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

What I've Learnt From Living in Banff, Canada

After eight months of living in the Land of Maple Syrup, I have officially left Banff and therefore, Canada. A couple of tough goodbyes, not to mention a teary farewell at Calgary Airport with the people I have shared every waking moment, every drunken night, every drunken drama, every snowboard stack and every game of pool, reassured me that my time in Canada has left me a changed person.


You certainly can't spend eight months in a foreign country - even Canada - and not learn a little something about yourself and the place that you've temporarily called home.

So here are a couple of things I've learnt about Canada, Canadians and what it's like to exist in their country.

1. Tim Hortons - the purveyor of doughnuts, 'doughnut holes' (referred to by CAers as TimBits), bagels and other sugary treats and the brewer of what CAers consider to be gourmet coffee - is not just a Canadian institution, but a deliciously cheap religious experience.

2. Just like How I Met Your Mother insinuates, Canadians really do put 'eh' on the end of everything, therefore turning everything into a question. It's such a strange custom, eh?

3. Eight months living in a ski town has turned me into a professional at pool. I am also in the draft to turn pro at foosball - wicked attack line. Not so great at defence.

4. Clamato juice and tomato juice are two different things.

5. Which brings me to ceasers. While at first I turned my nose up at Canada's national beverage, I can't deny I have developed quite a thirst for these little cocktail concoctions. Vodka, clamato juice (which, for the life of me, I STILL don't know what is made out of), a splash of tobasco, a shake of worcestershire, a couple of olives and a green bean, all topped off in a celery salt rimmed glass. Hello, I'm drunk.

7. Don't live in Banff if you don't like Jagermeister. Something like 30 per cent of all Jager is ingested in Banff (Okay, so that's not a real statistic. But when you’re knocking back the 50 bazillionth shot of jager in the last two hours, it sure as hell feels true). Statistic or not, live in Banff and be prepared to drink Jager like its running water.

8. After a surprisingly drunk night where we both woke up asking, "What the hell happened?", Housemate Maadi and I decided, under no circumstances, should we be left at home alone with a bottle of Housemate Luke's Jager, a ski shooter and a couple of leftover party hats.

9. Ski shooter = a ski with four or five shot glasses attached to it, wherein the people shotting must hold the ski, lift it together and drink their shot all at the same time. Inability to do this results in Jager down your front.

10. When it's -15 degrees outside and your freezer is too full to hold the giant punnet of vanilla ice cream you bought for Christmas, you would think putting it outside on the patio would keep it frozen. This isn't true. The ice cream melts and gluttonous deer try to eat it.

11. In a similar idea, leaving cans of coke out on the patio in -15 degree weather doesn't keep the coke cold. It makes the cans explode.

12. When you live in a ski town and you want some coke, be sure to call it coca cola. Coke is something different altogether.

13. Every national or international holiday, regardless of whether you celebrate it in your own country or not, are guaranteed to be celebrated in Banff. Drunkenly.

14. Being a musician in Banff is surprisingly lucrative. I think it comes down to hotels, bars and establishments being kind of lazy when it comes to finding talent, not when they can simply steal their competitors' instead. And I'm certainly not complaining. In all seriousness though, Banff is extremely supportive of local artists and being a musician as your full time job is certainly do-able.

15. When it's -30 degrees outside, never underestimate how many layers you can actually wear. However, no matter how many thermals you put on under your jeans or how many t-shirts you wear under your coat, your hair, your eyelashes and your snot will still freeze.

16. Living in a house with four girls, results in a lot of hair ending up tangled around the drain. It's embarrassing when the hot plumber has to come over and yank it out.

17. No matter what the boys in your house think at the time, finding an 80s exercise bike on the side of the street is like striking gold. It might rattle a bit when you ride it, but it makes for the best clothes horse.

18. Milk and bread crates stolen from the backdoor of the pub make for the best shoe racks.

19. Give it eight months and you're guaranteed to become as freaking ice hockey-crazed as every other puck enthusiast in the country.

20. Canada might be Australia's version of New Zealand - the USA's overshadowed side-kick who gets bullied and poked-fun at - but after eight months of living there, you're quick to realise that the side-kick has his own attributes to offer. I may have been on the other side of the world, but I found commonalities between Oz and Canada which made me feel strangely at home. And it's the reason I intend on returning and moving to Vancouver in August.

Ciao for now, Canada. xo

The Bye Bye Bruno's Gig

After eight months of singing, drinking, collaborating and hoping that one day we might each be KT Tunstall in our own way, Lisa and I's Thursday ritual of playing together at Bruno's came to an end last night.

And what an end it was.With pretty much everybody I know and love in Banff in the audience and with Gary (the bartender and our in-house roadie) letting the beer and the Jager flow freely (and I mean, free) it was always going to be a night to remember.

And remember it I do, despite shotting more than I care to blog about and having a couple of very deep-and-meaningful conversations thanks to my inebriation and impaired judgement. How I was still standing, let alone still singing, is yet to be determined.

 While standing on stage in front of my friends and family (even if I was seeing two of everybody), all of who had come to support me at the finale of my musical journey at Bruno's, I had another one of those moments. The kind that will be a defining memory when I'm a little old lady remeniscing about those crazy 12 months I spent overseas, running away from responsibility. In that moment, I felt like I had achieved something and it wasn't to do with my music. It was my friends - the fact that these people were in my life and had been for the last eight months and they had come to support me. And the realisation that in one week, this community of people we have forged around us, will all be going their seperate ways and making new communities for themselves.

While last night was not the last time Lisa and I will play together (we're fully booked out this weekend playing up at Sunshine for Slush Cup), playing our last show at Bruno's left me feeling melancholy. Bruno's was where it all began - this whole unplanned musical blessing I've been so fortunate to experience while in Banff.

While my snowboarding enthusiastic friends learnt to do 360s and ride rails and throw themselves off cliffs, I played my music and established myself because of it. Despite all the other experiences I've had since being in Banff, that one thing is what I will take away with me proudly.

Ciao for now. xo

I've Got The Music In Me

I haven't blogged about it much, but every Thursday night since arriving in Banff, I've been performing at Bruno's. I haven't blogged about it because it became such a regular part of my routine. I'd rock up, have a few beers, play a few songs with my muso-friend Lisa, do a few shots and stumble home to wake up with a hangover.

I mentioned it to a friend at work who has contacts all over town and next thing you know, I'd lined up another gig playing the piano at the Banff Park Lodge every Friday night. So I'd go along, drink a few waters, play a few songs, help myself to their seafood buffet and go home with a bit of cashola in my pocket.

So there I was, running a fairly self-sustainable side business as a musician in Banff without really trying. When my contract at the BPL ran out a few weeks ago due to their seafood buffet finishing, I was left with my un-paid, alcohol supplemented gig at Bruno's and thought that would be it until the end of the season.

But word got out, as it always does in Banff, and next thing you know my boss is lining me up another (paid) gig to play three hours each Saturday and Sunday at Creekside - the bar at the base of Sunshine Village. Knowing that I don't have enough songs, or enough voice, to hold out three hours, I invited my Bruno's buddy Lisa to join in with me.

So there we are on the mini-stage at our first performance at Creekside, doing the set we do each Thursday night at Bruno's, when the director of events from Sunshine walks in. In the middle of our gig, he pulls us to the side and asks us if we would like to open each Saturday for the head-lining acts on the mainstage at Sunshine's Spring Music Series. To which we answered,

"Um... HELL YEAH!"

So last Saturday, admist the sunshine at Sunshine, Lisa&Kristen played their very first mainstage show. Okay, so we were simply the opening act, but when you're plugged into a professional system, playing your own songs and hearing your own music amplified out among the masses, not to mention standing on a big fancy stage surrounded by big fancy equipment, you can't help but feel like a bit of a big, fancy rockstar.

We played for an hour, took about a bazillion photos, and then headed down to Creekside for our afternoon gig. I got home at six o'clock feeling absolutely wasted.

Like a true rockstar, minus the addictions.

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