There's No Place Like Home

Where in the world is KH?

KH is at home. In Australia.

SURPRISE!

I know, I know. I apologise for fooling you. There was only a handful of people in on it and had I made it public to... the public... that would have ruined the big heart-palpitating surprise I had organised for my clueless parents. They had no idea, until I was standing at the front door at 9:30pm last night.

I am not sick or ill or unhappy. In fact, it's quite the opposite. It sounds unbelievable, but I actually reached a point where I felt ready to come home. You can't blame a girl. After 15 months of living out of a suitcase (or three) I started to miss certain things - my fancy summer dresses, my high heels, my books. And you know, my friends and family.

The realisation that maybe I didn't want to move to Vancouver came to me about half way through the summer. I came to realise that if I moved to Vancouver, I would have to set up a life for myself all over again. Find a job, make enough money to support my addictions (to clothes), find a house (preferably where I didn't have to share a room, again), find friends, find hobbies, find a local watering hole. I would have to set up my life all over again, put myself out there, be the fearless ball-buster. And I thought, I could be a fearless ball-buster in Vancouver. Or I could move home to Australia, set up my life again and be a fearless ball-buster in Sydney instead.

And for the first time, the idea of going home didn't rise bile in my throat. It actually sounded, kinda nice. Seeing my friends and family, moving back to Sydney, drinking good coffee, going running on my running track - all the things I loved about living there. But also, implementing all the things I want for myself now, like satisfying this parching thirst I have for making art and music.

So I made one of the biggest decisions I've ever made. I rebooked my flight for September. I came up with a detailed plan for arrival, wherein my best friend was going to pick me up on the Sunday I arrived and then her parents would drive me the two hours home to surprise my parents.

The week leading up to my departure was tough enough - all those ghastly goodbyes I had to make - but by the time I got to Vancouver airport, I felt like I was ready. All I had to do was get on the plane.

Then the plane sprouted a fuel leak.

I was stranded at Vancouver airport until 1am (five hours after my flight was scheduled to leave) when they finally decided that despite the plane no longer leaking fuel, it was not safe to fly (yah think?) and the flight was cancelled. They had organised buses to take us to a hotel, but having a plane-full of people all trying to do the same thing is like being stuck in a perpetual line for a Disneyland ride. By 4:30am I finally climbed into my hotel bed only to wake up at 9am the next morning, feeling like I was suffering the world's worst hangover, and be told that the flight was rescheduled for noon on SUNDAY.

So there I was, stuck in a Vancouver hotel, wobbling between insanity and reality as I tried to work out if this was all a cosmic road sign that I was supposed to stay in Vancouver and not return to Sydney.

But my flight eventually took off, with me in it and after another night's stay in Auckland, I touched down in Brisbane on Thursday morning and into the welcome arms of one of my best friends. I hung out with her for the day and then she put me on a train bound for my home town.

Half way there, the train broke down. They put us on a bus.

Half way home on the bus, a rock flys up from the road and smashes the driver's side window.

They put us on another bus.

I finally make it home where my friend's mum picks me up and we make it to my house without anything going wrong. With more excitement in my stomach than I knew what to do with, I knock on the front door. My dad answers, acknowledges me with a bemused face and next thing my mum is coming down the passageway wailing like a banshee. I'm pretty sure they both thought I was a figment of their imaginations. They're still waiting for me to disappear in a puff of smoke.

But it's not a dream. I am home and my journey, this beautiful adventure that has been the last 15 months of my life is over. It doesn't feel like it though. I feel like this is just another port on my travels and tomorrow, I will pack up all my belongings and head off again.

But this is for real and it's for good, for now at least. I thought I would be scared and bitter about coming home, back to a life which I fled from 15 months ago. But what I have come to realise is that my tale might be over, but it's not the end of the book altogether. This journey was just another short story in my life's collection. Tomorrow, a new adventure will begin.

I don't think I'll ever understand how everything came together like it did. How I ended up at Appel Farm; how I started working as a musician in Banff; how I travelled for 15 months without running out of money, losing my posessions or getting bed bugs. The person I was 15 months ago pinned all her hopes and sanity on this trip. She was looking for something she didn't yet understand. And she returned having found it.

Ciao for now. xo

The Goodbye Girl

Last year, my summer at Appel Farm passed by so slowly I could count the hours. This year, it was a zip line I flew down in a delirious rush. Nine weeks may as well have been nine days. It felt as if I arrived at camp one day, pale-skinned and buzzing with anticipation, only to leave the next day with a tan and the weary look of an old woman who has been living in a bunk surrounded by 16-year olds for the last nine weeks.

How another summer has so quickly come and gone is beyond me. As I type this from the seat of a plane soaring over the dirty landscape of New Mexico, I feel slightly bemused by the thought that camp is over. Nine weeks of classes and counselling and telling the campers not to squirt ketchup straight into their mouths is over. It feels like it was just a figment of my imagination which, for one beautiful moment, became something tangible. Then it disappeared like all figments do, back into the abyss.  And I carry on forward.

It would be lovely to fool myself into believing I will be back at the farm next year, but I know it wouldn't be true. I have sucked the place dry of everything it had to offer me and I have offered it two very willing summers of my life in return. I've come to realise that I'm ready for new adventures, which means no more escaping back to the USA each June. As I drove away in the rain on Sunday, I turned around and took one last look at the place where this whole rollercoaster first started in 2010. I remember that day now like a bunch of images flashing from an old film roll– catching the yellow school bus from New York, pulling into the Appel Farm parking lot, the first time I stepped into the bunk, the first time I even spoke to the people whose arms I cried into when I left.

Had anyone told me this is how it would all turn out two years after first deciding to apply for a summer camp, I never would have believed them.  That I would have a great time, yes. But that I would be so in love with Elmer, New Jersey that I would return for another year? That I would find a crazy kind of salvation? That having to say goodbye to those friends is like no heartbreak I’ve ever known? I don’t think that hopeful yet naive version of myself would have believed that.

There was much that happened between leaving Appel Farm on Sunday and boarding my plane to San Diego this morning, but the only part of it that I can remember is crying. And when I wasn’t crying, I was blinking back tears through bloodshot eyes and sniffling like a crack addict. The last 24 hours has just been one big blur of ‘lasts’. I looked into my best friends’ faces for the last time and I cried into their collar bones as we held each other for the last time. And in the glow of the Philadelphia lights, I had to ignore the unspoken fear that maybe these are summer flings, just like any other. Maybe our love will suffer in the lonvegity. Maybe we will become lazy with writing emails or making dates to call each other despite the time difference. Maybe the overwhelming sense of friendship which consumes me now will be reduced just to photos and anecdotes shared at the family dinner table. As untrue as I know that will be, the thought of it makes me want to vomit.

But as my eyes well up all over again, I feel no relief in the unsatisfying consolation that my friendships with these beautiful people are not in fact ending. Being best friends but in different countries is not enough. iPhone apps and email and Skype don’t create the same memoires. Seeing someone’s face on a computer screen is not the same as walking to the coffee shop with them. A letter in the mail is not the same as a conversation in person. The friends I left in Australia would vouch for this, which makes me the constant in this equation. I am the foolish masochist who continues to knowingly put oceans between herself and the people she loves.

And I know that I should be grateful that we found each other at all – kindred spirits are not easily stumbled across. But I can’t be a member of the Pollyanna Club on this one. I am handing back my badge and just being plain old down in the dumps.  

Think I’ll go cry some more now.

Ciao for now. xo

All's Well That Ends Well

We sang, we cried and during the scariest electrical storm I've ever seen, we said goodbye to our second session campers and to the end of Appel Farm 2011.

Staff Week seems like an age ago and yet camp has gone by so fast this year. It feels like just yesterday that Molly and I were driving across the country to get here, talking about and anticipating the coming summer. Now it is over. The children have gone home and the only proof I have that this summer ever existed are a collection of ceramic mugs I threw on the wheel and the momentos I've horded from the beginning of the summer, not to mention the beginning of my travels.

But those momentos - poetry I've written, letters given to me, cards and notes passed between friends, costume pieces from camp dances, worthless gifts from my campers that would mean nothing to anybody else, but have become more important than any of the things I've bought for myself in the last year. I have carried a binder full of this - stuff - for 12 months and as I crammed even more into it yesterday, I was reminded of the full length of my travels. I really have been gone for a long time.

Technically, camp is not over yet. The staff remain here for two more days - to clean and inevitably, party - but the 'camp' part that makes it camp has finished. Yesterday, as I hugged my last eight girls goodbye - Candace, Angela, Leah, Sarah, Jen, Ace, and Haley and Katie who have been in my bunk for eight weeks - I could only hope that I had left them with a few nuggets of truth and a sense of self-worth that they will remember about me and this summer for the rest of their lives. It's almost ridiculous how much you fall in love with these kids. It's only after two months of getting frustrated with them not cleaning up after themselves and aggravated that they never listen or angry that they want to be treated like adults but are acting like children, that you realise how much you love them and have come to consider them your own children.

Ciao for now. xo

To Making It Count

The first two weeks of Second Session have flown by and I am staring down, quite blankly, at the last two weeks of camp. Ever. I know this will be my last summer at the Farm. Maybe not forever, but for now. It is time for new adventures. So as tired as I may feel after seven weeks of camp, I know I have to make this last fortnight count.

Week Seven at camp is often referred to as ‘The Wall’, something the counsellors hit with full force. We get tired, grumpy, burnt out and we start looking towards the end with growing anticipation. That’s easy enough for the counselors to feel after seven weeks of camp life, but compared to us, the Second Session campers just got here and they want and deserve the same memorable month that First Session had when our energy was at its best. Our lack of energy inevitably ruins the Second Session experience.

I hit ‘the wall’, a little prematurely, about a week ago. One too many difficult camper-related situations which required intense communicative problem solving on behalf of my co-counselor and I, left me ready to bow out gracefully.

In an attempt to return, or at least remember, what life is like outside of camp, Caitlin and I spent out day-off last week, walking around the Grounds for Sculpture park in Pennsylvania. It was nice to feel cultural again and to discuss art in a way which two adults could. Rather than asking leading questions and prying the answers out of the campers like you pry flesh from a stubborn oyster. After that we disappeared into the rainy-labyrinth of Philadelphia. We got, what Caitlin refers to as ‘fancy coffee’, ie. a latte, and read The New York Times in a cafe in Bella Vista. We went real-estate snooping for Caitlin’s new apartment. We went to our favourite Mexican restaurant on Morris St and we saw Crazy, Stupid Love at the cinema. After a day of doing what normal people do with their free time, we returned to camp, where I felt like I had finally scaled ‘The Wall’.

The two-week campers of Second Session left on Sunday, leaving a large six-camper hole in my 14-camper bunk. Saying goodbye to them made me feel like a parent sending her children off to college. I had taught and counselled them as best as I knew how in the two weeks they were mine and now I could only hope that I had somehow brought them up right. The first two weeks had held some special memories – the rainforest-themed camp dance, the scavenger hunt where my bunk dressed up as my co’s hairy, English camp boyfriend and all the random, sometimes serious but most ridiculous conversations we had before going to bed.

 And then there were eight. I can finally count them all on one hand. After feeling like I was living in an episode of Big Brother, it’s now strange having so few campers left in the bunk. But I’m looking forward to the next two weeks with the eight girls I have left.

It’s not about counting the days, but about making them count.

Ciao for now. xo

The Second Helping

I have lived in Australia for 23 years and in those 23 years, I have suffered through some pretty horrific hot summers. But I have never been as hot and disgusting as I have in the last few days.

First session ended just in time for eastern America to suffer one of the worst heat waves in the last five years. 24 people in the New York City tri-state area died due to heat-related emergencies. The mercury hit 105 degrees - a very comfortable 40 degrees on the celcius scale. My eyelids were sweating. The air itself was too heavy to breathe. Even the air conditioning struggld to turn what was toxic humidity into bearable indoor spaces.

Thankfully, the worst day we indured was the day the first session campers left so by midday they had all returned to the safety of their air-conditioned realities. So we didn't have to endure the additional blight of the over-heated child.

As much as I loved my first session bunk and the energy and eccentricities they brought to our domestic dynamic, it was a relief when intersession swooped in. I found this session hard-going at times - faced with issues and challenges that luck never brought me as a counselor last year. But the moments when I questioned my abilities to deal with the teenage issues I was faced with daily, where utterly outweighed by the moments my girls made me laugh or needed my advice or just a hug or I realised how much their trust was my ultimate support.. It is so easy as a counselor to think that your campers think of you the way they do their parents - as buzzkillers, the man, their authority - but when their crying in your arms on the last day and revealing how their summer was what it was because you were their counselor, there's no greater assurance that you did your job. And then some.

The 36-hours of intersession were spent re-setting camp for the impending second session campers. We cleaned our bunk from floor to ceiling. We re-designed our bunk decorations and we all took a moment to breathe (or try to in the heat). After a night of celebration our survival, a bunch of us went to Parvin Park - a local lake in a nearby national forrest, where we 'grilled' (aka BBQ'd) and swam with the other 100 locals who fled the heat for the water.

Then we returned to camp to do it all over again.

Second session is an interesting experience. It can feel like a relief to have everything feel comfortable and familiar but the monotony can be a buzz killer. But at the end of the day, you quickly realise - these are a new bunch of kids with a new set of issues.

Ciao for now. xo

One Down, One To Go

There is one more sleep until the end of the first session of 2011 and four weeks could not have gone faster. I remember camp dragging by beautifully last year. This year, it has flown by and it's uncomfortable to be staring down at the last four weeks, knowing that I am going to be at the end of them faster than I would like.

Week Four at Appel Farm is kicked off with our Dinner Dance, where the girls primp and preen like its the prom and the boys couldn't care less. For the counselors, it's an opportunity to remember the days where a boy asking you the dance was on par with a marriage proposal and where the response, "I'm going with my friends" meant something else entirely.

While the campers may get dressed up, it's the counselors who truly get 'dressed up'. The theme of First Session Dinner Dance was 'Sock Hop', also known as 50s. Being an arts camp, you can only imagine the amount of times we have all seen Grease, so we knew what we were doing when it came to looking like Sandra D - both before and after. The one thing I learnt at college was how to make a circle-skirt, so I was put in charge of making the poodle-skirts for the Appel Angels - our version of the Pink Ladies.

Needless to say, despite all our attempts to teach the kids to jive to the 50s music, all they really wanted to do was make bump-and-grind lines to Beyonce.

Classes officially ended on Tuesday so the remainder of the week is availabe for performances. This is one of my favourite parts of camp - watching the kids perform and be recognised for the work they've put in over the last three weeks. At the end of the day, it's pretty incredible what the theatre, technical theatre, music, dance, video and visual artists achieve in the time available to them. And don't get me started on the creative writers...

Tonight is the last night of camp which means it will be an emotional one. There is a whole closing ceremony organised for the kids involving candles and singing and a lot of tears. But it gives them a sense of closure to all they've experienced in our Utopia.

Then we wipe away their tears and send them off to the final campfire, where they get high on s'mores and make out with each other.

Ciao for now. xo

You-Make-Me Feel Like I'm Living a Teen-age-Dream

Firstly, welcome to those of you joining us from the IEP Summer Camp website. My contact at IEP (my sponsor organisation in Australia) emailed me last week and asked if I would be comfortable with IEP posting a link to my blog on their official website. Um, a chance for more online traffic? Need I respond to that at all?

So welcome all ye new readers. I hope this blog gives you the insight into camp life that I eagerly sort after and failed to find when I was in your position 12 months ago.

Once again, the busy camp schedule has gotten the better of me and my blogging has suffered. Between the 4th of July celebrations, Beach Day, International Day, the Camp Dance and all the 16-year-old angst-enriched drama that happens in between all that, I haven't had the time to do anything but drink A LOT of bad cafeteria-style joe (that's American-drawl for coffee.)

And believe me, the drama is as thick and volumous as Fabio's chest hair. I swear, put a video camera in front of these teenagers and you've got yourselves an MTV reality show to be reckoned with. I don't remember it all being so hard when I was a teenager, but apparently, solving the issues between teenagers is like trying to declare world peace.

When I'm not stopping nuclear warheads from exploding and leaving only the cockroaches behind to rebuild the world, I'm teaching my brilliant creative writing minds and becoming continually more jealous of their abilities. My break-through this week, which put all other teenage dramas on the back burner, was when one of my younger writers who I often have to battle with to be a part of the class, wrote a poem that he wants to read on-stage at the upcoming Friday Nigh Concert. I had to physically stop myself from hugging him and making the kid feel completely uncomfortable.

When I'm not finding refuge in those small achievements teaching brings, I'm continuing to establish myself as the counselor with no shame when it comes to being utterly ridiculous. We all know KH does not do things by halves and camp aggravates that tendency in me. At International Day, I brainwashed poor American children into eating Vegemite, at the Outer Space-inspired Camp Dance I turned myself into a hunk of space junk and screamed and squealed my way through every rollercoaster at Six Flags during Trip Day. Just in case the campers doubted my dedication to shame, I dressed up as a grandma for Reverse Day and coughed and spluttered over every child who would get close enough to me.

You know... sacrificing my squeaky clean reputation all in the aid of making children laugh.

Ciao for now. xo

The Kids Are Alright

It's been a week since the kids arrived at camp and this is the first opportunity I've had not only to sit down and blog, but sit down and write my unloved mother an email. I've been a little side-tracked by all things camp.

After spending seven days with the 2011 staff, it can feel like camp is just going to consist of the counselors and no one else. But once the kids arrive, the whole camp suddenly comes alive and it feels like the summer is really in full swing.

The girls in my bunk are an absolute riot and a completely different batch of girls from last year. Most of them are returners and feel more comfortable at camp than they do in their own homes. They like to talk about boys and Justin Bieber and their favourite brands of make-up and they try to unsuccessfully pry details about our personal lives out of us. They've created a completely different bunk vibe from my girls last year, which has helped in distinguishing one summer from another. Sometimes, they're so on the go that just watching them, let alone counseling them, sucks the energy right out of me. But for the most part, I love each of them and  will be very sad when they leave me at the end of the first four-week session.

This week has been all about the bonding. Having campers move into your bunk is like giving birth to a baby. You have to spend as much time as possible with them in those first few days of camp  in order to truly establish a relationship. Because my girls are desperate to know every single thing about me, that hasn't been a problem. We've made music together, talked about boys together, braided each other's hair and talked about the economical benefits of buying cheap nail polish versus the physical benefit of using expensive nail polish when the cheap nail polish cracks your cuticals.

But this first week hasn't just been about the campers. In my downtime, those couple of minutes where I find myself suddenly free, I head straight to the baby-grand and let some of the summer stress loosen on the ivories. I played in the counselor concert and despite having played so many gigs in the last eight months, I felt strangely nervous about being back on the Appel Farm stage, playing my own music. Somehow, that stage represents so much more to me than any other stage I've performed on this year.

After two weeks of being at camp, I finally had the day off today. A few friends (some old, some new) and I went to Philadelphia for the night, a trip which has left me more tired than when I left. But it was nice to be back in the city and feeling like a person with her own life, rather than being immersed in the lives of her campers.

Almost makes me a little homesick for Sydney.

Ciao for now. xo

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

Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues

I've found it hard to blog since being in Banff, which is the reason for my lack of posts. My life has fallen into a routine - wake up, go to work, go for a ride, come home, go out, go to sleep - and the ins-and-outs of my day to day living barely seem blog-worthy.

I have been in Banff for six months now and find myself suffering from a common sickness to seasonal ski bums - the mid-season blues. I find myself tiring of Banff and the all-too-familiarity of it. Of doing the same things, seeing the same people, living in a town that's city centre consists of one by two blocks of store fronts. And the drama... The drama is wearing me out most of all. If it weren't for the lack of cameras following me around each day, I could swear I was part of a trashy MTV reality show.

The irony of this is that I remember a time when I craved routine, when I ached for a cupboard and a place to unpack. And now that my feet have remained in the same place for so long, I can feel them starting to grow numb. Like a cup of coffee left to sit to long, I'm growing stagnate and cold.

I don't know if it's the fatigue of familiarity, a touch of homesickness or just the feeling that maybe it's time to give this travel tale a time of death, but I've been feeling a real pull to return home. I find comfort in looking at what jobs are available and at cute one bedroom studios available in Sydney. I remember my wardrobe and what it felt like to wear high heels and order cocktails and flirt with the suits at Ryan's Bar. I remember my life.

But at the same time, the thought of home terrifies me. It would mean leaving the life I've come to know now. A life of backpacking and exploring and eating at cute cafes in city backstreets and sleeping on long-haul buses and wondering who I'll meet at the next hostel and what waits around the next bend in the road. It would mean finding a new job, a new home, a new sense of stability. It would mean collecting the broken fragments of the life I left and I trying to piece it back together to fit everything I know now. I'm not sure if the strange feeling sitting in the pit of my stomach means I'm terrified of having to do all that or if I'm terrified because I feel I might be ready to do all that.

But despite this strange state I'm in, I'm reassured that with time and a good dose of Vitamin-Stop-Being-A-Sad-Sack, these mid-season blues will pass. Just like the cold, miserable winter weather will make way for blue skies and spring snowboarding, I'll find my stride again as a traveller and all the things I love about backpacking will be returned to me. And I bet the routine of going to work and seeing the same people doing the same things and creating the same drama will be something I'll miss as I'm pulling everything out of my backpack just to find a clean shirt to wear. I guess as a traveller you're always struck between something good, and something better.

And soon I'll find myself back at Appel Farm and Banff will be another folder of photos I'll look back on and ache over.

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.

Camp Conclusion

After three years of waiting, two failed applications attempts, one year of employment struggle, a very long plane flight and nine glorious weeks with the most talented American kids and artists I've ever met, my camp experience has officially met its end. And it was all worth it.

On the 20th August, I waved goodbye to my second session campers and began the mass clean up of camp and Bunk 22. It felt like a bitter sweet ending. One half of me was relieved to have my life back and my sense of personal space. The other half ached for the experience that was coming to an end and the fear that I would never see some of my, now closest, friends ever again. But endings are inevitable and I know they will be a huge part of my traveling adventure.

Once we'd cleaned the camp from top to toe, the Appel Farm staff came together for the Staff Banquet on Saturday night to celebrate the nine weeks we'd spent together. We drank, we were merry and we saw the last few hours of each other's company were the best we could make them. My staff superlative (the 'award' you are voted for by the staff) was the person most likely to surprise you with another hidden talent.
I think that summed up my Appel Farm experience. I knew when I started this international adventure that I would be challenged and pushed. I knew camp would change me, but I didn't know that I would come out the other end feeling more like a writer than ever. And not just a writer, but an artist. I have spent nine weeks utterly submersed in the arts - visual, performance and literary. I have rediscovered passions which have long been in hibernation, not to mention igniting new interests. I have dabbled in ceramics and learnt the sheer pleasure of throwing clay on a wheel. I've learnt how to intergrate typography into my creative writing and become addicted to a whole new art form. I was employed by Appel Farm but I got so much more out of camp than just money and the counselling experience.

As the rain poured down on the 22nd August, I could not have dreamed a more dramatic way to say goodbye to my friends and the farm. We stood in the carpack, the rain soaking through out clothes and luggage, tears soaking through our cheeks, utterly unable to say goodbye to each other. It felt like a surgeon was removing something from me I never knew was there until the scalpal was slicing through. As the bus to NYC drove away and I sat cold and wet from the rain and tears, shivering from 'the fear' that I would never see Appel Farm again,  it seemed surreal that this was the end. After everything, after what felt like a lifetime of trying and then nine amazing weeks, a bus driving through the rain was marking the end.

And as I type this from a Starbucks on West End Ave, NYC, my throat closing over at the memories and the friendships which have redefined my sense of self, I can only hope the road that eventually got me to Appel Farm would eventually lead me back.

Ciao for now. xo

Off With His Head!

There are a few great things about being a counsellor at a performing arts camp.

1. As an artist, you are continually inspired by the young creative minds around you.

2. As an artist, you are continually terrified that when the young creative minds around you become older, they may kick you out of a job.

3. There is a constant supply of arts and crafts to be consumed (a creative station like none other)

4. There are constant opportunities to wield one’s creative abilities with the arts and crafts supplies

5. Everyone flaunts their eccentricity

6. Nothing is done by halves

And when you add all these things together you get Saturday night’s Dinner Dance, themed ‘Fairy Tales’. Not since college (and even then, this barely compares) have I seen such gusto and detail applied to the costuming and decorations behind a party. But what do you expect when you put 50 of the world’s most hopeful artists in one place and ask them to throw a dinner dance no camper will forget.

We had Little Red Riding Hood and her Grandmother Wolf. We had the Gingerbread Man, Peter Pan, Rapunzel and Belle. We had Sleeping Beauty, the Fairy Godmother and enough dancing princesses to probably make up the 12. And then me – the Queen of Hearts – in a costume made courtesy of Appel Farm’s Art Barn.

I’ve got to admit, playing the role of the Queen of Hearts does come with certain perks. There’s really no other character you can play who gives you the opportunity to run around screaming “OFF WITH HIS HEAD” and just genuinely be a lofty, snooty, ‘heart’less bi-atch.

Saturday night’s Dinner Dance was followed by Sunday and Staff B’s last day off of camp. Feeling a little nostalgic, we decided to return to Philadelphia – the scene of our first time off together – where we once again crammed 12 people into our camp director’s studio apartment. After a very comfortable night’s sleep on the wooden floor directly in front of the toilet (which is a great place to park yourself after 12 people have just drunk a few cartons of beer), we enjoyed our last day in Philly by shopping and eating and later slumming it in the car park of Tokyo Mandarin as we stuffed ourselves with Chinese.

On the trip home, it started to occur to me that this was the end. The five people I was squished into a car with and who I had seen every day for the last 8 weeks would soon be going their separate ways, heading off on their grand adventures. Some of them I would see on my own travels, but others, I may never see again. This world I am a part of, this family I am a member in, only exists over the summer and soon the summer will be gone.

Until 2011 that is.

It’s tempting....very tempting.

Ciao for now. xo

Some Australia flag flying, overnight camping and my stint as a parrot

I’m approaching the end of week seven and with just over one short week left at Appel Farm, the cruel realisation that this experience will soon be coming to an end is starting to really affect me.

It feels like I have been here forever, that I didn’t have a life before coming to camp and with that comes a fear for what waits beyond next Saturday – when I wave goodbye to my Appel Farm family, these people I have learnt to trust with my faith and my fears, these people who I may never see again but have been players in this beautiful memory of mine.

And then I watch some kid super-gluing his fingers to a table in the Art Barn and I know I’ve had just about my fill.

With second session starting to wind down to Performance Week (the week all the kids perform their work from the session) as well as the camp itself closing, Appel Farm seems to have been hit by a contrast of extremities. The campers are wearing out, the counsellors are wearing out and now our sheer fatigue seems to have turned into eccentricity. It seems not even exhaustion can slow my girls down.

As the second session schedule is a repeat of the first session, early last week we held our second International Day. However, this time it was centred on the International vs. America soccer game – the only occasion in the Appel Farm calendar when the counsellors and campers are allowed (or more so, encouraged) to act competitively. This game is a HUGE deal and as you can imagine, a camp for performing arts never does anything by halves, even when it comes to sports. There are strategy meetings, coaching, training, warm-ups, referees, rules, red cards, water coolers, commentators, cheer teams and a whole lot of male ego going wayward. The International team is made up of all the international counsellors (primarily British, who as you can imagine, feel they have a point to prove) and the American team is made up of all the Americans (who being American, also feel they have a point to prove). While the Internationals were victorious in the first session match, we did not fair so lucky in the second session where a sneaky goal in the final minutes of overtime saw us beaten by the red, white and blue – and they haven’t let us forget it. All in all though, a good excuse to dress up in as much Australian paraphernalia as I could bring with me and roll my eyes at the children who asked me what language I speak in Australia.

One activity I missed out on in first session due to my day off but got to experience this week was overnight camping – an Appel Farm tradition where your bunk and another bunk traipse out into the middle of the field across the road and camp for the night. For a 22-year-old who spent much of her childhood sleeping on a blow-up mattress in the middle of nowhere, one evening of overnight camping didn’t phase me much (especially when there were smores involved). For a group of 16-year-olds who couldn’t bear the idea of bugs, flat beds and sleeping bags, overnight camping appeared apocalyptic. But with a few smores in their belly and the only beetles being the Beatles hits we sang around the campfire, I think they survived with most of their sanity in check.

Friday night brought the first dance for the session and the first opportunity for our camper couples to test out how much bumping-and-grinding they could get away with before intervened by the counsellors. The theme for the Friday Night dance was Pirates and Mermaids and not feeling like dancing with a fish tail between my legs, I went, instead, as a pirate’s parrot. Thankfully, the camp costume shop comes in handy for events like this and just so happened to have a meticulously detailed parrot costume waiting for me to use. A beak, a pirate patch and some extensive eye make-up later and I was ready to dance the night away (between the bumps-and-grinds).

Being at a performing arts camp has been a pretty humbling experience. The sheer talent of the campers I am surrounded by and being privy to the unadulterated passion they have for their art form has been inspiring. This being so, I’ve taken a deep breath and returned to the stage. I performed a few times in first session – singing and playing an original piece on the piano and fronting the jazz/funk band’s rendition of Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag. And on Monday night, I took up my guitar and accompanied a friend’s first performance on the piano. Playing on stage again has really stirred something in me and it’s one thing I’ll definitely miss once camp is over. Below is the YouTube video of our performance - Imagine.

The leadership team like to keep us and the campers on our toes, so yesterday they sent the camp schedule into mayhem by hosting Reverse Day. When your day-to-day existence comes to rely on the mechanical comfort of a routine, suddenly flipping it upside down leaves you feeling the strange effects of vertigo. We had dinner for breakfast, evening activities in the morning, majors in the afternoon, breakfast for dinner and early-bird activities in the evening, where we sat around drinking coffee and reading the paper.

Only at camp.

Ciao for now. xo

Atlantic City, Baby!

What do Sex In The City, Gilmore Girls and Beaches have in common?

At one point or another, they've all featured Atlantic City as a destination.

And yesterday, it became a feature destination for six very satisfied camp counselors.

I've heard Atlantic City described as Las Vegas' cheap and dirty second-cousin and like most cities, there are areas which put the ass in classless (our motel being in one of them). But in the bright light of day (and the casino lights) Atlantic City can certainly hold its own. The boardwalk boasts all the goodies we are denied in Elmer, New Jersey - beach, bars and boys - so for six female counselors who were in great need of a girls' weekend away, we could not have asked for a better destination.

Once we survived the Martinique Motel from Hell, Sunday was spent doing...well, nothing... and it was fantastic. We ate, we shopped and we spent two hours in Claires having ears pierced (don't worry Mum, I haven't got any additional holes anywhere on my body... yet). Not to mention visiting possibly the BEST shoe store ever known to women (and yes Meudell, that includes the Brazillian shore store on Bourke St). I have never seen so many shoes in one place and. all. on. sale. For those of us not backpacking and who don't have to consider space and weight with every purchase made, the girls went a little crazy. Let's just say there were quite a few pairs of shoes which returned to Appel Farm that evening.

While I didn't win it big on the slot machines or meet Donald Trump or see Smash Mouth and Counting Crows who were both performing that evening, I did get to see a lot of old ladies playing the pokies in sequined hats, and that was good enough for me.

Oh, and spending 36 hours with six of the best blondes (and one brunette) in the world.

Ciao for now. xo

Fight Club

It frightens me how quickly time is passing by. We are already at the end of our first week of Session 2!

And I've only written 16 blogs in that time - what have I been doing with my time?

The first week of camp has been great - a little tiring as it's a constant struggle to keep up with the energy of the 2nd session campers. They're like Energizer bunnies that never die! Thankfully, because they are so different from my first group, I haven't been comparing them or struggling to move on from the intersession.

As a way of helping us come together as the new Bunk 22, Thursday night evening activities was Bunk Activities - an opportunity for us to mix and interact with our new roommates. Molly (my co-counselor) and I organised an Appel Farm tradition which was met with both delight and disgust by our group of girls - shaving cream fight.

This involves getting in your 'swim suit' (togs just confuses them) and spraying/flinging/slapping/covering each other in shaving cream until you are coated like an iced cup cake.

And surprisingly, shaving cream is quite a maliable substance. Once it's in your hair, there's no limit to what you can do with it.

80 percent of our girls thought this activity was genius and ran around like crazed snowmen. The other 20 percent, who had already showered and put on a face of makeup in anticipation of seeing the Bunk 26 boys, looked on in fear that at any moment they might be attacked.

It all felt like a throw-back to my old college days (although without the alcohol and probably nudity which would have ensued.)

Ciao for now. xo

I Will Survive...

Well, I survived the first session of camp. Four weeks later, I'm left a little tired, a little humbled and certainly blessed by the experience I've had so far at Appel Farm.

Waving goodbye to my first session bunkers was horrible. These girls I'd lived with and come to consider my camp family were suddenly extricated from my life like an amputated limb. It was sad to see them go and sadder still to think that camp was half way through.

But after surviving four weeks of teenage angst and continual supervision of their teenage ways, it was nice to see the last camper leave the site and feel like we had the place to ourselves again. We had a day and a half of intersession, which involved a staff party on the Friday night and a trip to Philadelphia the next day, amidst the stifling heat of one of the hottest days in New Jersey history.

As days off always are, it was a relief to return to Philadelphia and be apart of the real world. We spent the morning at the Reading Terminal Market - a huge produce market which boasted fresh fruit and vege along with home-made preserves, bakery goods and International cuisines. After four weeks of camp food, we went a little crazy when we finally got our hands on some quality food. We all pitched in to buy different things - bread, hummus, 'gator on a stick' (alligator sausage - yum!) and nectarines - and then had a feast in the middle of the market.

After doing some shopping, returning to camp to take a midnight swim to escape the heat, our brief day of relief was over. The next day we were again inundated with campers.

It was interesting to see the immediate difference between the first and second session campers. My quite, self-contained Bunk 22 was blown apart. Second session-ers are energetic, enthusiastic and, with one month of holiday behind them, are determined to have an unforgettable camp experience. This session we have 14 girls in our bunk. That's a whole lot of pent us 16-year-old angst.

And on top of what felt like the longest weekend of my life, I woke up the next day feeling like I'd been hit by the flu police. There's nothing like having a snotty cold in the middle of summer.

Ciao for now. xo

Reflections, Perceptions

As I meet the end of the third week of camp, it feels surreal to know that I have been in America for over a month.

On one hand, it feels like that time has sped by. On the other, if feels like I can account for ever day of those four weeks. New York feels like an eternity ago, Staff Week seems like a distant memory and it feels like I have known ever person I have met so far, for forever. I feel comforted by the thought that there is still so much to come – another month – and that it too might meet me slowly and steadily like the one that has just passed. But beyond that awaits a sting, one I can’t bring myself to consider just yet.


Time here is strange, like camp exists and operates in its own world. You feel both conscious and unconscious of it slowly passing you by. With that, comes a motivation to seize every opportunity to live and love and perform, just as the campers do.

I continue to be blown away by the talent of the kids that attend Appel Farm – their creativity and ambition – and I am envious of the innocence and naivety they have towards the world and the role they will have in it as creative practitioners. But I have also been saddened by some of their lives - children who have been thrust into adulthood against their will, who have seen things and survived things which will haunt them forever. Behind their faces are broken homes and burnt innocence. And in their eyes, the sweet relief of knowing Appel Farm can be their refuge.

I came to America expecting the stereotype, awaiting the summer camp experience I have seen on TV. And I’ve had it, I continue to have it, but nothing prepared me for the realism. Camp is more than smores and bunk beds and poison ivy. It’s a time for kids to be kids, to escape the outside world (as good or bad as it may be for them) and revel in four weeks of unadulterated kid time. Where they get the attention they deserve and the fun they seek and the encouragement they crave.

Ciao for now. xo

The Week That Was...

This blog is well overdue and I apologise for letting a whole week go by before getting my blogging butt in gear. It’s been a busy seven days at Appel Farm and while there’s been plenty to write about, I haven’t actually had any time to write it.


And as I’m still pretty pushed for time, I’m going to kill seven-birds with one aim of my slingshot and give a review of the week that was.

TUESDAY 6 JULY marked the hottest summer day ever recorded in New Jersey and for a few hours, I could have sworn I was at home in Australia. While most of the teaching spaces at Appel Farm are air-conditioned, our bunk is not and consequently, turned into a sauna by 9:00am. The air was practically prickling with heat. And if there’s anything worse than being in 105 degree heat, its being in 105 degree heat with 200-odd children between the ages of seven and 17 – talk about a non-stop whinge-fest. But thankfully, Appel Farm was prepared. At 1:00pm, we scooped up all 200 sweaty bodies, stuck ‘em on a bus and drove them to the beach.

Avalon Beach, New Jersey has coined the term ‘cooler by a mile’ as it is one of the most easterly points on the coast by, you guessed it, one mile. And with the wind chill coming off the water, stepping off the bus onto the boardwalk was like walking into natural air-conditioning. It came as no surprise that the campers and the counselors alike made a bee-line for the water.

As we were on the east coast of America, this trip marked my second swimming session in the Atlantic Ocean, which looks more like a wave-less bay full of dirty dishwater. I can see now why foreigners love Australian beaches, as the golden shores and bright blue sea is unlike anything they’ve ever seen. The sand is littered with the type of thick seashells you buy for a 10c at the local junk store and the lifeguards won’t let you go in further than your waist.

But it’s not the water the campers enjoy most about Avalon, it’s the fact that for the first time since having their ‘candy contraband’ taken from them at camp, they can finally get their hands on some sugar. The most popular thing to do as an Appel Farm camper in Avalon is to go to ‘The Buccaneer’, an icecream store in town which serves a disgusting dish called ‘The Shipwreck’ – 12 scoops of icecream complete with every topping available in store. The kids chow this down in about five minutes, followed by as much candy they can purchase before boarding the bus back to camp.

As they aren’t allowed to bring any candy back onto camp grounds, the campers spend the hour and a half trip home eating as much candy as possible. Needless to say, they arrive back at Appel Farm sporting a sugar high that could rival that of hard-core substance abuse. They bounce around the walls for a few hours until the sugar wears off and then crash so suddenly they fail to make it through evening activities.

And our trip to Avalon was no different. With eyes bigger than their stomachs, the campers hit up the candy as quickly as possible. They came home high as kites, plummeted at about 8:00pm and fell asleep beneath the heat of their little sunburnt bodies.

WEDNESDAY 7 JULY was my day off and after having endured Beach Day in the company of 200 sugar-coated children, the opportunity to relax could not have come sooner. Staff B returned to the beach, this time driving to Ocean City, New Jersey where we tried in vain to catch the struggling rays of sunshine from a cloudy sky (love that non-UV infested sunshine). Lunch was spent stuffing our faces with quality food and watching Spain win the semi-final of the World Cup.

THURSDAY 8 JULY, I was treated to my first all-camp ‘Let’s Sit Around The Camp Fire And Sing Camp Fire Songs While Eating Smores’ Experience. I was first introduced to the sugary deliciousness of smores while travelling through California on a media famil last December and I can see myself gaining a few new stomach roles because of them. A ‘Smore’ is a toasted marshmallow and a square of chocolate which are squished between two Graham crackers (pronounced ‘gram’ cracker) to make a gooey delicious sandwich. These are called ‘smores’ because you always want ‘some-more’ and always live to regret eating the second helping.

On FRIDAY 9 JULY we were introduced to the stylish moves of our campers at the camp’s dance. I was in heaven, not only because I got to dance but because the theme selected for this occasion was the 80s – my favourite era. Donning a very fashionable prom dress, complete with a gigantic white bow and plenty of turquoise eye shadow, I had a fantastic night pulling out my most atrocious moves on the D-Floor. This was almost as fun as ‘bump-and-grind’ watch, wherein we kept a beady eye on dancing couples and intervened with some skankin’ dance moves when we feared they were getting a little too close.

The weekend marked the end of the first 2 week session - Saturday evening was spent watching the ‘Tweekers’ (campers who are here for only two weeks) performances in music, dance and drama before leaving camp the following Sunday. ‘Visiting Day’ was also on Sunday where parents of the four week campers come to visit their children and make them homesick or even more homesick than they were before. In order to counteract this, evening activity on Sunday night was a carnival where the kids can have their face painted or their fortune told, amongst other things. I landed myself a job on the balloon-tying table and learnt how to make blow-up balloon swords.

I think I might have found myself a new trade.

Ciao for now. xo