Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues

I've found it hard to blog since being in Banff, which is the reason for my lack of posts. My life has fallen into a routine - wake up, go to work, go for a ride, come home, go out, go to sleep - and the ins-and-outs of my day to day living barely seem blog-worthy.

I have been in Banff for six months now and find myself suffering from a common sickness to seasonal ski bums - the mid-season blues. I find myself tiring of Banff and the all-too-familiarity of it. Of doing the same things, seeing the same people, living in a town that's city centre consists of one by two blocks of store fronts. And the drama... The drama is wearing me out most of all. If it weren't for the lack of cameras following me around each day, I could swear I was part of a trashy MTV reality show.

The irony of this is that I remember a time when I craved routine, when I ached for a cupboard and a place to unpack. And now that my feet have remained in the same place for so long, I can feel them starting to grow numb. Like a cup of coffee left to sit to long, I'm growing stagnate and cold.

I don't know if it's the fatigue of familiarity, a touch of homesickness or just the feeling that maybe it's time to give this travel tale a time of death, but I've been feeling a real pull to return home. I find comfort in looking at what jobs are available and at cute one bedroom studios available in Sydney. I remember my wardrobe and what it felt like to wear high heels and order cocktails and flirt with the suits at Ryan's Bar. I remember my life.

But at the same time, the thought of home terrifies me. It would mean leaving the life I've come to know now. A life of backpacking and exploring and eating at cute cafes in city backstreets and sleeping on long-haul buses and wondering who I'll meet at the next hostel and what waits around the next bend in the road. It would mean finding a new job, a new home, a new sense of stability. It would mean collecting the broken fragments of the life I left and I trying to piece it back together to fit everything I know now. I'm not sure if the strange feeling sitting in the pit of my stomach means I'm terrified of having to do all that or if I'm terrified because I feel I might be ready to do all that.

But despite this strange state I'm in, I'm reassured that with time and a good dose of Vitamin-Stop-Being-A-Sad-Sack, these mid-season blues will pass. Just like the cold, miserable winter weather will make way for blue skies and spring snowboarding, I'll find my stride again as a traveller and all the things I love about backpacking will be returned to me. And I bet the routine of going to work and seeing the same people doing the same things and creating the same drama will be something I'll miss as I'm pulling everything out of my backpack just to find a clean shirt to wear. I guess as a traveller you're always struck between something good, and something better.

And soon I'll find myself back at Appel Farm and Banff will be another folder of photos I'll look back on and ache over.

Ciao for now. xo

Bourbon in New Orleans

I'm going to dedicate an entire post to bourbon.

I've never really liked bourbon much. It really used to annoy me when I asked for Rum and Coke at Union Jacks in Brisbane and they would accidently give me bourbon and the sweetness of the alcohol would slap me straight across the face. But after being in New Orleans, I feel I've developed a respect for bourbon.

Not so much for the alcohol itself. I still think it's gross. But bourbon in terms of the AAE Bourbon House Hostel and Bourbon Street, New Orleans.

I really struck it lucky at the AAE Bourbon House Hostel and would encourage anyone travelling to New Orleans in the future to stay there. The couple who run the hostel are young, hip and so willing to help out travelers. They even dropped me at the Greyhound station the day I checked out. The hostel rooms are nothing flash - your average uncomfortable bed - and it's a little distance out of the city, but it's got a great communal vibe about it, which really makes a difference in a hostel.

I was fortunate enough to be sharing the hostel with about 10 camp counselors from around the country - a few Brits, a few Aussies and not to mention, a few hotties, and simply having camp in common got us all off on the right foot. They took me in and they took me out.

Bourbon Street may be trashy in the harsh light of day, but at night time, the street comes into it's own. Between the 8pm and 11pm, the street is full of the live music you come to New Orleans to see. After that, the bars wind up their disco balls and many turn into clubs. The particular weekend I was there was also Mardi Gra, bringing a whole other aspect to the people of the street. Everywhere you looked there were semi-naked men, all covered in shiney plastic beads they would eventually palm off to us as we made our way down the street.

So my last night in New Orleans was spent appreciating 'the bourbon' - the friendships, the alcohol and the street - and at 8am the next morning, covered in dancing sweat and strings of plastic beads, I boarded a Greyhound bound on a 10hr trip to Memphis, Tennessee.

Ciao for now. xo

Jazzed To Be Here

Imagine if Byron Bay and the Amsterdam Red Light District had a love-child - all the blues-tooting, grass-smoking genetics of Byron Bay mixed up in a petrie dish with the bright lights and dirty street germs of Amsterdam. What do you get?

New Orleans.

Sorry, N'awleans.

As I flew out of Miami, bound for The South, the realisation that I was going to New Orleans and would probably end up dead in a drive-by-shooting really hit home. I believe, 'Kristen, what the hell are you freaking doing? Are you crazy? Are you freaking crazy for walking so blatantly to your GRAVE?!!' passed through my head a few times before we touched down on the tarmac.

But New Orleans is not the delapidated dive I expected. The city is a bustling hub of street cars shuffling people between districts, as old, toothless men blast jazzy tunes from the sidewalks. The houses stand two, three stories high, supported by pillars and curling cast-iron gates where hanging plants dangle like christmas decorations.

Like most major cities, there seems to be more tourists than locals, but those native to New Orleans possess a pleasant and polite kindess that identifies them from the crowd of photo-snappers. On my arrival at the AAE Bourbon House Hostel, the receptionist was helpful enough to show me where everything was in relation to the hostel and how to get there. It's these simplicities that make travelling alone not quite as daunting.

It was a relief to be able to wander around the city today with only my self and my feet to determine the direction. The French Quarter, the main draw-card of New Orleans, is a standard block layout and is easy to negotiate with a map. Bourbon Street, much like Kings Cross or the Red Light District, is where the music and mayhem happens at night. But in the cruel light of day, all its dirty corners and cheap illuminated strip joints look trashy and tasteless. Stores selling cheaps New Orlean nicnacs are everywhere - everything from magnets and postcards to feathered masks and giant plastic necklaces sporting peace and marijuana symbols.Turn off Bourbon and onto Royal Street and you meet a totally different vibe, with gallery after independent gallery line the street walk.

Around lunch time, the hopeful musicians begin to drag their music cases out into the street and turn the place into an outdoor jazz club. This, served with a side of Gator and Shrimp Gumbo is exactly how lunch should be spent. It's easy to enjoy their sexy, sultry sounds and think nothing more of it, but at the end of the day, they're just as much a business as the restaurant you're eating at. It's something the New Orleanians seem to respect and appreciate and the tip jars and music cases are consistently filled with beer-soaked one dollar bills.

It's been five years since Hurricane Katrina ripped a wound through the heart of New Orleans and while the city has rebuilt itself, 'the storm' is still referred to in quiet reverence by tourists and locals alike. The storm remains a historical scar that is referred to much like Christ's crucifiction - 'before the storm' and 'after the storm'. Tours can be taken along the Mississippi River where the majority of Hurricane Katrina's damage was directed, but like visiting Ground Zero, there seems to be something immoral about turning a memorial into a tourist exploit.

As much as I'd like to think I'm safe walking from place to place, I can't help but feel like I'm looking over my shoulder 99 percent of the time. Down Town and the Garden District feel like safe havens, but there are definitely areas you wouldn't want to wander into in the middle of the day, let alone after dark. Going for a 'wander' is potentially dangerous, as the good and bad streets seem to be intermingled. 'Walk where the crowds are walking' was the advice I was given and that's what I've been doing, with one hand clutched firmly around my bag.

But I'm okay, Mum. I promise.

Off to get some gator sausage. Delish.

Ciao for now. xo

Empire State of Mind - Part One

On my second arrival in New York City, I was relieved that the thrill of being in this sprawling metropolis still sent butterflies flapping through my stomach. It would have been a whole lot more exciting had the bus from camp not dropped us off in Harlem where the excitement fast turned into 'let's get a cab before we get mugged'. But, after 20 minutes of attempting to hail a yellow cab in a non-yellow cab district, we were finally on our way. In New York City.

I had initially planned to stay at a fancy hotel in West End on review, but when those plans fell through at the last minute, some girls from camp were able to incorporate me into their travel plans. We stayed at the Hotel Riverside Studios, a delicate balance between dodgy hostel and dive hotel which offered two double beds, a fridge, a television and a less than appealing interior decorating scheme.

Unfortunately, the rainy weather put a bit of a dampener on our evening plans, but we decided to head out to Times Square anyway. Even though I had seen Times Square the first time I was in New York, getting to see the lights in the evening was pretty remarkable. The whole place looked like a christmas tree of consumerism - everywhere you turned there was an illuminated sign trying to sell a product, a lifestyle. But it was Times Square none the less.

While it was disappointing to wake up to another day of rainy weather, there seemed no better reason to wait it out by touring through New York’s museums. But first things first – breakfast. After nine weeks of camp food, a decent breakfast and a nice cup of coffee was all I was asking for. We popped into a cafe called ‘Gina’ on Broadway, not really expecting much but being happily surprised. Gina’s was a flirty, feminine Italian cafe where fresh bread comes served in a traditional brown bag with strawberry jam (REAL jam!) and the hospitable staff are more than happy to bring refills. On a cold wet day in NYC, a poached egg and tomato dish with a cup of (fairly) decent coffee, certainly recharged the batteries.

We visited the Museum of Natural History first, the setting of Ben Stiller’s Night At The Museum. As one of our girls had to leave at midday to catch her plane home, we were fairly rushed in making our way through the exhibitions. The museum is a multi-level building with exhibits including Asian, Pacific, Indian and Aztec peoples, mammals, marine life, snakes and reptiles, environments and space. As we weren’t able to visit all the exhibits due to our time restrictions, each member of our group chose a specific exhibit they wanted to see and we made sure we visited everyone’s choice before leaving the leaving the museum around lunchtime.

In the afternoon, it was off to the Museum of Modern Art which was not only the crowning jewel of my day, but of my entire trip to New York. As we were once again on a time restriction, we had to move quite quickly through the gallery rooms, which was disappointing and certainly not the best way of experiencing the museum. Of the work we did see, Picasso’s etchings, the architecture and design galleries, photography and sculpture works were most impressive. The museum itself is amazing, situated in a beautiful part of New York which offers views of the Manhattan skyline and it’s hard not to get side-tracked by the architectural art which exists right outside.

But this view was nothing compared to that from the 86th floor of the Empire State Building. While the rain once again prohibited the view I was hoping for, seeing the sprawling metropolis of lights and skyscrapers stretching out over the horizon was no less impressive. Standing at the top, freezing my butt off in the dusk air, I was once again hit with that feeling of satisfaction. That at that very moment, I could be sitting at home in Sydney living my run-of-the-mill mundane life. But instead, I was on the 86th floor of the Empire State Building in New York City.

Sometimes, that perspective is all I need.

Ciao for now. xo