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

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 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

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

Land of the Free

It has been three months and 21 days since I left the golden shores of Australia, bound for the land of the free. Since then, I have been the counselor for 27 beautiful and boistrous teenage girls, had a shaving cream fight in my bikini, swam in the Atlantic Ocean, stood at the top of the Empire State Building, eaten alligator sausage, drunk bourbon on Bourbon St, stood in Elvis Presley's living room, painted the town red in Nashville, surfed on a complete stranger's couch, eaten deep-dish pizza, gained a few too many kilos, seen the trees change in Ohio, spent a lot of time driving a lot of highways with a lot of life-changing people and stood on Carrie Bradshaw's stoop. And after three months and 21 days, my time in the United States of America has officially ended. .

My last post from the US of A is being written from the Philadelphia Airport where I arrived after a two hour bus ride from NYC at midnight. Here, sister dearest and I bid our farewells after spending the week in New York City together. I don't think there could have been a more perfect way for me to spend my last week in America. Each day I was treated to a different side of NYC's mixed personality as I trotted between the east, the west, the shabby and the chic. I bought used books from chatty roadside vendors in Greenwich only to purchase over-priced Christmas decorations from Saks Fifth Ave. I drank cocktails and coffee and marvelled at the strange creatures which inhabit this city. And the cream on top of the New York cupcake - I stood on Carrie Bradshaw's stoop. Even if I never marry or have children or publish a book, this small achievement allows me to die a happy and hopeless woman.   

Having just spent three very uncomfortable hours of the early morning sleeping on a line of chairs in the completely empty ticketing foyer, it's no suprise the Do Not Disturb-look has gone up on my face. And at 5:35 in the morning, this is only the beginning. To reach a town in the country right next door to the USA, I must survive three flights, two stop-overs and a lot of bad airplane coffee. But what, and who, wait for me on the other side are all worth it.

And with that, as my flight is called on the over-head, I must say my final farewell to the USA. Part of me feels a pang to be leaving the country that introduced me to so many 'firsts' - my first independent travel, my first camp, my first pumpkin pie. But another part of me rests assured that it won't be too long before I feast my eyes on her stars and stripes once again.

Ciao for now. xo

Flip Flip Flipadelphia

Having been on the road for the last month, moving consistently from place to place every couple of days, it was a relief to get back to good ol’ comfortable Philly. Having seen most of the tourist sites when I visited the city during camp, I didn’t feel the accountability to get out and see as much as I could every day. Having come from Canton where it was a similar story, I felt like I had checked myself into roadtrip rehab. Rather than getting up at the crack of sparrows every day, armed with my Lonely Planet and a metro card, I slept in, watched cable and ventured outside only when the fancy (or my appetite) demanded so.


Continuing to tread on the kindness of the Carmeny family, Tim again welcomed me into his home in Philly, which he shares with another Appel Farm friend, Julie. Parked on the couch directly in front of the cable, it was hard to tear myself away from marathons of America’s Next Top Model, especially with the fall weather rearing its ugly head outside. I continue to be followed by a literal black cloud, unable to escape the rain no matter where I go.

But that didn’t stop me from grabbing my umbrella and going out looking for food, usually with Tim in tow. We did bagels on South Street, margaritas on Passyunk Ave, coffee on 4th and pizza on 2nd. Not to mention mid-night snacks as we stayed up watching the Top 100 Hits of the 90s on VH1. We burned off the carbohydrates by playing Frisbee in the park where we attempted to teach an uncoordinated five year old how to toss a Frisbee without decapitating our fellow park-goers.

I even managed to turn down a morning with the Gilmore Girls to go and get my haircut – an indulgent necessity I have been battling with for the last two months. My hairdresser – bless her – tried her best to recreate the brilliance of Sydney’s Neil Moody, but alas, cut my hair an inch too short. However, as annoying as this is for the time being, does mean I can tack another few weeks onto the time period before my Rapunzel-like hair once again grows out of shape.

As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one treading on Tim and Julie’s kindness. While I couch surfed, a mouse had also decided to make itself at home in the living room. Each evening as I tried to sleep, I would be awoken to what sounded like something the size of a gorilla building a nuclear warhead. Despite our joint attempts to catch the mouse by blocking its exits and buying sticky traps, the mouse continued to remain evasive - stealing both cereal and my precious sleeping hours.

But before I could say “Out damned mouse”, I was once again packing my bags and boarding a train, bound for Elizabethtown where another greatly-missed Appel Farm face awaited me.

Ciao for now. xo

A Little WaWah

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

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

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

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

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

Ciao for now. xo

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

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

Philadelphia

Today I was lucky enough to escape the confines of Camp Appel Farm and venture into the beautiful world of Philadelphia.

As my day off from camp officially starts at 9:30pm the night before, our mission to the Liberty Bell capital of the country started at 11:34pm when my eager group of 12 boarded the bus bound for Philadelphia. The first 45 minutes of this journey was far from entertaining. That is, until we saw a prostitute about 20 minutes out of Philly and we all breathed a sigh of relief. We were back in the real world.

Crashing at our camp director’s house, our new-found freedom was enjoyed well into the early hours of the morning and a rather late (and slightly headachey) sleep-in ensued.

But with an appetite for breakfast and whatever else the city had to offer, we made our way into the heart of Philadelphia – a beautiful metropolis where the concrete and the creativity clash like titans. The sides of cement buildings are a canvas for tropical murals which are rich with the city’s famous history. I was unaware of just how much creative culture Philadelphia boasted and was happily surprised by the beautiful street art which coloured the city.

If it wasn’t giant street murals or knitting-wrapped lampposts, it was entire cement gardens dedicated to glass and garbage mosaics. ‘The Magic Garden’ is a haven in the middle of the city where one man has single-handedly provided glass street art to the masses. Even though I got a little trigger-happy on the snapper, no picture could do this place justice – it has to be seen to be believed.

I am also happy to report to the Hyde-portion of this readership, that I bought my first magnet for the fridge.

A long walk, a siesta in the park and a much needed nap on the bus trip home, we arrived safe and sound at Appel Farm, probably more tired than we were when we left but refuelled with a strange energy that can only be obtained from getting away from camp. I love my kids and I love teaching them all I know about life, but it’s nice to know there is still a world outside of these creative grounds.

Ciao for now.

(Image Credit: Top two images courtesy of photographer, Kim Thalia - thanks Kim!)