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

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 Got People in Portland

Guess who's back in the USA?!

That's right. I've traded in maple syrup, Tim Hortons and the eternal winter for west coast beaches and Barack Obama. And I couldn't be happier. Bye bye Canada. Hello California.

After 18 brief but enjoyable hours in Vancouver with Zosia Cassie - my bunk director from Appel Farm 2010 - I made my way into the Americas via Seattle, Washington. I had a two hour layover in Seattle before I was due to catch a train to Portland, which was just enough time to decide that I could live in Seattle and live a very happy life. Despite its reputation, I was dubious about the coffee (I have become dubious about all American coffee) but I was pleasantly surprised that it lived up to its name. I spent two hours sitting in a cafe called Zeitgeist - free WiFi, coffee, happy days - sending emails and preparing myself for the prospect that in four hours I would be in Portland with my Appel Farm BFF, Molly Soloway.

Seeing Molly really hit home that I was back in the USA and that after all the waiting, camp was a mere couple of weeks away. Her parents welcomed me into their Portland home like I was one of their own children and were even encouraging about my having another hole pierced through my ear - just be glad it's not a tattoo, Mum. Molly showed me the Portland delights - the Saturday Markets, a trip to Trader Joe's for roadtrip supplys and a night of dancing at the Crystal Ballroom for their 80's music video party. Whitney Houston, dance your heart out.

My stay in the City of Roses was short and sweet and before we knew it, Molly and I were embarking on our Cross Country Roadtrip - Portland to New Jersey via the most wayward destinations available (more on that to come).

Our first day was spent getting lost before we even got out of Portland, followed by a seven hour drive to Eureka, California where for the second time since being in the USA, I got behind the wheel. Molly swears I'm doing really well, although I swear there's been a few times where she's clutched the door handle in fear because I've drifted too far to the right side of the right lane. Give me a break - it's a struggle using the left side of my brain.

On our drive to Eureka, we were given a small taste of the Redwood National Forest but nothing compared to our drive from Eureka to San Fransisco where we drove straight down the middile of the Avenue of the Giants. The Redwood National Forest protects 45 per cent of Coastal Redwoods - the tallest and most magnificent trees in the world. You could not wrap your arms around these suckers if you had your whole extended family plus the Brady Bunch - they're huge.

After Molly and I got tired of taking photos of the trees and driving our car through the middle of one (we didn't crash, we actually drove through a hole in a tree and paid $6 to do it), we headed onwards to San Francisco - home of the Golden Gate Bridge, Full House and a hell of a lot of hills. We are fortunate enough to be staying with the mum of one of Molly's school friends who has been an obliging and humble host since we got here all of five hours ago . She took us on a guided tour of downtown San Fran and then treated us to a lovely dinner and an even tastier bottle of red.

We're taking a break from driving tomorrow and spending the day in San Fran, where we will no doubt take more photos of the Golden Gate Bridge and tone up our ta-tas walking up and down this hilly heaven.

Ciao for now. xo