The Cross-Country Chronicles: And All That Jazz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ciao for now. xo

The Cross-Country Chronicles: Welcome to LA LA Land

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ciao for now. xo

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

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

Unfortunately, San Francisco did not deliver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If it rains, I’ll cry.

Ciao for now. xo

The Sister Dearest Series: Part One

It’s been a month after the fact, but my sister was here. In Banff. With me. 

Thought I should tell you all. It seemed like something worthy of blogging about. Even if it has been almost a month since she was here.

Tale of the tardy blogger strikes again.

Given that it had been six months since we had last seen each other (the last time being our jaunt in ol’ N.Y.C), we decided the occasion should be marked by a little trip to Whistler, BC – home of the 2010 Winter Olympics and pretty much every sexually transmitted disease known to man, thanks to the hordes of 20-something snowboard and skiing extremists who flood its village every winter season.

As Bethany was flying in from Sydney, we decided to meet in Vancouver and make stop-over. We spent a whole 24 hours there which was just enough time for me to decide that I wanted to move there after summer camp finishes in August – consequently adding another 12 months to my never ending North American adventure.

While 24 hours definitely wasn’t sufficient time to see everything Vancouver has to offer, we squeezed in as much as possible to our time-pressed itinerary. Such experiences included:

- Afternoon tea with Zosia Cassie, my beloved bunk director from Appel Farm
- An afternoon stroll through the famous Stanley Park

- Breakfast at 'Crave' on Main Street. No espresso coffee, but deliciously gooey poached eggs made up for it

- Shopping, wandering and more shopping
- Lunch in Yaletown, the yuppie-ville of Vancouver where sister dearest fit right in

But the real gem in the Vancouver crown was dinner at 'Salt', a wine-and-cheese bar where the menu consists of nothing but cheese, meats and condiments and all you drink is wine, wine and more wine. We had a lovely waiter who received a rather generous tip, given that he was considerably more delicious than the blue-cheese cheesecake he recommended for dessert.

From Vancouver, we made the two and a half hour bus trip to Whistler where I was reunited with Clare Thomas, another Appel Farm friend who was to be our host for the next two days. Even on arrival, it was clear why Whistler reigns supreme as the leading destination for snow bums. Not only is Whistler Village like an alpine country town that you just want to paint red, but the mountain is so close you can see the runs from the highway exit.

It must be awfully nice dragging one’s hungover butt out of bed and stumbling straight onto the mountain. Instead of, say, a 40 minute bus and gondola commute that could make any iron stomach churn with last night’s bad decisions.

We spent two days riding Whistler and Blackcomb mountains, a fairly expensive experience which was without a doubt, worth every penny. Both mountains are a bevy of green, blue and black runs where one not only experiences every form of terrain, but every form of weather as well. The mountains are both so high that riding from top to bottom can take you from bluebird sunshine to snow to white-out to spring slush in all of 20 minutes. We were there Monday and Tuesday and even then, the lift lines were that bit too long, which only made me wonder what the weekend warriors must put up with every Saturday and Sunday.

When we weren’t snowboarding ourselves into a powder high, we were experiencing the village’s evening delights. With Clare as our guide, we visited Moe Joe’s club, Longhorns Saloon, did a spot of karaoke at Crystal Lounge (okay, so I did a spot of karaoke while Clare and Sister Dearest watched) and ate a few too many late-night poutines from Zog’s (where I’d make a reference to Peak Season – MTV’s reality TV representation of working in a snow town – but that would mean admitting that I’ve watched an episode.... or seven.)

Despite trying not to, I found myself constantly comparing Whistler with Banff and feeling just that wee-bit jealous. It is easy to be immediately smitten with everything Whistler has to offer – the village atmosphere, the incredible mountain conditions, the simple satisfaction of saying that’s where you did a season. It was so different to what I’ve known for the last half of the year and with Banff beginning to feel like the winter of my discontent, I wondered if I had made the right decision choosing Sunshine Village.

But on returning to Banff, with Sister Dearest in tow, I couldn’t help but feel a little proud of the town I’ve called home for seven months. The Rocky Mountains looming tall in every direction, being recognised as ‘that girl who sings at Bruno’s’ when I’m walking down the street and the days when the sky on top of Goat’s Eye mountain is so blue and so clear that there’s nothing hidden on the national park’s rocky outcrop.

Fine. I heart Banff.

Whatever.

Ciao for now. xo

I'm In A Carrie Bradshaw State of Mind

It feels like I haven't been a city girl in a while. For three months, I've been living in over-sized t-shirts, denim cut-offs, canvas shoes and wearing little to no make-up. Using a hair straightner feels like a foreign concept, not to mention actually going somewhere which would require I straighten my hair. Let's just say two months of camp and one month of backpacking hasn't given me much opportunity to dress and behave like the city girl I am when at home in Sydney.

Needless to say, I felt a little rusty upon my arrival back in New York. Here I was in one of the fashion capitals of the world where I may bump into Anna Wintour at any moment, get caught in the background of a fashion shoot or get hit by a speeding cab and all my savviest, fashion-forward outfits are at home in Australia, packed in suitcases under my bed! I'm still fine-tuning how to style my new haircut and having come straight out of summer, I don't have any shoes which are suitable for the cold and rainy weather which greeted me upon arrival.

Then a man on a train, in offering me his seat, asked me if I was pregnant.

So now, not only am I unfashionable, but I am also fat.

Not quite the Carrie Bradshaw-inspired arrival I imagined for myself.

But as Alicia Keys crooned - These streets will make you feel brand new, these lights will inspire you -and within a day or two of being back in the world of high heels and candy-like cocktails, I got my groove back. I cut out bagels as one of my primary food groups, hit the gym and bought a pair of boots. With what few fashionable items I unearthed from the depths of my backpack, I threw together some savvy outfits and realised that straightening one's hair is indeed like riding a bike. Then with my credit card in one hand and my integrity in the other, I took to the NYC streets channeling the attitude of my New York oracle, Carrie Bradshaw.

Being single and fabulous in New York City is made all the more easier by staying in a swanky hotel and courtesy of my sister, who's work happened to send her to New York the exact same week that I was planning to visit, I'm thankful for getting a bit of much-appreciated red-carpet treatment at the Andaz Hotel. Not only do I get to stay in a suite which boasts its own bathroom, supply of yummy treats which are restocked daily, a flat-screen TV with cable and a big plush queen bed, but I get to share it all in the company of my sister. Our return to Hyde-Sisterhood Status was celebrated by spending Sunday trundling around Brooklyn doing what we love most - eating and taking photographs of street art.

However, with Sister Dearest here for work, the daylight hours are mine and mine alone. With the weather throwing a wet blanket over my plans to wander around the city neighbourhoods on a whim, the rain drove me inside on Monday and Tuesday. I ticked a few more tourist landmarks off my list - the Metropolitan Museum of Art (MET), Grand Central Station and the New York Public Library. That's right ladies, I stood on the staircase where Carrie Bradshaw did not marry Big.

The sun decided to co-operate this morning and lavished me with some blue sky, so it was off to Greenwich Village - what was the haunt of the artists and bohemians of the 70s but is now the stomping ground of NYU students and beautiful, if not surprisingly, overpriced apartment blocks. I found the world's most satisfying thrift store - Munk Vintage Thrifts, 175 Macdougal Street - where I bought a giant Nordstrom scarf for a tidy $15. This was followed by a cupcake from Magnolia Bakery (Sex In The City reference) which I guzzled in the Washington Square Park while writing poetry and watching wayward bohemian-types busking Bob Marley tunes. I then walked back to the subway where I accidently came across another Sex In The City landmark, the Jefferson Market Garden, which was the locale of Miranda and Steve's wedding.

And to top it all off, I'm typing this post from the window seat of my hotel where below me, the streets are full of busy New York commuters hailing taxi cabs and scurrying towards subway stations. A pipe protruding from the sidewalk billows a steady stream of white cloud into the air, which dissolves into the twilight sky as street vendors shut up shop for the night. Before my eyes, the street lights are flickering on as the city shrugs out of its business suit and slips into its evening dress code. Just like Carrie Bradshaw, New York City itself has an outfit for everything.

And here I am, writing in the middle of it.

Ciao for now. xo

Welcome to Chicag-ie

Despite the six hour commute between St Louis and Chicago, I really had little to complain about. Taking the Amtrak train is like travelling first class compared to the flea-infested Greyhound. Rather than sitting next to an ex-felon or a woman who smells like bacon, I sat next to a lovely girl who did her trigonometry test and didn't say a peep. I stretched out in my luxuriously large train seat, ate a packet of MnMs and  took in the beautiful scenery flying by. Then I watched High Fidelity on my laptop, an ironic choice you could say, given that it was filmed in Chicago.

My intitial thoughts on Chicago are - New York? Shmoo-York. LA? Shmell-A. Chicago is the bitchingest city I've been in yet. It has all the city-cement you could hope for along with the arts culture I crave. Every corner boasts another vintage discovery, every street holds another fine dining experience and for the first time, actual acceptable coffee! But the best thing that Chicago has to offer is Glenn Hendrick.


After two weeks on the road by my lonesom, it's nice to be back in the company of a friend. Glenn lives in Lincoln Square in Chicago, on the edge of the famous Wicker Square. Today we wondered around Wicker Square, which was a bad idea, as the streets offer one vintage store after another vintage store. Sister Dearest's advice to me before I left continues to ring in my ears - "If you see something you like, buy it. You're overseas." And so I continue to acquire an interesting collection of clothing and crafts. However, my favourite discovery today (other than the black pinafore dress I bought) was the community book exchange - what looked like a newspaper dispenser bin but where people could leave and exchange books with each other.

I'm bringing this concept home to Sydney, along with my black pinafore dress.

Ciao for now. xo

Meet Me in St Louis (A Couch Surfer's Experience)

I survived another thrilling six hour adventure on the Greyhound to make it to St. Louis, Missouri (this time, there was a baby that didn’t stop crying from the moment it boarded the bus. You know the type of crying I’m talking about, the one that sounds like a death metal fanatic at a Metallica concert).

St. Louis is a cute type of city, much like a teenager that missed that part of puberty when they were supposed to get a growth spurt. This is in fact the story of St. Louis. Once upon a time, it was a booming metropolis, also referred to as the Gateway to the West. In honour of this namesake, St Louis erected the first largest freestanding structure called The Arch – a large semi-circle of steel which is situated between the city and the banks of the Mississippi. Apart from its historical reference to the city, The Arch looks like just that, a giant arch.

Anyway, St Louis began to lose popularity to larger cities around it – Chicago, Philadelphia, New York – and soon the population dwindled considerably. This is partly due to the political and governmental organisation of the city wherein St Louis and St Louis County exist as two completely different entities, meaning that each smaller suburb is responsible for itself and are able to streamline the caste system with their own governments to control taxes.

All this I learnt from my hosts, Hannah and Tony, in my first ever couch surfing experience.

Definition of Couch Surfing: Where a poor backpacker takes advantage of the kindness of strangers and sleeps on the couch or spare bedroom of people he/she has never met before.

Couch Surfing is not such an uncommon way to travel anymore and while at first I had my reservations, friends who had surfed and survived with little to no horror stories, recommended it as a worthwhile experience. So I joined the online community Couch Surfing.com and found myself a cute couple, Hannah and Tony, who lived with their three cats on the outskirts of St Louis.

While most couch surfers do just that – surf/sleep on a couch – I was lucky enough to get my own room at Hannah and Tony’s. They were very welcoming and went to great lengths to make me feel as safe and at home as possible. While both studied (you guessed it, politics), I was left up to my own devices during the day.
As discussed, St Louis is a geographically divided city, with each of the suburbs almost like a different city unto itself. After visiting The Arch and taking a million shameless photos, I made my way to the City Museum, the main reason I had come to St Louis in the first place. The City Museum is a playground for children and adults alike, made completely out of recycled materials (tin cans, train carriages, yellow school buses etc). But I got there to find that, between Labour weekend and March, it’s shut Monday and Tuesday. And what two days was I in St Louis for? Yah – Monday and Tuesday.

So I put my disappointed butt back on the train and headed out to Maplewood and The Loop for a spot of retail therapy. The Loop is known as one of the 10 Most Famous Shopping Strips in America and is a retail playground of vintage thrift stores, boutiques and independent handy-crafts. And you know how I can’t deny a good handy-craft...

After breakfast with Hannah this morning where we talked more politics, I spent a few enjoyable hours lazing around the house watching cable and playing with the cats. Then, for what felt like the thirtieth time, I squeezed my belongings and fresh purchases into a bag that I swear has the magical powers of Mary Poppins – I continue to procure and it continues to somehow accommodate.

And I boarded the Amtrak train and was left wondering what I’d been missing out all of these weeks, schlepping it out on the dirty bus when such heaven existed on the railway tracks.

Ciao for now. xo