then on to listen to some jazz-infused reggae at Cafe Negril and then finally to the Blue Nile to watch The Brassaholics, where Molly had her first brass band experience.

The brass band experience is an essential encounter to have while in New Orleans. It involves being in the pit of a hundred sweaty bodies and finding yourself lost in the rapid beat and the blasting horns of improvising musicians. Somewhere between your throbbing feet and the mesmerising melody, the music reveals 'the answer' – to whatever it is you have been chewing over and over like cud. It reignites the weary and wandering heart. It’s incredibly satisfying. And incredibly sweaty.

Back on Frenchman’s at 2am, we got talking to Tristan the Street Poet. Tristan’s job, his soul profession in life, involves sitting on the street in front of his type-writer writing personal poems for people. Passers-by give him a topic, a 10 dollar bill and 10 minutes.

Molly and I salivated at his artistic affluence and could not have thrust ourselves, I mean our money, at him fast enough. In 10 short minutes, he had written us a road-trip inspired poem, carefully crafted with the memorable details of our adventure. We were delighted.

It helped that he was kind of gorgeous to look at.

So I think I’ve found my vocation. I'm considering Kings Cross. I’m sure the strippers would be inspired.

Ciao for now. xo

The Cross-Country Chronicles: Don't Mess With Texas

When Molly and I were planning our cross-country adventure, driving through the middle of Arizona and New Mexico sounded like a great idea.

But the desert is called the desert for a reason. It's deserted. There's NOTHING to look at.

The mind and butt-numbing five hour drive from Flagstaff to Albequerque, New Mexico was one of shortest drives on our trip but was by far, one of the most painful. If it weren't for the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows audio book, we might have stopped to drive cactus spines into our eyes just so we wouldn't have to look out on any more desert.

With the Arizona fires still raging and having burnt a hole the size of Chicago across the state's landscape, its next door neighbour of New Mexico was suffering the smokey after effects. The beautiful watermelon mountains which frame the New Mexico skyline couldn't be seen through the eerie yellow haze that hovered over the city and turned the sun blood red.

Instead, we stayed indoors with our Albequerque host, Carolyn - a close friend of Molly's - and her three, oh-so-adorable kittens. Vegging out on the couch watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall was a welcome refrain from the road. Especially when we had an epic 12-hour drive to Austin, Texas ahead of us.

But with Harry Potter plugged in and a brief, but memorable lunch time stop in Sudan, Texas (where, just in case of confusion, a sign states - America lives here) the drive wasn't half bad. If you can deal with the Vote Out Obama propoganda, of course. We were definitly in root-tooting, gun-shooting Texas.

After a couple of nervous days of waiting, we were able to find a last-minute couch to surf and in doing so, made two new Texan friends in our hosts, Jason and Tyler (both who weren't actually from Texas, but still qualify as Texans in my eyes).

With the boys both working during the day, Molly and I were left up to our own devices on our day off and took up a couple of Jason's local recommendations. We had breakfast tacos (and one of the best creations known to man - bacon, egg, tortilla - thank you, Mexico), swam and sunbaked at Barton Springs - a freshwater spring in the middle of Austin that has been turned into a local swimming hole and an after-swim bevvie at the Daily Juice - a local smoothie institution.

With all the Longhorn cattle wandering around Texas, there's only one thing worth eating for dinner. Meat. So, as a thankyou to our couch hosts, we took them out for what boys like best.

Barbeque.

The small suburb of Lockhart, on the skirts of Austin, is the BBQ town of Texas and definitely lived up to its reputation. We drank, we ate and we polished off every last delicious, saucy square inch of meat. Then we did what you would naturally do after eating two pounds of beef.

We went to the Lockart Elementary School carnival.

Riding The Zipper, a large ride full of twisting, turning carriages which flip upside down and inside out, probably isn't everybody's cup of tea after eating half a cow, but somehow Tyler and I made it through without losing our dinner. Although, he did lose his sunglasses as we were hanging upside down on The Kamikaze. If there was anything that made my stomach turn, it was the sight of the wirey, toothless carnies who were locking me into each death-trap.

After prying through every inch of Tyler's record collection, we threw Creedence Cleartwater Revival on the turntable, cracked open some beers and played Jungle Speed - a fast-paced, card game that involves matching shapes and colours and grabbing a totem pole. Not so great if you've had a few beers and suffer from mild dyslexia.

Molly and I were both a bit sad to leave Austin and our new friends, but with New Orleans on the horizon, we knew the bayous were beckoning.

Ciao for now. xo

The Cross-Country Chronicles: Oh, How Grand

After travelling down the west coast from city to city, finding ourselves in the middle of the Arizona desert with nothing on the horizon but sky and a disappearing road was a little daunting.

And when I say nothing, I mean nothing. Just very long, very open road with the only company being the occasional cactus. About the most exciting thing that happened between Los Angeles and Flagstaff, Arizona was seeing a tumbleweed blow onto the highway. And here's a quick factoid - one does not want to hit a tumbleweed at high speed. As fluffy as they might look, it's as tough and hard as a dried dead bush would imply. Apparently they're the kangaroo of Central America and hitting one will do more damage to your car then you'll do to it. Avoid at all cost.

Seeing the tumbleweed blowing in the wind (and believe me, there was plenty of wind) was about as exciting as things got driving down the I-40. But with the help of some N*SYNC, a little bit of Backstreet Boys and about five minutes of Hilary Duff, we arrived at the Grand Canyon.

I'm sure the Grand Canyon is beyond beautiful, but when there's been an uncontained fire raging in south Arizona, the canyon has a tendency to fill up with smoke. While the haze let up a little as the sun set, it was still difficult to see the truth depth and distance of the canyon itself, let alone take a worthwhile tourist snap. However, there's no denying that sitting on the edge of one of the world's largest natural wonders with my feet dangling precariously over the edge was definitely worth the seven hour drive from LA.

We stayed the night in Flagstaff - a further hour and a half drive from the canyon which almost sent us into delirium - at yet another motel I'd rather forget. Breakfast was at a mexican cafe where our waitress recommended we spend the morning at Slide Rock National Park in Sedona.

We should have left her a bigger tip as Slide Rock certainly made up for our disappointment from the day before. Hidden at the bottom of a canyon itself, Slide Rock featured natural water slides which were carved into the rocks of a stream which ran through the canyon. We spent the morning lying like lizards on the red rock and then slipping and sliding down the watery slippery dip. The water was a bit chilly, but nothing five seconds in the desert sun couldn't cure. And I didn't get sunburnt, Mum.

With Albequerque in our sights, we left Sedona and hit the open road once again. After our morning in the sun, the six hour drive drained our energy dry and if it weren't for the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows audio book, we may have never made it into New Mexico - our forth state in a week.

Ciao for now. xo

The Cross-Country Chronicles: Welcome to LA LA Land

The last time I was in LA was on a famil as a freelance writer for AAP. The LA I experienced was the plush, red-carpeted urban jungle where celebrities prowl for Prada and drink cocktails in private poolside cabanas. I stayed at snazzy hotels, I ate at snazzy restaurants, I drank snazzy cocktails and I wrote a snazzy travel story about how snazzy LA is.

Unlike Posh Spice, my return to LA was not recognised with snap-happy paparazzi awaiting at the airport. Instead, I was welcomed with a bowl of warm blueberry bread-n-butter pudding in the home of Molly’s godmother, Susie. This time, I was seeing LA from the eyes of a local.

The one thing that stood out from my last trip to LA (other than it being home to the best vintage store in the world, Wasteland) was the sprawling cement and the paradox of palm trees that ruled over the city like sentinels. Not much has changed in the last two years. The city is still an expanse of concrete and housing, rolling over the hills and far away. There are new buildings, new stadiums, new studios and new developments. Everything seems to be on the move. Everything that is, but the traffic.

Molly’s godmother, Suzie and her husband, Rob live on the outskirts of downtown in a suburb called Glendale. Suzie is a cinematic stills photographer, Rob is a writer and their bohemia is embodied in their house. If this is LA LA Land, Susie and Rob’s house is another wonderland in itself – a place where art and agriculture are brought together in a mess of romance and whimsy. Solar-powered fairy lights and lanterns hung from the trees as herbs and succulents exploded out of every tin, pot and can. My private quarters was a day room entirely separate from the main house with its own patio which overlooked the night-time glow of the LA lights. And on my bedside table, a fresh bottle of San Pellegrino. It was like rehab for the weary traveller.

After the rainy weather we encountered in San Francisco, Molly and I were both ready to soak up some serious sunshine. Day One was spent in Santa Monica and Venice where the sun was served up with a side of sand-blasting wind. Wandering up both boulevards left us both a little tired and unimpressed. Even people-watching at Venice Beach – the crazies, the man-apes pumping iron, the men trying to sell green cards for medical marijuana – left me unsatisfied. The only redemption was picking up a pair of comfy cloth shorts from Wasteland which will get some serious wear at camp this year.

So with Day One leaving a bit of a bad taste in our mouths, we decided we better up the enthusiasm for Day Two. And what better way to ensure a good day out than by going to the place where dreams really do come true – Disneyland.

The 10-year old part of my 23-year old self was giddy with excitement at the concept of going to Disneyland – the original mega-park of the Walt Disney franchise. In retrospect, I can see why my parents never gave in to my 10-year old pleas to take us to the most magical place on earth. Disneyland quite literally bibbiti-bobbiti-boos the money out of the parental pocket.

But all economics aside, it’s still Disneyland and it’s as good for the young as it is for the young at heart. Molly and I went on every ride – from Indiana Jones to Splash Mountain – spoiled ourselves with amusement park snacks and got a photo with the royal rodent himself, Mickey Mouse. The sheer amount of strollers and screaming children demanding princess paraphernalia was all made worth it when we stopped to watch the Soundsations parade – a song-and-dance tribute to Disney’s music moments – and I felt my 10-year old self swell inside. Aladdin waved at me, personally. I swear.

Full of fairy dust and with my Disneyland magnet in tow, we headed home at 9pm, a journey which marked my first experience behind the wheel in LA. Not only did we not crash, but we didn’t get lost. I’m getting so good at this.

After two days in LA – the longest pit-stop we’d made so far and exactly the replenishment I needed – it was back on the road this morning. I think we both felt a little reluctant to be leaving our private wonderland. Susie and Rob had been incredibly generous as our hosts – giving us free-reign of their residential playground and taking us to breakfast each day at their favourite, long-standing local restaurant. But with the road beckoning, we gave Susie and Rob’s dogs - Tzegi, Hattie and the unstoppable Hugo – one last cuddle, before leaving their forlorn faces for the Grand Canyon and the formidable desert that is Arizona.

Ciao for now. xo

The Cross-Country Chronicles: I Left My Heart in San Francisco

After eight months of winter where the sun gave me little more than a non-existent goggle tan, I was looking forward to getting to the west coast and soaking up some much needed sunshine.

Unfortunately, San Francisco did not deliver.

What it did deliver was a dose of its traditional west coast weather – rain. This poked a big dirty hole in our plans to spend the morning walking across the Golden Gate Bridge and enjoying the sunshine in Golden Gate Park. In fact, everything we wanted to do involved being outside so we were temporarily at a loss to what we were going to do for the one day we had designated to seeing San Fran.

After a big delicious breakfast at Ella’s (a recommendation from our house host, Anne) we exchanged our sun hats for museum tickets and headed to two of San Fran’s art galleries – the Legion of Honour and the de Young. While the de Young’s photography collection left Molly a little wanting, there were some good sculptures including a hanging cube made out of the burnt pieces of a church destroyed by arsonists.

Thankfully, the Legion of Honour made up for any disappointment with an incredible exhibition by Isabelle de Borchgrave called Pulp Fashion – dresses made entirely out of paper fibres which reflected fashion trends from the 1800s to present day. I’ve never wanted to touch a display so much in my life.

From one art show to another, we then paid a trip to the Haight – San Fran’s very own hippie-ville and my home away from home. It was difficult to control myself in the presence of so many vintage and retro clothing stores. Molly literally had to drag me out the door as I consoled myself with the reality that I can’t fit any more in my backpack as it is. The Haight also gave us a nice glimpse of San Fran's famous Victorian architecture. Believe me, these babies are boring compared to some of the colour combo's we came across.

The sun got its act together in the afternoon and after another delicious dinner with Anne at a local Mexican restaurant, Molly and I paid one last visit to the Golden Gate Bridge – a choice which definitely rewarded us with a few memorable happy snaps of the setting sun over San Francisco.

We called it an early night (or as early a night as possible when Sex in the City is on cable) and fell asleep with LA in our dreamy sites.

If it rains, I’ll cry.

Ciao for now. xo