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

Stay Classy, San Diego

Other than what I learnt from watching Anchorman, there was only one thing I knew for fact about San Diego. It was close to Mexico. But even with that being the extent of my knowledge, it didn’t take long for me to decide that San Diego was up there with Chicago and New York as my top most liveable cities in America.

It was a long trip from Philadelphia and not since my arrival in Canada last Octover have I been welcomed at the airport with open arms. Granted, the open arms belonged to my friend and host Mackenzie’s brother, Jackson who I had never met but it was nice to feel so warmly received, after so many cold arrivals at unfamiliar train and bus stations around the country. Within seconds of meeting Mackenzie’s siblings and parents, I felt like I had known them my whole life. They were more excited for me to be there than I was myself.

Being within 15 miles of the Mexican border, the influences on San Diego’s architecture, food and culture is obvious. The houses are scaling cement fixtures of terracotta orange, stark white with red tiling and arch windows cut straight out of the walls. Cacti grow in the place of roses and garden beds are a rich palette of yellow grasses and frosty green succulents. The small patio of my San Diego abode (Mackenzie’s mum’s house) is a messy forest of grass and growth which feels like it should be overlooking a turquoise bay somewhere in Cabo.  

When it comes to beaches, San Diego doesn’t disappoint either. A 10 minute drive across the bridge and you’re at Coronado Island, the Newport of San Diego. Anyone familiar with The O.C. would find an instant appreciation of Coronado – a small coastal community where the mothers are as youthful as their daughters and the surf rats play for the water polo team. But the beaches are beautiful and the view back at downtown San Diego is undeniable. Being a community unto itself, ‘The Village’ of Coronado boasts an array of boutique and independent shopping – The Bay Bookstore, The Attic Boutique and Boney’s Market. A purchase from each will give you a new book, a new bag and a sandwich to take with you for a few hours baking on Coronado beach.

The sun-kissed look made famous by Californians is best showed off at night. The night life is found at the Gaslight Quarter, a stretch of clubs in downtown San Diego which oozes everything from bronzed blondes to bikies. The Tipsy Crow, a three-tiered institution has a deceivingly classy cocktail bar and a deliciously debaucherous basement hiding beneath it, where the green laser show and Rhiannon music says it all. Once you’ve had your fill of five dollar shots and cheap G&Ts, it’s on to The Field. The meter-high stage, tucked into the far corner of this Irish pub make the dark wooden booths slightly superfluous. The Irish punk band of a Friday night will have everybody on their feet and if you’re lucky, you’ll stumble across a bachelor party just to seal the dancing deal.

A little too much fun at The Field meant we lost a day of San Diego appreciation to wallowing on the couch but we bounced back today by spending the morning at the Balboa Parklands, San Diego’s version of the Smithsonian Institute. A morning of wandering around the botanical gardens and National Cottages in the sun quickly took its toll, so we went searching for retail therapy in Hillcrest. There’s nothing like successful thrifting in San Diego’s gay suburb to top off another perfect day in the ‘whales vagina’.

Ciao for now. xo

Departures, Arrivals

Hello readers!


Welcome to Where In The World Is KH? I, KH, am currently sitting at my gate at LAX (Los Angeles airport) waiting for my connecting flight to the city that never sleeps – New York – in the big, old US of A.
That’s right – the United States of America and its glorious star spangled banner.

I am still trying to get my sweaty palms around this simple fact. I have officially left the county and am a citizen of the world. And for now, the home of Peanut Butter cups, the New York Yankees and Michelle Obama is calling me its own.

Unfortunately, after you’ve been sitting on two planes for the last 16 hours with another eight hours still to go, not to mention having been awake for over 24 hours (it’s a blessing from God to be able to sleep on planes, right up there with discernment and spirituality) you can’t quite pull as much excitement as you feel the moment deserves. I would love to be swinging from the rooftops at the moment, expressing my inner-most joy at this moment of independence finally arriving, but a). This is LA. You don’t do such things unless you’re high. b). This is LAX. They’ll put you in jail for emotional-overexertion and c). I LOOK HORRIBLE! Like a rat pulled through a drain backwards and I really don’t want to be drawing attention to myself when I’m in such a state. So I’ll just keep it all bottled up inside until I feel up to owning it properly.

So every traveller has a few horror stories to tell in those first few moments of going overseas, the type of stories that have them stressed out in the moment, but which they gingerly laugh about when reliving them later. So here’s mine - four and counting...

1. On the way to the Brisbane airport, we got stuck in a traffic jam. Deciding we might be able to take the back routes, we went bush with the GPS in order to avoid said traffic jam. What ensued were 30 rather horrifying minutes where I was sure the GPS had no clue where it was going, and despite still having two hours until my departure, I chewed my nails down worrying I was going to miss the plane.

2. I get on the plane, ready for my four hour trip to Auckland (first stop over) to find I had been seated in the front row of the plane. Sweet, extra leg room. I turn to my left and what do I see? A baby. Turn to my right – a baby. Look behind me – a baby. Look behind it – another baby. I’m sure this is what it must feel like when an army officer realises he’s surrounded by landmines ready to explode. With nowhere to hide, I was sure it was going to be a long painful journey of burping and poo emissions and crying crying crying. But happy days – they all slept and I swear one winked at me.

3. I get off the plane in Auckland and realise I have precisely 7. 2783 minutes to make it to my connecting flight. So in a fit of stress, I tear down the passage way to the transfer customs, jump the line of about 100people and dash off to the gate, only to discover the flight had been delayed as the 100 people I’d hoodwinked in the transfer line were also boarding the same flight. I kept my eyes down when they arrived for fear they’d hit me with their carry-ons.

4. Before I left the country, I got a concerned talking to by my father about the importance of security and consequently, am now a security freak. In my concern, I put a self-coded padlock on my carry-on bag and during the flight from Auckland to LA was opening and closing it every 2 seconds. Little did I know, the last time I locked it before getting off the plane, I managed to re-code the lock so I couldn’t undo it. No amount of jimmying could fix my own security problem and the whole issue resulted in a very large man with a very large set of bolt cutters having to crack my poor, pathetic bolt in half so I could get to the contents of my bag. So I figure, there’s safety and then there’s stupidity. Needless to say, I’ve bought a new padlock and have learnt my lesson.

Next stop New York. Stop after that – bed.

Ciao for now. xo