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: 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

Chicago in Three

I have much to rave in regards to how wonderful Chicago is, but so this post doesn't go on forever, I am going to limit myself to three main points of interest.

1. Food

After leaving Glenn in Logan Square, I moved to the AAE Panthenon Hostel, which left much to be desired, but was located in the heart and blessed soul of Greektown. Which meant, food food food. You couldn't swing an olive branch without hitting something delicious. Greek restaurants, Greek cafes, Greek bakeries, Greek butchers, even Greek take-out. I ate so much souvlaki and baklava, I now outweigh my backpack.

And if I wasn't eating Greek, I was eating pizza - famous deep dish pizza which is so deep you could practically swim in the cheese layering. So deep, so cheesy, but so good. The AAE Panthenon, while located in Greektown, was also conveniently located around the corner from Giordano's - a Chicago pizza institution. And as I couldn't find anyone to share a pizza with me because my hostel was a wasteland, I ate one all to myself. Now, my backpack is carrying me.

Along with these, there were also other delictable discoveries. Ear Wax - the vegetarian cafe on Milwaukee St, Wicker Park that makes wicked falafel and gives you a big dump of hummus as a side. And Nookies Tree in Belmont, where not only did I get the best vegetarian burger, complete with cucumber and mango salsa, but the gay waiter (this being Belmont) said that he liked my polkadot pants and that I was styling.

By the way - the vegetarian cafe, the vegetarian burger - I know it might sound like I'm turning vegetarian, but it's only because I am suffering from the sheer lack of vegetables in my life. I am still a meat-eater, I swear.

2. BeveragesAnd if I wasn't eating Greek or pizza or the occassional vegetable, I was drinking coffee. That's right, for the first time in the four months I have been in America, I FINALLY found first-class expresso coffee at the cafe group, Intellegentsia. Sweet, expresso relief. And while they may not make a flat white, or know what a piccolo is, one of their baristas was crowned the world champ at the 2010 Barista World Championships. Although, I would still argue that Le Monde is better. But then again, I am biased.

And there was also the occassional drinking of alcoholic beverages at assorted hole-in-the-wall bars throughout Wicker park.

 

3. The Art

Okay, so I know I've crooned this repetitively like a rooster but the art in Chicago really is unlike anything else. There is so much to look at, so much that isn't hidden behind a frame and a barrier in a gallery. It's all out there on the street and in the people you pass and the hopeful buskers playing blues ballads on the train platforms. The skyscrapers themselves personify Chicago - the way they reflect the sky's electric hue and force you to see the world from a new perspective.

 
Ciao for now. xo

Be'an in The Windy City

After spending the day in Chicago, I've definitely come to realise - summer is over.

The Windy City showed me just why she was christened with such a nickname as Glenn and I headed Down Town for the day. The wind whips through the city streets like a hot knife through butter and for the first time, I was confronted with the real cold of the north. Canada is certainly going to be an interesting experience...

But not even the cold could detract from the beautiful Chicago city. Beautiful doesn't even do it justice. When the clouds cleared long enough for the sun to pop its head out, you couldn't tell which was the city skyline and which was the sky. Every window in every skyscraper reflected the brilliant blue, creating a mozaic of sky and glass. 

Everything in Chicago - architecture, sculptures, gardens, pavements - is an opportunity to push the envelope in what is interesting and obscure. There's the art that hangs in meticulous position at the Chicago Institute of Art and then there's the gigantic eyeball that lies in the middle of the city for everyone to appreciate. Brick walls are covered in professional grafitti and gardens are filled with iron sculptures.

And then there's The Bean - a gigantic metal kidney bean which sits in the middle of Millenium Square. From every angle, the bent metal reflects obscure images of itself and the city, strange warped perspectives that make for the most interesting photographs. If my camera battery hadn't run out, I could have filled a few gigabytes worth just taking photos of every aspect of The Bean. It definitely lived up to the hype.

The more I see of Chicago, the more tempted I am to move here.

Ciao for now. xo