Thank God I'm A Country...er...Girl

After another pleasant journey on the Greyhound, (I sat in front of a man who was having a phone conversation about an ex-friend who just got out of jail - "He was let out with nothing but the clothes on his back, a bag of Cheetoes and a bible" - direct quote), I arrived in Nashville, the home of country music.

I feel every night spent out at the Toyota Country Music Muster listening to country rock, every performance I've seen courtesy of the School of Country Music and every time I've sung Keith Urbans' 'Love Somebody Like You' at the top of my lungs has prepared me for being in Nashville.

Even on a Wednesday night, Down Town was a side-show fair of bars bursting with people listening to local bands hoping to make it big. With some new friends I met at my hostel - AAE Music City Hostel (a winner) - we saw a cover group who were like a countrified beer garden band. The streets are full of buskers, some playing spoons and using a suitcase and a kick as their slapdash drum kit. Every corner boasts another leather boot store and everywhere everywhere, cowboy hats. It's like the Muster on uppers. 

But as tantalizing as the music has been, I got to Nashville with only one thing on my mind.

Cowboys.

Ha, just kidding.

The one thing on my mind was - vegetables. Fresh fruit and vegetables. For days, I couldn't work out why I was so lethargic and tired until I realised, I haven't eaten vegetables in weeks (well, months if you gloss over the sad excuse for vegetables we got served at camp). My poor body has been running on bagels and granola bars and the occassional serving of pulled pork (my new favourite American pastime).

So armed with eyes bigger than my backpack, I made a trip to the Farmers Market on 8th and Jackson where I found manna from heaven. Beans, eggplants, peppers (capsicums), squash, cucumbers, onions, avocados, peaches, nectaries, apples, oranges, bananas and tomatoes as big as your face. And with the intention of eating it all, I arrived back at my hostel with enough produce to open my own stall.

And tonight, I'm cooking me a feast.

And then finding a cowbow.

Ciao for now. xo

A Little Less Conversation, A Little More Elvis Please

Being my first time really travelling and all, I've been very conscious of being too much of a 'tourist'. I want to be a 'traveller' and have done all I can to steer clear of feeling too much like a photo-taking, souvenier-buying, oohing-ahhing bright eyed tourist - and that means, occassionally foregoing some of the more tourist-heavy hotspots.

But I couldn't come to Memphis and pay hommage to the King, right?

So I donned my blue seude shoes and made the epic trip out to Graceland to say G'day to Elvis Presley.

And when I say epic, I mean epic. The public transport in Memphis leaves much to be desired. Trying to get from my hostel (which is on the outer suburbs in the middle of nowhere) to Downtown via bus is a touch-and-go experience. One morning, I made it all the way with my connecting buses arriving on time - a small achievement for a traveller. Today, I ended up walking about 4 miles to get back to my hostel from the city (simply to save the 10 bucks I'd have to shell for a cab). Thankfully, a free bus runs between Graceland, Sun Studio and the Rock n Soul Museum so once you make it to Down Town, it's fairly easy to get between all three.

Anyway, on to Elvis.

Graceland is a 10 minute drive out of Downtown Memphis and is just one part of the sprawling metropolis that is Elvis Boulevard. There's the Graceland mansion itself and then there is every touristy extra you could ask for - gift stores, additional museums showcasing his cars and airplanes, photobooths, Heartbreak Hotel for the real Elvis enthusiasts. It's all quite an experience.

As is the mansion itself. Okay, I'll admit. Me and my tourist-allergy were dubious of both the mansion and the $30 I had to pay to get in it. But that being said, the experience itself was kinda, sorta, just-a-little, okay, pretty damn worthwhile.

I was in the house of The King! The man who changed music forever, the man who has sold more records than any other musician in history. In his very house where he walked around in his pyjamas making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That's pretty cool, right?

The mansion isn't all that big, but the furniture and interior decorating makes up for the size. The rooms are still fitted out with original interiors, which include a 'jungle room' that's full of fur furniture and plush green carpet and an indoor racketball court that Elvis had made escpecially - seems he was a bit of a racketball enthusiast. There's a field for horses, a basement dedicated to televisions and Lisa Marie's original swingset.

And then, out by the pool, is Elvis's grave which is now more of a shrine than a grave site. He rests next to his parents and grandmother and the whole 'meditation garden' (as it's been coined) is covered in dedications - posters, floral gardens, candles - that his fans have brought from all over the world. More come every day and it's the rule of the mansion to accept every dedication and keep it by his grave until it wears or withers.

The most touching tale I heard was while I was waiting in line for the bus back to the Elvis-epicentre. One of the mansion staff was remarking to a couple about the amount of visitors they'd had in the last month (having recently been Elvis's birthday). She said a family with kids arrived and the kids started asking when they would get to see Elvis, eventually bursting into tears when their parents explained that Elvis had passed away.

A story like that melts even an anti-tourist's heart.

Ciao for now. xo

Walking in Memphis

It took me 10 and a half harrowing hours on the Greyhound to get to Memphis, Tennessee. Let's just say, Greyhound buses in the USA have a bad reputation for a very good reason. The people who ride them look like those gracing a prison line up. Actually, most of them probably have.

 Anyway, I eventually arrived at the Pilgrim House Hostel relatively unscathered and sporting a very numb bum.

Memphis - home of the rhythm and blues, Beale Street, Sun Studio and Elvis's plantation home, Graceland. For a city with a reputation that proceeds itself - I mean, it has a song dedicated to it, after all - Down Town is fairly small and a part from the tourist draw cards, there isn't much else to explore.

The first stop I made on my own Memphis Tour was the Memphis Rock n Soul Museum - a good place to start as it definitely made me inspired to be in the city. The museum treats you to a video presentation, which is followed by a self-directed audio tour through the displays. The museum covers every notable moment and Memphis megastar in rhythm and blues history - Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, Howlin' Wolf and of course, Mr Elvis Presley (more on him later). A little over-priced for what it offered, the museum definitely helped me come to grips with just how much talent had passed through the Memphis streets. Beale St, now covered in bars much like New Orleans' Bourbon strip, was the epicentre of music and the length that rhythm, blues, soul and even country has come in the last 50 years can be contributed to it.

After getting my music fill at the museum and a fill of pulled pork for lunch (a Memphis specialty), I moved on to Sun Studios. What was originally the Memhis Recording Studio, opened by Sam Phillips back in the day, Sun Studios made a name for itself when it recorded the first big hits of the bluesy big-wigs. The above names have all graced its floors at one point or another and can owe the start of their careers to Sam Phillips' small studio.

I have a feeling that Memphis is not the sort of place a female, 20-something backpacker comes to as I got a few stares as I wandered throught the studio alongside the rockin, 50-something 50's fans. As much as I enjoyed seeing where some of my own favourite music was first created, seeing the oldies get all in a tizz because they got to stand in the exact same place that Elvis first recorded 'That's All Right' was an amusement in itself.

But more on Elvis later.

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

City Life, Spooks and Cemetaries

Despite not being one for horror movies, spooky stories or ouiji boards, I decided to put on my big girl pants and spend the morning with the ghosts and graveyards of New Orleans.

Lying alongside the Mississippi River, the city has long been prone to flooding and the locals soon realised that when they buried their dead in the ground, the floods would wash the bodies back up to the surface. To counteract this, the many cemetaries in New Orleans became filled with mausoleums - large marble or cement (depending of finances) tombs to house the bodies. In the old days, funerals were followed by a funeral procession where the congregation would walk the hearse to the cemetary singing melancholy gospel tunes.

The St Louis Cemetary is the most famous of the many cemetaries in New Orleans and is a mixture of decrepid mausoleums and extravagant dedications to the dead. The tombs stand gaurded by wrought iron bars and crucifixes, with a few still remembered by collections of fading or wilting flowers.

Moving from site to site was a little spooky - I'll admit - and it felt like at any minute a gangly dead hand was going to shoot out of the ground and grab my unexpecting feet. St Louis Cemetary 1 (as there are two within a short walk of each other) is also now home to  Marie Laveau, New Orleans anointed 'voodoo queen' (just to make things a little creepier). Marie was believed to have special voodoo powers and many people still come to her tomb in search of her wisdom and blessings. The belief is that after asking Marie's guidance or wisdom, hopefuls must leave a donation at her grave site. When their need is fulfilled, they must return to her grave and mark three x's (XXX) in honour of her help. Hence why, her cement crypt is covered in what appears to be grafitti.

There are plenty of tours which visit the tombs (day tours, night tours, full moon tours, ghost tours, scandelous cocktail tours) which I'm sure indulge in the spooks of the city. But walking around the cemetary in the middle of the day, was all the creep I needed.

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

Welcome to Miami

As if I could call this blog post anything other than Welcome to Miami - right Appel Farm?

I wasn't sure what I was expecting of Miami other than the comfort of Caitlin's house and having a bed and a room all to myself. The image I always had of Miami was of beautiful women in skantily clad outfits rollerskating along the boardwalk of the beach. And while I did see some beautiful women and plenty of skantily clad outfits and the occasional boardwalk, I didn't see any rollerskates.

Thank God, because they're so 10 years ago.

Miami has all the goodness of a tropical getaway with just enough trashiness to satisfy the tourist-at-heart. Her beaches are long stretches of emerald sea, hugged by a golden shore, and lying in the sun (that still refuses to burn me, hurrah!) I was reminded of the coastline from home. Much of my stay in Miami involved just that - lying on South Beach, finishing my book and soaking up as much blessed sunshine as my skin could take.

Being home to a strong Cuban and Latino community offers a cultural zing to the Miami experience - much like a lemon squeezed across a fish taco. The Cuban taxi drivers honk as you walk by, in a way that is innocently pleasing and there is a satisfying selection of authentic Cuban and Spanish foods to try and test (best eaten on the beach). We ventured to Little Haiti, a suburb which plays home to the Haitian community of Miami, where we visited the Red, White and Blue thrift store. This is an experience in itself - the biggest thrift store you've even seen filled with more Haitian men and women than you've ever seen, all fighting for thrift store supremacy. I scored a new satchel bag (leather and Coach - $7.49) and a black tuxedo jacket ($6.49) and a cultural experience to boot.

My favourite memories from Miami however were simply my last two days with Caitlin, my friend and tour guide. Yesterday, we rode her parent's bikes around her home suburb, up to the post office and the ice-cream store and then down to the Bay where we sat on the dock in the afternoon sun. We went out for Mexican at El Rancho Grande and ended up sharing a table with a boy who insulted Australia every chance he got and inevitably made an ass out of himself. She cooked me eggs in the morning and we ate breakfast in silence - the kind of comfortable silence that can only be acquired with a good friend.

And after six days of driving and two days of relaxing, we had our last cup of so so many communal coffees together before she drove me to the airport for our last goodbye.

I think in that moment, I realised camp was over. The last week or so with Caitlin felt like I was squeezing out the last, precious drops of camp. But as she drove away and I was officially on my own in the world, with no camp or counselor-friend to come home to, it felt like the final nail in the camp coffin.

And so, with one last hug and after throwing my near-busting backpack into check-in, I boarded my plane to New Orleans.

Ciao for now.

Georgia On My Mind

One of the most interesting features of road tripping down the East coast has been watching the environments change – a change that can only be appreciated by watching it whiz past you on the highway.

 The further south we drove after leaving Durham, North Carolina, the more apparent the change of scenery became. The green belt that runs the length of the highway became thicker and thicker as if the trees were shuffling closer together and everything seemed to be strangled by ivy and weeds. Then sure enough, after crossing the border into South Carolina, the trees became covered in Spanish moss, a pale green moss that looks like old man’s beard and dangles limply from the tree bends. Everywhere you looked, these massive trees sporting long low branches were heavy with strings of moss, like they’d gone un-dusted and were now covered in spider web. I can see why with the South’s ghostly heritage and thick forests covered in Spanish moss, it gives everyone the spooks. I definitely felt like an extra from True Blood.

Two hours south-east of Durham is Charleston, where we stopped for lunch and a shop. The main street of Charleston is King Street, a cute cobblestone street which sports expensive couture boutiques and just plain expensive chain stores. There’s a good selection of eat-outs though and we had a nice ‘southern’ lunch at a pulled pork cafe, before wandering around King Street and admiring the things we couldn’t afford.

From Charleston we drove further south again, crossing the border into Georgia where we stopped twice – once to get some home-grown peaches and peach cider (a Georgia tradition) and once to get a speeding ticket. It seems I’m leading Caitlin’s squeaky clean record astray.

If speeding down the highway didn’t provide me with enough Spanish moss, our stop-over in Savannah, Georgia certainly did. If Charleston was a prissy, perfect school-girl, Savannah would be her secretive sister with a wicked smile. On the outside, Savannah is a gorgeous city made of Southern plantation homes, Spanish moss and cute light-up fountains which the kids run about in. But once the sun go down, she strips out of her Sunday best and goes partying.

Ironically, Savannah is as mischievous as she is expensive. We had a difficult time finding a last-minute motel or inn to stay at which wouldn’t cost us a fortune and our first-born. We wanted to keep well away from the divey-motel we passed on the way into the city, but as it sported the ‘best rates in town’ our last resort ended up being the resort we resorted to.

The Thunderbird Inn turned out to be a diamond in the rough. From the outside it looked questionable, but once we got into our room we found cable, a modern bathroom and the biggest, most comfortable beds we could have hoped for. We even managed to bat our eyelashes into scoring another double room, leaving each of us to have our own king-sized bed (which after a night of bar-hopping lulled us into a sleep-in and a late check out).

The streets of Downtown run parallel to the Savannah River and everything is within easy walking distance – a feature of town planning I’ve found consistent in America. After accidently ordering a Pedicab (a bicycle-drawn carriage ridden by very desperate employees who get pissed off when you cancel your order because you were after a ‘real’ cab), we had a light late dinner at the Half Moon Brewery and Grill where I had my first serving of fried green tomatoes. (I thought of you, Mum). I’ve taken quite fondly to southern cuisine, but all that deep frying is certainly leaving me with a little more weight to carry around than just my backpack.

Around the corner was Congress St which is full of bars, clubs and dives and a steady stream of tourists, under-age teenagers and students from the Savannah College of Art and Design moving from bouncer to bouncer. We found some live music, but the real discovery was the bar with a free Mrs. Pac Man machine which became a source of much amusement.

From Savannah, we headed onto Gainsville, Florida – a short 4 hour drive which after the night we had, felt like an eternity. Gainsville is a bit of a hole in the middle of nowhere with the only thing of interest being the University of Florida. An old friend of Caitlin’s went to school there and was kind enough to put us up for the night with her gorgeous westie terrier, Bucky. The University of Florida is one of the major state universities in America and with school having recently gone back, the town was crawling in the morning with college kids riding their scooters to class. The university is also home to the UF Gators, the universities representative football and basketball teams who are greatly esteemed by Gainsville and its surrounds. Unfortunately, I only just missed out on attending a game and seeing the town explode with blue and orange. But it was comforting to know the college sporting stereotype (ala One Tree Hill) is not so far from the truth.

Gainsville was the last stop-over on Caitlin and Kristen’s East Coast Road Trip and as I write this, we are cruising (but not too fast) down the turnpike to Miami.

Can’t wait to get me a deep breathe of that Florida humidity.

Ciao for now. xo

The Duke of Durham

With some bagels in our bellies (my new breakfast favourite which is fast going to become the obese death of me), we waved goodbye to Washington and started the long drive south towards Virginia.


 Anyone who’s roadtripped can vouch for the cabin fever one starts to feel after sitting too long in one seat, so we planned to pit stop at the Shanandoah National Park, a corner of the Appalachian mountain peaks which stretch south-west down the coast.

That’s right Mum and Dad, we stopped to do some ‘hiking’ in America. Are you proud?

The Appalachians is Caitlin’s favourite mountain range and it isn’t difficult to see why. The range is beautiful and after the smoggy air of New York, my lungs didn’t know what hit them when they got a few breathes of brisk mountain air. We did a short hike along the Fox Hollow Trail – an easy half hour walk – which unfortunately didn’t result in seeing any wild life. I was particularly hopeful about seeing a black bear, but a few clouds of gnats were about the extent of it.

Lunch was an eclectic spread of leftover beef and noodle stir fry, hummus, strawberries and trail mix which we gobbled down in front of the look out before returning to the road. The next portion of the drive took us through Virginia and North Carolina where both The South environment and society started to rear its head. We stopped to ask directions at a pulled pork roadside restaurant, which had a pig on a spit cooking on the highway side.

In the late afternoon, we finally reached Durham – home of the Durham Bulls baseball team, Bull Durham the movie and Duke University. The Super 8 Motel was kind enough to charge us the same price for two double beds as they would one single, not that we were interested much in sleeping. We quickly donned our dinner best and headed out to The Fishmongerer, my first taste of Southern cuisine. My Fishmore Stew, a mix of ‘shrimp’ (prawns), ‘slaw’ (coleslaw), spiced potatoes and corn on the cob went down a real treat with the Woodchuck Cider I was happily introduced to.

Night time in Downtown Durham becomes the stomping ground of Duke University students and, this being the case, has a reasonable selection of alcoholic water holes. With school back in session, the clubs and pubs became overrun by students shortly after midnight and while we had the desire to stay out and potentially meet a doctor from Duke, a day of driving got the better of us and sent us home to sleep.

It seems I was denied seeing both black bears and boys in their natural habitat.

Ciao for now. xo

Why Hello, Mr Obama.

Shooting out of New York on the 25th (after a blundered train ride to Brooklyn courtesy of my inability to read a subway map correctly), the first stop on Caitlin and Kristen’s East Coast Road Trip was Washington DC, a four hour drive south of NYC. Despite not being home at the time, a friend of Caitlin’s allowed us to stay in his empty house in Silver Springs, a suburb on the edge of DC. This was the first time either of us had been in a house since camp and being able to cook, shower and watch a movie before falling asleep in REAL BEDS was one of the most comforting experiences imaginable.

 We took the next day off to venture into Washington DC, described by my Lonely Planet as the city of M’s – monuments, museums and memorials. Despite being stereotyped as a boring political pocket (its home to the White House, after all) I found it to be a beautiful city. The metropolitan area is quite spread out, but the moments, museums and memorials are all fairly accessible as long as you’re wearing comfortable shoes. The best part, however, is that all these buildings offer free admission. F.R.E.E – is there any more glorious a word to a backpacker? There’s something just a little imbalanced about paying $20 to see the view from the 86th floor of the Empire State Building yet not paying a cent to see some of America’s most invaluable historical artefacts.

After paying the Obama family a visit at the White House, we moved on to the Smithsonian Institute Museums, a collection of museums, galleries, libraries and historical emporiums situated within a few blocks of each other, referred to as The Mall. Here, we took a turn through a few galleries before heading to the National Archives to see America’s big guns – the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights.

As with everything important in America, the security was stringent but getting to the documents themselves – also referred to as the Charters of Freedom – was fairly painless. Groups of 50 at a time are allowed into ‘the rotunda’ so that the viewing cabinets don’t become overcrowded and everyone can get a good eyeful. The three charters, as well as the supporting documents that surround them, are kept in the best protective cabinets technology can provide and you’re not allowed to so much as touch the glass, let alone take photographs.

And it’s not surprising as the documents themselves are pretty amazing. Despite being considerably worn and faded (but wouldn’t you be if you were over 200 years old?), you can still make out the signatures of George Washington, John Adams and alike. I may not be an American, but even I’ll admit that seeing the cursive hand of ‘We, the people...’ was an empowering sight.

A sight I’ll get to experience again and again, as I bought the souvenir magnet to take home.

Ciao for now. xo