Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Riot at Folsom Prison
As I was leaving New York I caught the news headlines at the airport. Seven people were injured in a riot at Folsom Prison, New York - perhaps they're finally sick of drinking that yeller water?
Friday, August 27, 2010
Checking out of the Chelsea Hotel
When I say, "Checking out of the Chelsea Hotel", In this case, I mean it literally, not metaphorically as many including poet Dylan Thomas have literally 'checked out' of the Chelsea Hotel. With such a long rock'n'roll and literary history, the rooms I have to say are a little on the 'vanilla' side. Or perhaps that just because I'm traveling on the cheep cheep?
The guests are interesting though, the most interesting are the permanent residents who are a kooky brand of New Yorkers. All grey and designer shabby and intense.
My room had a fireplace which had been boarded up - pity - that would have been really cool, and a kitchen including a full size oven and cooker. What anyone is ever going to cook in the Chelsea apart from Crystal Meth, I don't know, but if you're inclined to bake pies during your stay, you can. The bathroom looked surprisingly like mine at Riverton Street - except blue instead of pink.
The lobbies and stairwells are filled with original artworks that give the place that feeling of a worn bohemia. The best part about staying at the Chelsea is the intimation that you're somebody kooky too. I was walking out of the lobby the yesterday in de riguer jaunty trilby and people on the street ducked down to see under the brim of my hat in case I was somebody famous, or more likely notorious. Pretty funny huh?
PS. This is a blog people - it's a two-way street, when I ask you guestions, I expect an answer.
This entry is proudly brought to you direct from the downstairs lobby of the Hotel Chelsea, better known as the Chelsea Hotel, West 23rd Street, New York, New York.
Hamptons here I come....
The guests are interesting though, the most interesting are the permanent residents who are a kooky brand of New Yorkers. All grey and designer shabby and intense.
My room had a fireplace which had been boarded up - pity - that would have been really cool, and a kitchen including a full size oven and cooker. What anyone is ever going to cook in the Chelsea apart from Crystal Meth, I don't know, but if you're inclined to bake pies during your stay, you can. The bathroom looked surprisingly like mine at Riverton Street - except blue instead of pink.
The lobbies and stairwells are filled with original artworks that give the place that feeling of a worn bohemia. The best part about staying at the Chelsea is the intimation that you're somebody kooky too. I was walking out of the lobby the yesterday in de riguer jaunty trilby and people on the street ducked down to see under the brim of my hat in case I was somebody famous, or more likely notorious. Pretty funny huh?
PS. This is a blog people - it's a two-way street, when I ask you guestions, I expect an answer.
This entry is proudly brought to you direct from the downstairs lobby of the Hotel Chelsea, better known as the Chelsea Hotel, West 23rd Street, New York, New York.
Hamptons here I come....
Monday, August 23, 2010
A boring day of errands in NYC
I got to that point when you’re traveling that you seriously consider wearing swimwear under your clothes instead of wasting precious time doing laundry. White-on-white was closed yesterday, so today laundry became mission critical. Today was another day of sight-seeing in my glad rags (as my mum would call them), because all of my other clothes are at white-on-white–still. I am contemplating getting them to deliver my clothes to me from across the street at 7am tomorrow so I can loll about in my robe – that would be very NYC of me wouldn’t it? But practical too – otherwise i’m going to have to put dirty clothes on to go and get my clean laundry – it doesn’t make sense.
On the advice of Dr K, I rested the bung ankle yesterday by chilling in the loft all morning with my fellow loftees M and Mr S, before venturing out in the pouring rain to Times Square for a Sunday afternoon Matinee. It’s well worth lining up for discount tickets. The line moves quickly until you get stuck behind groups of four people right at the ticket window who find out that the show they wanted to see has sold out while they are in the line and haven’t agreed on a plan B. Talk about frustrating!
I had wanted to go and see South Pacific, but according to the spruikers hovering around the line, it was sold out.I later found out from M that they always say that, but it’s not really true. Instead, I snapped up a ticket to my plan B for 40 per cent off, La Cage Aux Folles starring Kelsey Grammer (aka Frasier). It’s the French musical comedy ‘the birdcage’, you’re probably familiar with the Robin Williams movie where the gay couple play it straight to impress their conservative politician father of their daughter-in-law to be – it was hilarious, very well acted. Plus you get a one part Broadway musical two parts French riveria drag show, so lots of feathers and high-kicks all for the one low price. It was a great way to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon and I slunk back to the loft just in time for M to wait on me hand and foot with cucumber infused vodka, an ice pack and left over Indian food. I think she misses her son.
Today M left for the beach – since it was raining in NYC and all. I’m going to miss her, and the coffee, as I’ve sort of watched her do the drip filter coffee straight into the enormous buckets they call mugs here at the loft, but I’m pretty sure I’ll stuff it up tomorrow.
So I dropped the laundry in at white on white. They told to me pick it up after 6pm – what they didn’t tell me was they close at 7pm – so all my clothes except a hoodie and what I’m wearing now are across the road all locked up.
Since weather.com predicted thunderstorms all day I thought a spot of window shopping in Midtown might be a good way to keep out of the elements. I arrived at the front entrance of Bloomingdales five minutes before they raised the shutters and wandered into the massive emporium of everything lovely amid strains of Frank Sinatra’s New York, New York – it's like they knew I was coming and timed it perfectly to hit 'play' on a massive tapedeck somewhere behind the scenes. The gleaming black and white tiles and friendly staff, fresh faced for the day and not yet worn down by Italian tourists who insist on haggling over the ticket prices. Ah, retail!
After Bloomies I headed on up to Prada where despite their unhelpful attitude I treated myself to some new perfume. For the last year I’ve been saving for this trip and when I ran out of perfume three months ago I just started using using random testers , samples of whatever was going and leftovers from my trip to Grasse seven years ago (not still at it’s best). You see, I can be frugal when there’s a higher purpose involved. When it comes to breakfast foods, I’m as brand loyal as they come. Kellogs Crunchy Nut cornflakes every day for at least five years, and now Carmen’s Deluxe Fruit Museli – every morning. However, when it comes to fragrances, I’m a floozy. I rarely take home the same once twice, and now it's Prada something infused with Tuberose. Hmmm, just the scent to mask the overwhelming smell of pee in the New York subway this summer.
Even now, hours later, it still irks me that I bought something from Prada today. Five overstuffed sales assistants chatting away to eachother while I stood for five minutes at the fragrance counter being ignored. When I finally got served again, there were conversations about my drivers license photo and how it looks nothing like me. The general consensus among staff at Prada Fifth Avenue is that the short hair is ‘fun’. Hmmph.
Earlier in the week while I was performing some official duties as international photographer for French speaking tourists at the top of the Rockefeller Centre my Tiffany necklace snapped and broke. Talk about timing. So continuing with my list of errands today, I popped upstairs in the Fifth Ave store made famous by Breakfast at Tiffanys and they organized to fix it. It will be ready by 5pm today. No charge, oh, and they cleaned it so it sparkles and recommended a great place to have lunch nearby. Very helpful Tiffanys, you could teach those monkeys at Prada a thing or two. Since I couldn’t remember the zip code for Broadway downtown for the purposes of the service card, they just made my address details the same as the stores’ – if you need to mail me anything today please post it to my new address - C/O Tiffany & Co, Fifth Avenue, New York, New York.
On the advice of Dr K, I rested the bung ankle yesterday by chilling in the loft all morning with my fellow loftees M and Mr S, before venturing out in the pouring rain to Times Square for a Sunday afternoon Matinee. It’s well worth lining up for discount tickets. The line moves quickly until you get stuck behind groups of four people right at the ticket window who find out that the show they wanted to see has sold out while they are in the line and haven’t agreed on a plan B. Talk about frustrating!
I had wanted to go and see South Pacific, but according to the spruikers hovering around the line, it was sold out.I later found out from M that they always say that, but it’s not really true. Instead, I snapped up a ticket to my plan B for 40 per cent off, La Cage Aux Folles starring Kelsey Grammer (aka Frasier). It’s the French musical comedy ‘the birdcage’, you’re probably familiar with the Robin Williams movie where the gay couple play it straight to impress their conservative politician father of their daughter-in-law to be – it was hilarious, very well acted. Plus you get a one part Broadway musical two parts French riveria drag show, so lots of feathers and high-kicks all for the one low price. It was a great way to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon and I slunk back to the loft just in time for M to wait on me hand and foot with cucumber infused vodka, an ice pack and left over Indian food. I think she misses her son.
Today M left for the beach – since it was raining in NYC and all. I’m going to miss her, and the coffee, as I’ve sort of watched her do the drip filter coffee straight into the enormous buckets they call mugs here at the loft, but I’m pretty sure I’ll stuff it up tomorrow.
So I dropped the laundry in at white on white. They told to me pick it up after 6pm – what they didn’t tell me was they close at 7pm – so all my clothes except a hoodie and what I’m wearing now are across the road all locked up.
Since weather.com predicted thunderstorms all day I thought a spot of window shopping in Midtown might be a good way to keep out of the elements. I arrived at the front entrance of Bloomingdales five minutes before they raised the shutters and wandered into the massive emporium of everything lovely amid strains of Frank Sinatra’s New York, New York – it's like they knew I was coming and timed it perfectly to hit 'play' on a massive tapedeck somewhere behind the scenes. The gleaming black and white tiles and friendly staff, fresh faced for the day and not yet worn down by Italian tourists who insist on haggling over the ticket prices. Ah, retail!
After Bloomies I headed on up to Prada where despite their unhelpful attitude I treated myself to some new perfume. For the last year I’ve been saving for this trip and when I ran out of perfume three months ago I just started using using random testers , samples of whatever was going and leftovers from my trip to Grasse seven years ago (not still at it’s best). You see, I can be frugal when there’s a higher purpose involved. When it comes to breakfast foods, I’m as brand loyal as they come. Kellogs Crunchy Nut cornflakes every day for at least five years, and now Carmen’s Deluxe Fruit Museli – every morning. However, when it comes to fragrances, I’m a floozy. I rarely take home the same once twice, and now it's Prada something infused with Tuberose. Hmmm, just the scent to mask the overwhelming smell of pee in the New York subway this summer.
Even now, hours later, it still irks me that I bought something from Prada today. Five overstuffed sales assistants chatting away to eachother while I stood for five minutes at the fragrance counter being ignored. When I finally got served again, there were conversations about my drivers license photo and how it looks nothing like me. The general consensus among staff at Prada Fifth Avenue is that the short hair is ‘fun’. Hmmph.
Earlier in the week while I was performing some official duties as international photographer for French speaking tourists at the top of the Rockefeller Centre my Tiffany necklace snapped and broke. Talk about timing. So continuing with my list of errands today, I popped upstairs in the Fifth Ave store made famous by Breakfast at Tiffanys and they organized to fix it. It will be ready by 5pm today. No charge, oh, and they cleaned it so it sparkles and recommended a great place to have lunch nearby. Very helpful Tiffanys, you could teach those monkeys at Prada a thing or two. Since I couldn’t remember the zip code for Broadway downtown for the purposes of the service card, they just made my address details the same as the stores’ – if you need to mail me anything today please post it to my new address - C/O Tiffany & Co, Fifth Avenue, New York, New York.
The peeps I meet in NYC
So I’m staying in an enormous loft apartment on Broadway in NYC, with C a New Yorker for life who appears to be a wealthy Jewess who is in the process of divorcing her husband a well-known Italian Psychoanalyst and her son. From what I can gather C is a sociologist and has actually escaped the loft with her friend S for the weekend to S' farm (40 acres in upstate New York). Leaving me in C's words, "Lady of the manor' for the weekend. People, I feel like I’m living in a copy of Vanity Fair magazine.
Staying at the loft is also Mr S, from Brisbane, Highgate Hill to be exact who likes yoga, hiding in his room and owns a bunch of companies. Funny how you travel to the other side of the world to hang out with people who live ten minutes drive down the road from you at home. I haven’t seen much of Mr S, he keeps to himself and has a bunch of friends in NYC so only seems to pop home for showers and sleep (occasionally).
Since I arrived C’s friend from college M has also been staying here at the loft. I really like M. I’ve made a new friend, purely by accident. M is maybe mid forties, a Berkley graduate with most of a PhD in archeology who reads Latin and Greek (naturally), lived in Rome etc and now lives in Baltimore with her husband who’s in emergency medicine and her son. C hopes her son will continue Latin and Greek at school so they can read the classics together and go on archeological digs. M is really funny and has lead such an interesting life, everyday I end up sitting at the breakfast table yakking away while she makes me coffee and I don’t end up setting off ‘til 11am. C has left today since it’s raining anyhow, but has invited me to join her and her husband at their place at the ‘beach’ in New Jersey where they usually spend the ‘season’ i.e. summer.
It’s a bummer that I already have plans otherwise what an experience. Still as M says, if my itinerary doesn’t pan out to be all that I hoped for I’m welcome to join them at the beach for flounder and martinis until the end of summer. Hmmmm, very tempting.
As karma would have it I did something nasty to my ankle the day I arrived in NYC and until today have been hobbling and shuffling all over New York. Combined with the jaunty trilby, it’s been enough for most people to give me a wide berth. With American healthcare what it is, I bought the equivalent of a tube of deep heat and tried as much as possible not to walk on it too much.
Fortunately though, when you’re staying with a Drs wife, she can just dial hubby and shazam, an over the phone consultation with the good Dr in Baltimore. Nice, very nice. Met another lovely Dr today, a cowboy shirt wearing grey-haired chiropractor who stops by the bar at Grand Central Station every night on his way home to have a few martinis with the locals and his wife. Ah the life, I keep meeting people who have all the ducks lined up in exactly the right order. Today I was the good Drs unexpected guest for a light dinner of French martinis and aranchinis at the bar Grand Central Station. This holiday life would kill me eventually but how long would it take? Really? There’s vitamin C in the pineapple juice in the French Martinis, it’s not all bad.
Staying at the loft is also Mr S, from Brisbane, Highgate Hill to be exact who likes yoga, hiding in his room and owns a bunch of companies. Funny how you travel to the other side of the world to hang out with people who live ten minutes drive down the road from you at home. I haven’t seen much of Mr S, he keeps to himself and has a bunch of friends in NYC so only seems to pop home for showers and sleep (occasionally).
Since I arrived C’s friend from college M has also been staying here at the loft. I really like M. I’ve made a new friend, purely by accident. M is maybe mid forties, a Berkley graduate with most of a PhD in archeology who reads Latin and Greek (naturally), lived in Rome etc and now lives in Baltimore with her husband who’s in emergency medicine and her son. C hopes her son will continue Latin and Greek at school so they can read the classics together and go on archeological digs. M is really funny and has lead such an interesting life, everyday I end up sitting at the breakfast table yakking away while she makes me coffee and I don’t end up setting off ‘til 11am. C has left today since it’s raining anyhow, but has invited me to join her and her husband at their place at the ‘beach’ in New Jersey where they usually spend the ‘season’ i.e. summer.
It’s a bummer that I already have plans otherwise what an experience. Still as M says, if my itinerary doesn’t pan out to be all that I hoped for I’m welcome to join them at the beach for flounder and martinis until the end of summer. Hmmmm, very tempting.
As karma would have it I did something nasty to my ankle the day I arrived in NYC and until today have been hobbling and shuffling all over New York. Combined with the jaunty trilby, it’s been enough for most people to give me a wide berth. With American healthcare what it is, I bought the equivalent of a tube of deep heat and tried as much as possible not to walk on it too much.
Fortunately though, when you’re staying with a Drs wife, she can just dial hubby and shazam, an over the phone consultation with the good Dr in Baltimore. Nice, very nice. Met another lovely Dr today, a cowboy shirt wearing grey-haired chiropractor who stops by the bar at Grand Central Station every night on his way home to have a few martinis with the locals and his wife. Ah the life, I keep meeting people who have all the ducks lined up in exactly the right order. Today I was the good Drs unexpected guest for a light dinner of French martinis and aranchinis at the bar Grand Central Station. This holiday life would kill me eventually but how long would it take? Really? There’s vitamin C in the pineapple juice in the French Martinis, it’s not all bad.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Use dem legs bhoy
I was walking back from Gather in the early evening of suburban Berkeley when I came across football practice. Now to me, US footballers look humorous at the best of times. All that padding up top and those leggings down bottom only works to exacerbate the oddity of their shape. All triangular, like a slice of pie. Now that you have that mental image, imagine the padding and the bobbly helmet on the body of a rag tag bunch of eight or nine year old boys. Hilarious! Parents and friends lined the outside fence of the park where 10 or 11 different teams practiced maneuvers and passes. Feeding straight into all the cultural stereotypes, one poor kid was slowly jogging off the center of the field wailing while his dad was yelling from the sidelines above all the cheering of well meaning parents, “Boy you din’t get in der and use yor legs bhoy – you gotta use dem legs bhoy dats what dem for.” No pressure kid.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Drinks in NYC with MIchael Jackson
I can scarcely believe I’ve already been in New York three and half days. Hence the lack of blogging – this is the city that never sleeps.
Day one I arrived in the late afternoon to the loft on Broadway in Tribeca (triangle below canal street, is what it stands for), and met my Airbnb host C and her good friend M. C is a quintessential New Yorker, full-on, bossy (in the nicest possible way) and always offering helpful suggestions about the best places to go.
After three and a bit days in New York a summary of my observations are thus:
• The world’s concentration of good-looking men of all ages have been scouped up from around the globe and transplanted to one rather small island, Manhattan
• New Yorkers are friendly and helpful
• I am a novelty and I love it, I have a quote, ‘cute accent’ and am ‘super sweet’
• Every airbnb host is a little bit nuts in the nicest possible way.
• I can see why they sell so many ‘I heart NY’ t-shirts and it’s not because you can buy them for the bargain price of $2.99 in Times Square.
My first night in NYC, C directed to me to a great Mexican in Tribeca where I had a fabulous meal of black eyed peas and chicken washed down with lashings of good’n’strong white Sangria and the fabulous gossip of the young kids that worked at Louis Vuitton who were sitting at the next table.
From there I zig-zagged through the neighbourhood accidentally stumbling into Grenwich Village and a little cocktail bar in Commerce Street for a Strawberry Julep. I am quickly discovering New Yorkers are a friendly bunch, and soon started chatting to none other than a white Michael Jackson and his friend who was from Brooklyn and wholesaled flowers.
New Yorkers are impressed that anyone would travel so far to visit them and as you might expect, aren’t sure that anything exists beyond Sydney – and they like to be reassured they are nice people.
I wandered back to Tribeca in late Friday evening not the slightest bit concerned for my safety. Fortitude Valley is more dangerous late at night than downtown NYC in my opinion. On my way back I stumbled across N.Moore Street which I took as a very good omen for the remainder of my trip in the big apple.
Day one I arrived in the late afternoon to the loft on Broadway in Tribeca (triangle below canal street, is what it stands for), and met my Airbnb host C and her good friend M. C is a quintessential New Yorker, full-on, bossy (in the nicest possible way) and always offering helpful suggestions about the best places to go.
After three and a bit days in New York a summary of my observations are thus:
• The world’s concentration of good-looking men of all ages have been scouped up from around the globe and transplanted to one rather small island, Manhattan
• New Yorkers are friendly and helpful
• I am a novelty and I love it, I have a quote, ‘cute accent’ and am ‘super sweet’
• Every airbnb host is a little bit nuts in the nicest possible way.
• I can see why they sell so many ‘I heart NY’ t-shirts and it’s not because you can buy them for the bargain price of $2.99 in Times Square.
My first night in NYC, C directed to me to a great Mexican in Tribeca where I had a fabulous meal of black eyed peas and chicken washed down with lashings of good’n’strong white Sangria and the fabulous gossip of the young kids that worked at Louis Vuitton who were sitting at the next table.
From there I zig-zagged through the neighbourhood accidentally stumbling into Grenwich Village and a little cocktail bar in Commerce Street for a Strawberry Julep. I am quickly discovering New Yorkers are a friendly bunch, and soon started chatting to none other than a white Michael Jackson and his friend who was from Brooklyn and wholesaled flowers.
New Yorkers are impressed that anyone would travel so far to visit them and as you might expect, aren’t sure that anything exists beyond Sydney – and they like to be reassured they are nice people.
I wandered back to Tribeca in late Friday evening not the slightest bit concerned for my safety. Fortitude Valley is more dangerous late at night than downtown NYC in my opinion. On my way back I stumbled across N.Moore Street which I took as a very good omen for the remainder of my trip in the big apple.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
I heart Berkeley
The more places I stay, the more I am unwraveling a common thread linking the Airbnb hosts – a certain underlying bohemia. Andy was no exception. He’s a New Yorker who has been living in Berkeley for the last six years. According to Andy, it’s not so much Berkeley as the house that’s kept him there that long.
The house was cool, I’ll give you that, a shingled cottage with a loft and skylights it was pretty unique in suburban Berkeley and combined with the laid back University town atmos, a bit like Cambridge, there’s a lot to like. On Andy’s advice I headed straight downtown on foot to check out the University campus and spent a great afternoon in the warm sun watching students kick footballs and throw Frisbees to the eachother in grassy courts surrounded by Hearst this and Guggenhiem that hall. The longer I’m hear the more I realize Americans with cash like to get their names on things. It was hard to stifle the giggles when the passing professors were wearing Birkenstocks with socks. Yep, this is Berkeley alright. It may be 40 years since the university made a name for it’s freewheelin’ and freethinking academics, but even now they’re still decidedly left of center.
Berkeley campus is visually really beautiful. They’re building a new extension of the Naval Architecture wing, in a style sympathetic to the building’s original simple wood structure. I also love a university that has or has had a whole wing devoted to naval architecture. Continuing my zig zag I pass a big grove of Eucalypts which I keep encountering in the US and each time provides a reassuring whiff of home as I walk past. According to the historian Laura in LA, California grew a whole lot of Australian Eucalypts as they were planning to mill the timber for railroad sleepers but that didn’t really work out, so instead there are just clumps of gum trees sans the Koalas dotted about the state.
After another afternoon of zig-zagging and some time on the grassy knoll (not The Grassy Knoll, just a grassy knoll) I headed over to Berkeley’s hip new restaurant Gather. I had a fantastic meal of roasted eggplant. I like eating food, but I’ve just tried to describe the flavours of the meal and I just can’t interpret the tastes in a way that captures the unexpectedly unique flavours. The concept of the restaurant is local organic produce which is the big thing in northern California. I later find out Andy has a very small financial interest in the restaurant and his friends own it. They’re on a winner, do yourself a favour and stop by if you’re ever in town.
If only I could find a way to work in Berkeley I can see that it’s the kind of place you could easily find yourself for six years.
The house was cool, I’ll give you that, a shingled cottage with a loft and skylights it was pretty unique in suburban Berkeley and combined with the laid back University town atmos, a bit like Cambridge, there’s a lot to like. On Andy’s advice I headed straight downtown on foot to check out the University campus and spent a great afternoon in the warm sun watching students kick footballs and throw Frisbees to the eachother in grassy courts surrounded by Hearst this and Guggenhiem that hall. The longer I’m hear the more I realize Americans with cash like to get their names on things. It was hard to stifle the giggles when the passing professors were wearing Birkenstocks with socks. Yep, this is Berkeley alright. It may be 40 years since the university made a name for it’s freewheelin’ and freethinking academics, but even now they’re still decidedly left of center.
Berkeley campus is visually really beautiful. They’re building a new extension of the Naval Architecture wing, in a style sympathetic to the building’s original simple wood structure. I also love a university that has or has had a whole wing devoted to naval architecture. Continuing my zig zag I pass a big grove of Eucalypts which I keep encountering in the US and each time provides a reassuring whiff of home as I walk past. According to the historian Laura in LA, California grew a whole lot of Australian Eucalypts as they were planning to mill the timber for railroad sleepers but that didn’t really work out, so instead there are just clumps of gum trees sans the Koalas dotted about the state.
After another afternoon of zig-zagging and some time on the grassy knoll (not The Grassy Knoll, just a grassy knoll) I headed over to Berkeley’s hip new restaurant Gather. I had a fantastic meal of roasted eggplant. I like eating food, but I’ve just tried to describe the flavours of the meal and I just can’t interpret the tastes in a way that captures the unexpectedly unique flavours. The concept of the restaurant is local organic produce which is the big thing in northern California. I later find out Andy has a very small financial interest in the restaurant and his friends own it. They’re on a winner, do yourself a favour and stop by if you’re ever in town.
If only I could find a way to work in Berkeley I can see that it’s the kind of place you could easily find yourself for six years.
So long Frisco
Boy time flies when you’re having fun. Five days in San Francisco were swallowed up quicker than I eat ice cream coated in ice magic – and let me tell you – that’s fast. I spent my last day in the Mission, one of the most San Franciscan areas of San Francisco (with the emphasis on the Franciscan missionaries to be precise) - San Francisco’s Spanish heartland. I started out wandering the streets in a random zig zag as I like to do. Nature and the promise of churchly clean toilets lead me back to the original Mission church on Delores Street. Which was a good stop to soak up the neighbourhood’s history, seeing the old photographs of bullfighting in the square and later the hearses lined up outside the church delivering the bodies from the 1906 earthquake. The simple original building has Adobe (meaning sundried bricks made of clay – not portable document format) walls that were 4 feet thick, which withstood the 1906 earthquake. The more elaborate and newer Basilica that was built next door used more modern construction techniques and like many historic buildings in San Fran, didn’t stand up the shaking of 1906. What does this tell you people? Keep it simple, look backwards.
On the advice of Lonely Planet I sought out the famous Clarion Street alley graffiti. Disappointing people. I went to the southern end of the alley and the overwhelming stench of pee made it a really short visit. Plus the Grafiitti in the alleyways of Melbourne is much better – still I gave it a go.
I doubled back to Nob Hill for the last time to say my goodbyes to Cali – she was clearly crying on the inside to see me go. Assembled my 63 small bags and trekked over to Berkeley. So long San Francisco.
On the advice of Lonely Planet I sought out the famous Clarion Street alley graffiti. Disappointing people. I went to the southern end of the alley and the overwhelming stench of pee made it a really short visit. Plus the Grafiitti in the alleyways of Melbourne is much better – still I gave it a go.
I doubled back to Nob Hill for the last time to say my goodbyes to Cali – she was clearly crying on the inside to see me go. Assembled my 63 small bags and trekked over to Berkeley. So long San Francisco.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
No Alcatraz, instead a hippie trail head full of zombies
Hmmm. Tourist season strikes again. It seems you need to book ahead for the Alcatraz tour during the summer tour season – like at least a week in advance. Guess I’ll just hit the hippie trail to Haight Ashbury instead.
It’s been a long time since the summer of love in 1967, but the dope is still lingering in the air of Haight Ashbury. In many ways it’s a lot like Nimbin. A social microcosm that’s a hangover from the 1960s, complete with ageing long-hairs that refuse to grow up who are now siphoning money out of young kids keen to experience the ‘dream’ and middle-aged hipsters trying to regain their youth.
I’d been reading about Haight Ashbury in books, so was keen to experience it for myself. It’s the place to buy dope, incense, tie-dye and t-shirts about dope and incense that are tie-dyed. It’s also the sight of the postcard row of houses on Alamo Square that you might recognise from the 1980s cheese-ball American sitcom, Full House. They’re playing it again on GO at the moment. I loved it then, but now it just seems so lame. Bob Saget the dad, has built a parable for the young kids into every episode that’s so transparent, Jesse is just a Fonzie wannabe ‘Have Mercy’ sounds suspiciously like, “Heeey’ to me and uncle ‘Joey’ is not funny – just lame.
Still I took a few pictures, not because I’m a fan of Full House (anymore), but because I’m a sucker for American architecture.
That was one of the best parts of my time in LA – taking a tour of mid-century American architecture in LA. Just me, Laura, the tour guide and American architecture historian and a whole lotta great houses and buildings conceived and constructed in the 1940s with curved glass panels for walls that would be an engineering feat today, let alone back then. It was geeky, but Lou, you would have loved it. Highly recommend it.
As Steinbeck would write, my dogs is tar’d (my feet are tired).
Yesterday I walked from Marina across the Golden Gate Bridge (what a way to help conquer a fear of heights) and down to Sausalito for lunch. Yes, I walked. Most tourists drove or biked. Some even caught cabs from San Francisco, but on Nic’s advice, I walked. You get to see the detail of a place on foot – but boy do I have buns of steel now! All those hills!
I love the story that some architects moved in quickly and were able to inject some style into the Golden Gate Bridge before the city engineers built another functional concrete pylon structure. And I love that they painted it orange. Would so many postcards be sold of a grey concrete pylon structure? Would they sell as many t-shirts? I doubt it.
Sausalito is another great little town – a bit like the Bay areas own Carmel. It’s another icecream, souvenir t-shirt and art village. I don’t know about you, but it’s not often that I stop off the beaten track for an icecream and a good ‘vista’ as the Americans call it and think to myself, “Hey that $6,000 painting would look good at my place, think I’ll buy it”. I don’t know, do people buy art on impulse Bill?
It’s been a long time since the summer of love in 1967, but the dope is still lingering in the air of Haight Ashbury. In many ways it’s a lot like Nimbin. A social microcosm that’s a hangover from the 1960s, complete with ageing long-hairs that refuse to grow up who are now siphoning money out of young kids keen to experience the ‘dream’ and middle-aged hipsters trying to regain their youth.
I’d been reading about Haight Ashbury in books, so was keen to experience it for myself. It’s the place to buy dope, incense, tie-dye and t-shirts about dope and incense that are tie-dyed. It’s also the sight of the postcard row of houses on Alamo Square that you might recognise from the 1980s cheese-ball American sitcom, Full House. They’re playing it again on GO at the moment. I loved it then, but now it just seems so lame. Bob Saget the dad, has built a parable for the young kids into every episode that’s so transparent, Jesse is just a Fonzie wannabe ‘Have Mercy’ sounds suspiciously like, “Heeey’ to me and uncle ‘Joey’ is not funny – just lame.
Still I took a few pictures, not because I’m a fan of Full House (anymore), but because I’m a sucker for American architecture.
That was one of the best parts of my time in LA – taking a tour of mid-century American architecture in LA. Just me, Laura, the tour guide and American architecture historian and a whole lotta great houses and buildings conceived and constructed in the 1940s with curved glass panels for walls that would be an engineering feat today, let alone back then. It was geeky, but Lou, you would have loved it. Highly recommend it.
As Steinbeck would write, my dogs is tar’d (my feet are tired).
Yesterday I walked from Marina across the Golden Gate Bridge (what a way to help conquer a fear of heights) and down to Sausalito for lunch. Yes, I walked. Most tourists drove or biked. Some even caught cabs from San Francisco, but on Nic’s advice, I walked. You get to see the detail of a place on foot – but boy do I have buns of steel now! All those hills!
I love the story that some architects moved in quickly and were able to inject some style into the Golden Gate Bridge before the city engineers built another functional concrete pylon structure. And I love that they painted it orange. Would so many postcards be sold of a grey concrete pylon structure? Would they sell as many t-shirts? I doubt it.
Sausalito is another great little town – a bit like the Bay areas own Carmel. It’s another icecream, souvenir t-shirt and art village. I don’t know about you, but it’s not often that I stop off the beaten track for an icecream and a good ‘vista’ as the Americans call it and think to myself, “Hey that $6,000 painting would look good at my place, think I’ll buy it”. I don’t know, do people buy art on impulse Bill?
Monday, August 16, 2010
Give the fatties more syrup
I promised to write a more detailed reminiscence of lunch in Carmel – well here goes. Now remember the context of this lunch. It’s the weekend of the Concours D’Elegance and the little designer seaside town is packed with Ferrari families, the wannabes and me.
I sit at the counter of a little café just off the main street and wait patiently for my BLT and coke. It’s about 11.30 so really the ‘brunching hour’. There are two tables of at least two families traveling together sitting near me. One table for the adults, blonde fluffy haired moms from the mid-west (I think), and checkered shirt dads. The other table is piled with kids. Fatties too.
The helpful waitress attempts to take the fatties some glasses of water and is intercepted by a checkered shirt dad. “No, they don’t need waters” he answers on their behalf. The waters are diverted back to the kitchen.
Slowly their meals start arriving. Pancakes, showered in icing sugar, plates and plates of them, then piles of waffles showered with icing sugar. These are the kids meals and are deposited onto the counter so the fluffy-haired moms can cut them up for the little fatties. A checkered shirt dad starts using his hands, tearing up the food with his fingers into bite size pieces like he was feeding a dog. Then they grab the syrup and start drowning the food. The fatties wait patiently for the food to drop. One kid gets a meal that isn’t obviously pancakes or waffles. It’s a pile of food coated in syrup and icing sugar and piled about 25 cm high on the dinner plate. I ask the waiter what it is, he says it’s the ‘special’ French toast. It’s deep-fried French toast, drowned in syrup and icing sugar. The fatties devour the solid sugar and fat.
In Australia this might constitute child abuse and someone would call the authorities – in Carmel on a sunny Saturday morning, it’s called ‘brunch’. One of the older fatties is chowing into a plate of waffles, stops and says, “Mom, mom, I want more syrup”, “Oh here you go honey” the fatty further drowns the waffles in syrup and continues to shovel the sugar.
It's like watching a train wreck. I want to go over and sit closer so I can hear what they're talking about - I'm finding it hard not to stare. Ah Americana, I love you.
I sit at the counter of a little café just off the main street and wait patiently for my BLT and coke. It’s about 11.30 so really the ‘brunching hour’. There are two tables of at least two families traveling together sitting near me. One table for the adults, blonde fluffy haired moms from the mid-west (I think), and checkered shirt dads. The other table is piled with kids. Fatties too.
The helpful waitress attempts to take the fatties some glasses of water and is intercepted by a checkered shirt dad. “No, they don’t need waters” he answers on their behalf. The waters are diverted back to the kitchen.
Slowly their meals start arriving. Pancakes, showered in icing sugar, plates and plates of them, then piles of waffles showered with icing sugar. These are the kids meals and are deposited onto the counter so the fluffy-haired moms can cut them up for the little fatties. A checkered shirt dad starts using his hands, tearing up the food with his fingers into bite size pieces like he was feeding a dog. Then they grab the syrup and start drowning the food. The fatties wait patiently for the food to drop. One kid gets a meal that isn’t obviously pancakes or waffles. It’s a pile of food coated in syrup and icing sugar and piled about 25 cm high on the dinner plate. I ask the waiter what it is, he says it’s the ‘special’ French toast. It’s deep-fried French toast, drowned in syrup and icing sugar. The fatties devour the solid sugar and fat.
In Australia this might constitute child abuse and someone would call the authorities – in Carmel on a sunny Saturday morning, it’s called ‘brunch’. One of the older fatties is chowing into a plate of waffles, stops and says, “Mom, mom, I want more syrup”, “Oh here you go honey” the fatty further drowns the waffles in syrup and continues to shovel the sugar.
It's like watching a train wreck. I want to go over and sit closer so I can hear what they're talking about - I'm finding it hard not to stare. Ah Americana, I love you.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
All things bright and beautiful this morning!
I’m planning to head out to Alcatraz today, but I’ve just discovered that my camera battery is dead. So I have to hang around the apartment while I wait for it to charge. Callie is meowing outside the door. We’re becoming better friends, I let her run around in my room when Susan is home, but when Susan leaves Callie is out the door.
Yesterday was my first full day in San Fran, and I know don’t what I was so afraid of. Clearly my entrée to San Fran on day one was the worst possible side of the town to see, and the rest is just like it is in the movies. Lots of sandal wearing, organic food eating trendies, driving volkswagens.
I wandered around Nob Hill and found myself completely by accident at Lombard Street with a flock of tourists. I wasn’t ever planning on going to Lombard Street – a tourist attraction famous for traffic calming – but since I found it by accident I snapped off a few photos with the Japanese tourists.
From there I headed down the hill to North Beach and the bohemian/Italian heart of San Fran. Lots of good strong Italian coffee smells for a change as I wandered along Colombus Ave to City Lights Bookstore.
When I was about 17 I started reading the beat novels and poetry of Ginsberg, Kerouac, Kesey, Ferlinghetti and Wolfe. Fascinated by the beat movement the counter culture and the hippie movement that followed this free-thinking in the 1960s. Since I couldn’t make it back to the Arthur Miller library and I missed out on the Steinbeck Center – I was determined to spend a good long visit at City Lights bookstore.
For those who don’t know, it’s a bookstore originally owned by San Francisco beat poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti and was the first place to publish Allen Ginsberg’s disturbing portrait of his view of American society – Howl. When he first wrote it in 1956, publishers refused to publish it and it was banned on the grounds of obscenity and it flashed red alarm bells with McCarthy’s House of Un-American Activities.
Since then City Lights pioneered the cause of free speech in all its forms and was an important fixture in the history of the beat movement, helping to get authors like Jack Kerouac and Ken Kesey published.
So I sat in an old rocking chair in the poetry room up on the third floor and read Howl from beginning to end for the first time and a few excerpts of Off the Road, Carolyn Cassady’s accounts of life with Neal and Jack (or Dean and Sal as you may know them from On the Road).
I’m not rushing for anything or anyone anymore. If I miss something, so be it. I’m not going to lurch all over town trying to fit absolutely everything in.
I finally settled on a small gift for Ben (who is the only other person I know who would have appreciated City Lights as much as me), and a book of letters between Allen and Jack, oh and a bumper sticker that says ‘Howl if you heart City Lights’.
I slowly wandered back to the apartment, working my calf muscles to the bone. San Francisco is no place for heels! and had a little nap before heading out to Golden Gate Park for the Outside Lands Festival and Kings of Leon.
It took ages to get there. And at times I felt so hopelessly lost that I considered turning back. Thankfully I didn’t. A little over two hours after I set out, I arrived at the right part of Golden Gate Park for the festival, with about an hour to spare before Kings of Leon took the main stage.
It was pretty standard as far as festivals go, but I was surprised at the amount of stuff people brought with them – like blankets and backpacks full of gear, and I was surprised by the lax security. In a country where you’re allowed to own a gun, there were no metal detectors on entry and no pat downs. Just a general look inside my bag, in theory I could have had anything in there.
I bought a tiny glass of wine (soon realised why everyone else was drinking cups of beer), and found a spot in the grass to soak up the festival vibe until the gig started. Like in Melbourne, San Fran has twilight in summer so the sun only starts going down at around 8.30pm.
Kings of Leon took the stage at about 8pm and played a great set of old and new stuff. All the songs you know from the radio like Revelry, Sex on Fire, and Manhattan and some new stuff that sounded a little bit country and went down well with the crowd.
I left at the start of the last song in the finale keen to get a jump on the departing crowd. Ha! N, you have no idea where you’re going. I should have followed the crowd. But no. My best laid plans didn’t really work and I ended up walking about 35 blocks through the streets of San Francisco before I was able to hail a cab for the rest of the ride home. Lucky I needed the exercise.
So I’m all set for my excursion to Alcatraz if only the camera battery would hurry up and charge. I’m a little overdressed for sight-seeing but it’s cold and I’ve just dropped off all my clothes at the Wash ‘n’Go before I run out of underwear and am forced to wear my swimsuit.
Camera battery is green – we’re good to go.
Yesterday was my first full day in San Fran, and I know don’t what I was so afraid of. Clearly my entrée to San Fran on day one was the worst possible side of the town to see, and the rest is just like it is in the movies. Lots of sandal wearing, organic food eating trendies, driving volkswagens.
I wandered around Nob Hill and found myself completely by accident at Lombard Street with a flock of tourists. I wasn’t ever planning on going to Lombard Street – a tourist attraction famous for traffic calming – but since I found it by accident I snapped off a few photos with the Japanese tourists.
From there I headed down the hill to North Beach and the bohemian/Italian heart of San Fran. Lots of good strong Italian coffee smells for a change as I wandered along Colombus Ave to City Lights Bookstore.
When I was about 17 I started reading the beat novels and poetry of Ginsberg, Kerouac, Kesey, Ferlinghetti and Wolfe. Fascinated by the beat movement the counter culture and the hippie movement that followed this free-thinking in the 1960s. Since I couldn’t make it back to the Arthur Miller library and I missed out on the Steinbeck Center – I was determined to spend a good long visit at City Lights bookstore.
For those who don’t know, it’s a bookstore originally owned by San Francisco beat poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti and was the first place to publish Allen Ginsberg’s disturbing portrait of his view of American society – Howl. When he first wrote it in 1956, publishers refused to publish it and it was banned on the grounds of obscenity and it flashed red alarm bells with McCarthy’s House of Un-American Activities.
Since then City Lights pioneered the cause of free speech in all its forms and was an important fixture in the history of the beat movement, helping to get authors like Jack Kerouac and Ken Kesey published.
So I sat in an old rocking chair in the poetry room up on the third floor and read Howl from beginning to end for the first time and a few excerpts of Off the Road, Carolyn Cassady’s accounts of life with Neal and Jack (or Dean and Sal as you may know them from On the Road).
I’m not rushing for anything or anyone anymore. If I miss something, so be it. I’m not going to lurch all over town trying to fit absolutely everything in.
I finally settled on a small gift for Ben (who is the only other person I know who would have appreciated City Lights as much as me), and a book of letters between Allen and Jack, oh and a bumper sticker that says ‘Howl if you heart City Lights’.
I slowly wandered back to the apartment, working my calf muscles to the bone. San Francisco is no place for heels! and had a little nap before heading out to Golden Gate Park for the Outside Lands Festival and Kings of Leon.
It took ages to get there. And at times I felt so hopelessly lost that I considered turning back. Thankfully I didn’t. A little over two hours after I set out, I arrived at the right part of Golden Gate Park for the festival, with about an hour to spare before Kings of Leon took the main stage.
It was pretty standard as far as festivals go, but I was surprised at the amount of stuff people brought with them – like blankets and backpacks full of gear, and I was surprised by the lax security. In a country where you’re allowed to own a gun, there were no metal detectors on entry and no pat downs. Just a general look inside my bag, in theory I could have had anything in there.
I bought a tiny glass of wine (soon realised why everyone else was drinking cups of beer), and found a spot in the grass to soak up the festival vibe until the gig started. Like in Melbourne, San Fran has twilight in summer so the sun only starts going down at around 8.30pm.
Kings of Leon took the stage at about 8pm and played a great set of old and new stuff. All the songs you know from the radio like Revelry, Sex on Fire, and Manhattan and some new stuff that sounded a little bit country and went down well with the crowd.
I left at the start of the last song in the finale keen to get a jump on the departing crowd. Ha! N, you have no idea where you’re going. I should have followed the crowd. But no. My best laid plans didn’t really work and I ended up walking about 35 blocks through the streets of San Francisco before I was able to hail a cab for the rest of the ride home. Lucky I needed the exercise.
So I’m all set for my excursion to Alcatraz if only the camera battery would hurry up and charge. I’m a little overdressed for sight-seeing but it’s cold and I’ve just dropped off all my clothes at the Wash ‘n’Go before I run out of underwear and am forced to wear my swimsuit.
Camera battery is green – we’re good to go.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
If you're going to San Francisco arrive by sea
So I’m holed up in my room in Susan’s place on Nob Hill, San Fran, escaping Callie the friendly cat. I’m not a cat person. While Susan was here, I pretended I’d ‘make nice’ with Callie. Now that’s she’s gone – to cat sit a bunch of sick cats (lord, I hope this sick cat owner lives in a house and not an apartment!), Callie is out. Callie is brooding in the hallway, plotting how she’s going to pee in my suitcase the one day that I forget to close the door behind me. Callie is a likeable kind of cat – don’t get me wrong, I’m just not a cat person. Callie is some weird special cat – with a fat tail and six claws on each foot – Susan did tell me, but again, I’m not a cat person, so in one ear and out the other. I can never tell Susan that I have a blog – she’ll find out the truth, that cats and I don’t mix. Sorry Clear, you have all the cats you want. Just don’t ask me to cat sit or pat ‘em.
Apart from Callie the cat – and I knew Callie lived here when I signed up to stay – Susan’s place is nice. It’s an old apartment in Nob Hill and because it’s not a real B’n’B or anything it was a bit to get used to initially. The shower is interesting – as foreign showers always are. Lonely Planet needs a guidebook on foreign showers, everywhere you go they’re different with their own special quirks – don’t get me started on English ‘electric’ showers with dials! CRAP!
It’s been a long day ‘on the road’ pardon the pun. A day of ‘closed’ stuff, which has been a bit disappointing. Last night I went to the Arthur Miller library in Big Sur to a comedy music and Improv night which was great. It was outside in the yard of the library amongst the Redwoods. With twinkly fairy lights in the trees and travelers and locals milled around a little stage drinking free tea and coffe or harder stuff they’d brought themselves. The comedy singer was mildly amusing – but the improv guys were great. Hilarious, politically incorrect and just really damn talented. I could only stay for the first set as I had to head back to the lodge before it got really dark as the goat-track of a road was hairy enough to navigate in the light, let alone in the pitch black of the Big Sur night.
After my lame attempt at an open fire in the cabin overnight, I set off a little later this morning straight back to the Arthur Miller library to soak it all up properly, and the apparently free Wi-Fi. As I rounded the bend I was surprised not to see any cars – til I saw the sign – Closed. Sigh. If I had of known it would be closed on a Saturday I would have spent more time last night. Ah, back ‘on the road’ then. Disappointing.
I stopped in a little way past the lodge to use the free wi-fi at Redwoods. I’ve starting to become adept at scanning roadside signs for the words ‘free wi-fi’. And uploaded the first batch of blog entries and pics before heading back out on the winding road to Carmel.
Carmel is a kind of designer cute seaside town, and as the Concours D’elegance in on this weekend at Pebble Beach just up the road, the streets were lined with luxury sports cars. Guys , seriously this was drool worthy. I parked the Pony beside three Masarati’s all in a row! I almost took a flyer off the windscreen of a powder blue ‘56 model Porsche for sale for just $20K. I spent a few moments seriously thinking through the logistics of getting the cash together, freighting it over etc, etc, ‘til I of course realized, the steering wheel would be on the wrong side. Hmmmm. Plus, I don’t really need a powder blue vintage Porsche, do I? This is where you’re all supposed to reassure me that the Honda is a great and practical car. Practical. Humph.
I had a great counter lunch in Carmel which I’ll write about in more detail – hilarious. Carmel today attracted an even more designer crowd than usual. It was like all the worst stereotypical elements of Main Beach on Tedder Avenue, times a million. Lots of men with facelifts in Ferrari jackets, just in case we didn’t realize they owned the cars they were driving. Lots of women who marry men for their Ferraris and the wallets that buy them. Hilarious! I took lots of photos of the cars. In hindsight I should have snapped off a few shots of the owners, that would have been far more entertaining.
From Carmel it was off to Monterey, and Cannery Row, which was a disappointing line of t-shirt shops and souvenir joints. I did two laps in the car and didn’t even bother getting out. I had to press on to Salinas to the Steinbeck Center and then onto San Fran by 4pm to get the car back. I was pressed for time.
I haven’t read Tortilla Flat but I’m assuming it’s a reference to the farming lands of Salinas. Desert hills bound a series of fields that stretch out in every direction growing corn, berries, garlic and more. At least 60 years on, you can see the hard working heart of the place is unchanged. And the landscape too, save for the automalls and strip malls – the curse of the modern American landscape.
The people of Salinas look hardworking and it’s hard to spot anyone who isn’t Hispanic.
I roll towards the Steinbeck Center, the shiniest, newest, modern looking building in town. The only real drawcard on an otherwise pointless detour from Highway 101. I park the Pony and am overwhelmed by carloads of well dressed locals in their party gear, gents in shiny suits, ladies in their best dresses with curled hair and lots of little girls in leftover first communion dresses. Looks like it must be a wedding. They all ride down in the elevator with me from the carpark and we walk in the same direction towards the Steinbeck Center. Except they walk inside to the wedding reception as I take in the bad news. “Sorry folks, the whole center is closed today from 2pm for a private function”. Huh? On a Saturday? An American man ahead of me starts mouthing off at the absurdity of the situation – that he’s come such a long way to see the place. Not as far as me pal!
I’m really disappointed. I stand outside the front doors a bit dazed really. The Pony goes back tonight. No more car. No way of coming back another day. My one and only chance, if I had have known I could have come before 2pm. Again, disappointed.
Some more people approach the front door as I announce that it’s closed. They look around and ask if I’ve come a long way – from Australia I say. They commiserate for me, surprised that Steinbeck is popular in Australia too. It’s funny how Americans perceive us. The majority of them are so insular they just assume we are too.
I walked away from the center a bit choked up that I’d come all this way to find out more about one of my favourite authors only to be so disappointed. On Shane’s advice I was planning on buying a copy of the The Pearl from the gift shop and everything. Perhaps next time I’m 100 miles south of San Francisco I’ll call ahead to check they’re open and pop in.
I called in at an automall to buy an American phone since I couldn’t figure out how to use the payphone and called ahead to tell Susan and Dollar car rentals that I’d be late.
Driving into San Fran to drop the car off downtown is like arriving in Paris by train. You start to wonder how the legends of the beautiful city could possibly be true as all you see in every direction is poverty and the mean, grim streets they wish they could pack away from tourists. I got so concerned at one point, that I tried to put the hood up at the intersection, only for the lights to change quickly resulting in me driving a block with the hood half up, half down.
Everywhere I looked people sitting in doorways, pushing shopping trolleys of their possessions around. I’m talking 20 or more people on each side of every street. It was like the worst scenes of hard luck from the movies. It makes Redfern and Brixton look like genteel suburbs. It’s freaked me out a little.
I have a rough guide from Nicole of places to check out while I’m in San Fran, but I’m not really well prepared.
After the big day of driving, and my unfortunate entrée into San Fran I’m really in no mood to go exploring the local ‘hood for dinner. So I’ve eated an apricot flan thingy that Susan made for me and a cup of tea. Tomorrow I’ll get up bright and early, swallow a teaspoon of cement and tackle San Fran worts and all. Tonight I’m just a little scaredy cat – holed up in my room, avoiding Callie. Night night.
Apart from Callie the cat – and I knew Callie lived here when I signed up to stay – Susan’s place is nice. It’s an old apartment in Nob Hill and because it’s not a real B’n’B or anything it was a bit to get used to initially. The shower is interesting – as foreign showers always are. Lonely Planet needs a guidebook on foreign showers, everywhere you go they’re different with their own special quirks – don’t get me started on English ‘electric’ showers with dials! CRAP!
It’s been a long day ‘on the road’ pardon the pun. A day of ‘closed’ stuff, which has been a bit disappointing. Last night I went to the Arthur Miller library in Big Sur to a comedy music and Improv night which was great. It was outside in the yard of the library amongst the Redwoods. With twinkly fairy lights in the trees and travelers and locals milled around a little stage drinking free tea and coffe or harder stuff they’d brought themselves. The comedy singer was mildly amusing – but the improv guys were great. Hilarious, politically incorrect and just really damn talented. I could only stay for the first set as I had to head back to the lodge before it got really dark as the goat-track of a road was hairy enough to navigate in the light, let alone in the pitch black of the Big Sur night.
After my lame attempt at an open fire in the cabin overnight, I set off a little later this morning straight back to the Arthur Miller library to soak it all up properly, and the apparently free Wi-Fi. As I rounded the bend I was surprised not to see any cars – til I saw the sign – Closed. Sigh. If I had of known it would be closed on a Saturday I would have spent more time last night. Ah, back ‘on the road’ then. Disappointing.
I stopped in a little way past the lodge to use the free wi-fi at Redwoods. I’ve starting to become adept at scanning roadside signs for the words ‘free wi-fi’. And uploaded the first batch of blog entries and pics before heading back out on the winding road to Carmel.
Carmel is a kind of designer cute seaside town, and as the Concours D’elegance in on this weekend at Pebble Beach just up the road, the streets were lined with luxury sports cars. Guys , seriously this was drool worthy. I parked the Pony beside three Masarati’s all in a row! I almost took a flyer off the windscreen of a powder blue ‘56 model Porsche for sale for just $20K. I spent a few moments seriously thinking through the logistics of getting the cash together, freighting it over etc, etc, ‘til I of course realized, the steering wheel would be on the wrong side. Hmmmm. Plus, I don’t really need a powder blue vintage Porsche, do I? This is where you’re all supposed to reassure me that the Honda is a great and practical car. Practical. Humph.
I had a great counter lunch in Carmel which I’ll write about in more detail – hilarious. Carmel today attracted an even more designer crowd than usual. It was like all the worst stereotypical elements of Main Beach on Tedder Avenue, times a million. Lots of men with facelifts in Ferrari jackets, just in case we didn’t realize they owned the cars they were driving. Lots of women who marry men for their Ferraris and the wallets that buy them. Hilarious! I took lots of photos of the cars. In hindsight I should have snapped off a few shots of the owners, that would have been far more entertaining.
From Carmel it was off to Monterey, and Cannery Row, which was a disappointing line of t-shirt shops and souvenir joints. I did two laps in the car and didn’t even bother getting out. I had to press on to Salinas to the Steinbeck Center and then onto San Fran by 4pm to get the car back. I was pressed for time.
I haven’t read Tortilla Flat but I’m assuming it’s a reference to the farming lands of Salinas. Desert hills bound a series of fields that stretch out in every direction growing corn, berries, garlic and more. At least 60 years on, you can see the hard working heart of the place is unchanged. And the landscape too, save for the automalls and strip malls – the curse of the modern American landscape.
The people of Salinas look hardworking and it’s hard to spot anyone who isn’t Hispanic.
I roll towards the Steinbeck Center, the shiniest, newest, modern looking building in town. The only real drawcard on an otherwise pointless detour from Highway 101. I park the Pony and am overwhelmed by carloads of well dressed locals in their party gear, gents in shiny suits, ladies in their best dresses with curled hair and lots of little girls in leftover first communion dresses. Looks like it must be a wedding. They all ride down in the elevator with me from the carpark and we walk in the same direction towards the Steinbeck Center. Except they walk inside to the wedding reception as I take in the bad news. “Sorry folks, the whole center is closed today from 2pm for a private function”. Huh? On a Saturday? An American man ahead of me starts mouthing off at the absurdity of the situation – that he’s come such a long way to see the place. Not as far as me pal!
I’m really disappointed. I stand outside the front doors a bit dazed really. The Pony goes back tonight. No more car. No way of coming back another day. My one and only chance, if I had have known I could have come before 2pm. Again, disappointed.
Some more people approach the front door as I announce that it’s closed. They look around and ask if I’ve come a long way – from Australia I say. They commiserate for me, surprised that Steinbeck is popular in Australia too. It’s funny how Americans perceive us. The majority of them are so insular they just assume we are too.
I walked away from the center a bit choked up that I’d come all this way to find out more about one of my favourite authors only to be so disappointed. On Shane’s advice I was planning on buying a copy of the The Pearl from the gift shop and everything. Perhaps next time I’m 100 miles south of San Francisco I’ll call ahead to check they’re open and pop in.
I called in at an automall to buy an American phone since I couldn’t figure out how to use the payphone and called ahead to tell Susan and Dollar car rentals that I’d be late.
Driving into San Fran to drop the car off downtown is like arriving in Paris by train. You start to wonder how the legends of the beautiful city could possibly be true as all you see in every direction is poverty and the mean, grim streets they wish they could pack away from tourists. I got so concerned at one point, that I tried to put the hood up at the intersection, only for the lights to change quickly resulting in me driving a block with the hood half up, half down.
Everywhere I looked people sitting in doorways, pushing shopping trolleys of their possessions around. I’m talking 20 or more people on each side of every street. It was like the worst scenes of hard luck from the movies. It makes Redfern and Brixton look like genteel suburbs. It’s freaked me out a little.
I have a rough guide from Nicole of places to check out while I’m in San Fran, but I’m not really well prepared.
After the big day of driving, and my unfortunate entrée into San Fran I’m really in no mood to go exploring the local ‘hood for dinner. So I’ve eated an apricot flan thingy that Susan made for me and a cup of tea. Tomorrow I’ll get up bright and early, swallow a teaspoon of cement and tackle San Fran worts and all. Tonight I’m just a little scaredy cat – holed up in my room, avoiding Callie. Night night.
All windswept and interesting
I was not sorry to be leaving LA. I edged the pony onto Sunset just after 7am ready for the big road trip. I had carefully punched the destination into the Sat Nav and was quickly on my way – to the freeway? Hmmm. Perhaps that’s just for the first 20 miles, then you hit the coast road. Hmmm, another 27 miles of freeway? Hmmm. This isn’t looking like the rollicking road trip I thought it would be. More like six lanes of traffic in each direction zooming with purpose. There are no fellow laconic travelers on this route. It took a while to realize Sat Nav was being efficient – not fun.
So I missed Malibu and a bunch of other small seaside towns, until I stopped at a gas station and bought a map! You know, those old fashioned pieces of paper that show a whole variety of potential journeys within a given geographical area. If only I’d had one of these antiques from the start – I could have avoided a tense hour on the LA freeways.
My mistrust of the Sat Nav grew. For the remainder of the day I purposefully ignored it’s commands with reckless abandon. I ended up driving the wrong way down a one way street in Santa Barbara (where I had breakfast), but the helpful locals shouted unintelligibly at me, so I figured it out just in the nick of time to swerve across three lanes of traffic headed in the wrong direction and right my course. It was early, not many people around in Santa Barbara at that time of day.
The main event, was a stretch of windy road between Cambria and Big Sur. Cambria was a cutesy little tourist village, a bit like Tambo, with lots of little antique shops. If only I had a shipping container handy I could have cleared out the village, shipped it over to OZ and opened a shop selling the gear at twice what I paid – so cheap. I looked longingly at two large turquoise lamps and imagined collecting them from the Pack and Send in Albion smashed to pieces. And so left them behind.
I really let 'the Pony' fly today. Consistently 20 miles over the speed limit until the roads got goat-track windy. I was almost hoping I’d get pulled over by the cops, just for the experience. But alas, no such adventure.
Intrigued by the Hearsts, mostly for the Patty – Charles Manson - Stockholm Syndrome connection – which lets face it is almost what makes them more famous now than Randolph's the billion dollar newspaper empire, I considered visiting Hearst Castle. Except a million travelers had the same idea and it’s one of those - park miles away, then pay us some money and we’ll bus you to the castle so you can’t get so much as a photo of the outside for free. No thanks.
Lucky I didn’t. Although I’d made good time flying along the flat roads, the goat track that took me to Big Sur was beautiful but the twists and turns made it a long journey. Dad, the road reminded me of that Lucille Ball movie The Long, Long Trailer – I’m sure they filmed it along there.
So I spent a glorious Friday afternoon zooming through the twists and turns in the pony, top down, wind in my hair, and my mouth, stereo blaring the Beach Boys and other trip appropriate American classics. I did briefly think about the girls at work, and Fridays in the office, and then I stepped on the accelerator and took off. Very liberating.
I am now developing a convertible tan.
So I missed Malibu and a bunch of other small seaside towns, until I stopped at a gas station and bought a map! You know, those old fashioned pieces of paper that show a whole variety of potential journeys within a given geographical area. If only I’d had one of these antiques from the start – I could have avoided a tense hour on the LA freeways.
My mistrust of the Sat Nav grew. For the remainder of the day I purposefully ignored it’s commands with reckless abandon. I ended up driving the wrong way down a one way street in Santa Barbara (where I had breakfast), but the helpful locals shouted unintelligibly at me, so I figured it out just in the nick of time to swerve across three lanes of traffic headed in the wrong direction and right my course. It was early, not many people around in Santa Barbara at that time of day.
The main event, was a stretch of windy road between Cambria and Big Sur. Cambria was a cutesy little tourist village, a bit like Tambo, with lots of little antique shops. If only I had a shipping container handy I could have cleared out the village, shipped it over to OZ and opened a shop selling the gear at twice what I paid – so cheap. I looked longingly at two large turquoise lamps and imagined collecting them from the Pack and Send in Albion smashed to pieces. And so left them behind.
I really let 'the Pony' fly today. Consistently 20 miles over the speed limit until the roads got goat-track windy. I was almost hoping I’d get pulled over by the cops, just for the experience. But alas, no such adventure.
Intrigued by the Hearsts, mostly for the Patty – Charles Manson - Stockholm Syndrome connection – which lets face it is almost what makes them more famous now than Randolph's the billion dollar newspaper empire, I considered visiting Hearst Castle. Except a million travelers had the same idea and it’s one of those - park miles away, then pay us some money and we’ll bus you to the castle so you can’t get so much as a photo of the outside for free. No thanks.
Lucky I didn’t. Although I’d made good time flying along the flat roads, the goat track that took me to Big Sur was beautiful but the twists and turns made it a long journey. Dad, the road reminded me of that Lucille Ball movie The Long, Long Trailer – I’m sure they filmed it along there.
So I spent a glorious Friday afternoon zooming through the twists and turns in the pony, top down, wind in my hair, and my mouth, stereo blaring the Beach Boys and other trip appropriate American classics. I did briefly think about the girls at work, and Fridays in the office, and then I stepped on the accelerator and took off. Very liberating.
I am now developing a convertible tan.
Rodeo Drive Baby
I just had to walk into ‘The shop’, Stuart Weitzman’s where Julia Robert’s character goes to buy clothes and gets turned away because of how she’s dressed. I was hoping no one would attend to me so I could recite the famous speech, “I have money to spend here (a lie) , you work on commission right?” “Big mistake, HUGE, I have to shop now”. But they didn’t ignore me. I bet they get a lot of people preparing the speech, they probably pounce on everyone as they walk through the doors to save themselves the grief.
So I sauntered into Tiffanys, and Prada and Dior (where I had a lovely chat with the sales assistant), and Jimmy Choo (where I would have tried on a lovely pair of red peep toe sandals if it wasn’t for my manky, infected toe), and got lost in the maze of rooms in Ralph Lauren. But Harry Winston was the best.
I casually pushed open the door and waltzed on in, looking at the enormous diamonds and rubies and Sapphires. Said a gracious hello to the salespeople, the usual drill. Then the salesman says, “You look really familiar”. Who me? “You’ve shopped with us before?”. Hmmm, let me think about that, have I recently been buying jewelry at Harry Winston’s on Rodeo Drive that costs more than my apartment? Uh, hmmm, let me think, I have been busy, could it have just slipped my mind?….Ah no. “No, you must have me confused with someone else”. “Ah ok, you have a familiar looking face”. More than a bit chuffed with myself at that moment. Today, I looked like a Harry Winston shopper. It was my very own Pretty Woman moment!
I hopped back in the Pony and headed out to Santa Monica followed by dinner in Venice. If you have to live in the Greater Los Angeles area, these are the places to be. I ate a pretzel cheese burger for dinner tonight at a funky little place in Venice washed down with the ubitquitous Coke. A pretzel burgers sounds Americanly gross but was actually quite delicious.
So I sauntered into Tiffanys, and Prada and Dior (where I had a lovely chat with the sales assistant), and Jimmy Choo (where I would have tried on a lovely pair of red peep toe sandals if it wasn’t for my manky, infected toe), and got lost in the maze of rooms in Ralph Lauren. But Harry Winston was the best.
I casually pushed open the door and waltzed on in, looking at the enormous diamonds and rubies and Sapphires. Said a gracious hello to the salespeople, the usual drill. Then the salesman says, “You look really familiar”. Who me? “You’ve shopped with us before?”. Hmmm, let me think about that, have I recently been buying jewelry at Harry Winston’s on Rodeo Drive that costs more than my apartment? Uh, hmmm, let me think, I have been busy, could it have just slipped my mind?….Ah no. “No, you must have me confused with someone else”. “Ah ok, you have a familiar looking face”. More than a bit chuffed with myself at that moment. Today, I looked like a Harry Winston shopper. It was my very own Pretty Woman moment!
I hopped back in the Pony and headed out to Santa Monica followed by dinner in Venice. If you have to live in the Greater Los Angeles area, these are the places to be. I ate a pretzel cheese burger for dinner tonight at a funky little place in Venice washed down with the ubitquitous Coke. A pretzel burgers sounds Americanly gross but was actually quite delicious.
La La...Blah
Everyone says it’s disappointing. They’re right. If I was 10 it might be fun. But really, most of LA is a hole. Hollywood is a hole. Grauman’s Chinese Theatre is nothing special, the Kodak Theatre reminds me of that Mall in Surfers where the Landowne Road is. Again. nothing special.
I’m staying off Sunset Boulevard in amongst the hustlers and the hookers. The ten minutes that I waited in Denny’s to get my dinner 'to go' was hilarious. Hooker sneaks past me to use the bathroom while the lady at the counter is distracted, Hooker smiles because she knows she’s not entitled to use the patron only rest room. Young bloke brings homeless guy in with homeless guy leaning on young guy's shoulders and shuffling behind him, like a sad conga line. They don’t appear to know each other. Young guy drops homeless guy off at the front seat where he remains belly-aching until he sees a well-dressed friend dining in Denny’s who he curses at for apparently thinking he was dead or gone or both. Well dressed guy takes over from the young guy and shuffles homeless guy into the bathroom the same way he entered Denny’s. Well-dressed guy emerges from bathroom, homeless guy does not. Much swearing and cursing emanates from the bathroom. My dinner arrives and the show’s over.
PS. Took a tour of Paramount Pictures today – it was great. No rides, no gimmicks, just a golf cart and real working studio and information. Saw Chevvy Chase as he’s filming a new sitcom called Community about a down and out Community College.
I’m staying off Sunset Boulevard in amongst the hustlers and the hookers. The ten minutes that I waited in Denny’s to get my dinner 'to go' was hilarious. Hooker sneaks past me to use the bathroom while the lady at the counter is distracted, Hooker smiles because she knows she’s not entitled to use the patron only rest room. Young bloke brings homeless guy in with homeless guy leaning on young guy's shoulders and shuffling behind him, like a sad conga line. They don’t appear to know each other. Young guy drops homeless guy off at the front seat where he remains belly-aching until he sees a well-dressed friend dining in Denny’s who he curses at for apparently thinking he was dead or gone or both. Well dressed guy takes over from the young guy and shuffles homeless guy into the bathroom the same way he entered Denny’s. Well-dressed guy emerges from bathroom, homeless guy does not. Much swearing and cursing emanates from the bathroom. My dinner arrives and the show’s over.
PS. Took a tour of Paramount Pictures today – it was great. No rides, no gimmicks, just a golf cart and real working studio and information. Saw Chevvy Chase as he’s filming a new sitcom called Community about a down and out Community College.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Buy me (scratch that) rent me a Pony
I’d had my heart set on a Mustang. This is a blog about a classic American adventure. I’m driving one of the world’s greatest classic road trips – Highway One from LA to San Fran via Big Sur. I needed the classic America convertible to complete the trip. I needed a Mustang.
The ladies at Dollar Car Rental saw me coming. I thought it was all a done deal, I’d pre-paid over the internet, I had my voucher, I was ready to go. But during the check-in process, she asked me, “so you want to be fully covered, right?” There is only one answer to that question at 7am when you’ve just stepped off a 12 hour flight and are staring down the barrel of launching yourself onto a freeway, sleep deprived, on the other side of the road. “Yes, of course”. That answer cost me the best part of an extra 200 bucks. “But I thought the insurance was included???” , “That was just the basic cover, you want to make sure you’re covered if the car breaks down, etc”. Ah, goodbye 200 bucks, nice knowing ya!
Paperwork, forms, details, chit chat about how I look nothing like my passport photo or my driver’s license, lengthy discussions about which hair cut of mine she prefers (she likes the short hair version, but agrees I can pull off a variety of styles), c’mon lady, cut to the chase, what kind of car have I got?
“So, what kind of car have I got, I’d really like a Mustang”. “You like the Mustang ha?” What does that mean? That’s not answering the question. This is going to be a Chrysler or something worse, like and Infiniti or something, I just know it.
“So just go out to the garage at the right and choose a car from section T”. I wheel my suitcase into the garage and saunter over to section T. Five Mustangs all in a row. Niiiiiiicccccce. No Chryslers within Coooeee of the garage.
Blue with black roof, silver with black roof, silver with tan roof, black with tan roof or black with black roof. The helpful garage man asks me if I need any help, “which one’s the best”, he looks at me oddly, “There all the same car, lady”. So I take black on black and jump behind the wheel.
Several minutes of fiddling and asking the helpful garage man ensue while I work out how to take the top down etc. Then I do a practice lap of the garage, before unleashing the beast on the streets.
Thank you God for giving us Sat Nav. I love the lady who guides me patiently around LA and then recalculates the journey when I miss the turn off on the Freeway (because I’m driving at 65 miles an hour in a foreign place).
The driving has not been as hard as I thought, although I haven’t graduated to listening to music while driving yet, that is tomorrow’s adventure.
I love the Pony. It’s cheesy as hell and I get lots of interesting looks when I pull up at the lights in my black beast, wearing my jaunty straw trilby. I love it. It’s so much fun.
If you ever find yourself in LA – rent a pony and go for a ride.
The ladies at Dollar Car Rental saw me coming. I thought it was all a done deal, I’d pre-paid over the internet, I had my voucher, I was ready to go. But during the check-in process, she asked me, “so you want to be fully covered, right?” There is only one answer to that question at 7am when you’ve just stepped off a 12 hour flight and are staring down the barrel of launching yourself onto a freeway, sleep deprived, on the other side of the road. “Yes, of course”. That answer cost me the best part of an extra 200 bucks. “But I thought the insurance was included???” , “That was just the basic cover, you want to make sure you’re covered if the car breaks down, etc”. Ah, goodbye 200 bucks, nice knowing ya!
Paperwork, forms, details, chit chat about how I look nothing like my passport photo or my driver’s license, lengthy discussions about which hair cut of mine she prefers (she likes the short hair version, but agrees I can pull off a variety of styles), c’mon lady, cut to the chase, what kind of car have I got?
“So, what kind of car have I got, I’d really like a Mustang”. “You like the Mustang ha?” What does that mean? That’s not answering the question. This is going to be a Chrysler or something worse, like and Infiniti or something, I just know it.
“So just go out to the garage at the right and choose a car from section T”. I wheel my suitcase into the garage and saunter over to section T. Five Mustangs all in a row. Niiiiiiicccccce. No Chryslers within Coooeee of the garage.
Blue with black roof, silver with black roof, silver with tan roof, black with tan roof or black with black roof. The helpful garage man asks me if I need any help, “which one’s the best”, he looks at me oddly, “There all the same car, lady”. So I take black on black and jump behind the wheel.
Several minutes of fiddling and asking the helpful garage man ensue while I work out how to take the top down etc. Then I do a practice lap of the garage, before unleashing the beast on the streets.
Thank you God for giving us Sat Nav. I love the lady who guides me patiently around LA and then recalculates the journey when I miss the turn off on the Freeway (because I’m driving at 65 miles an hour in a foreign place).
The driving has not been as hard as I thought, although I haven’t graduated to listening to music while driving yet, that is tomorrow’s adventure.
I love the Pony. It’s cheesy as hell and I get lots of interesting looks when I pull up at the lights in my black beast, wearing my jaunty straw trilby. I love it. It’s so much fun.
If you ever find yourself in LA – rent a pony and go for a ride.
Come fly with me...
12 hours is a long time to be stuck in a middle seat. Between two strangers. Especially when aisle guy, Ryan, has no trouble sleeping. Darn him and his checkered shirt. If only he knew how I longed to go to toilet while he snored away in his seat. That bugged me too. He was at least six feet tall and seemed perfectly comfortable snoozing away for the best part of six hours. Meanwhile all five feet of me was wriggling and squirming and trying to get comfy and desperately trying to sleep. For what? A sum total of 45 mins shut-eye! It’s not fair! I had comfy socks, and a warm hoodie, ear plugs, neck pillow – I had all the gear, and still no sleep.
As far as seat mates go, Ryan and Ross were pretty good. Ryan was from Melbourne, judging from his hands I think he works with cars, and was flying to Virginia to visit his girlfriend and her parents.
I thought I had was a sure thing for 'best trip planned award' but my other seat mate, Ross from Wellington took out that one. He was going to Aruba and a bunch of other places I recognised as lines from the song Kokomo to buy a fire-sale yacht. He had the cash all ready to go and was basically going to spend a few weeks kicking tyres (or whatever the nautical equivalent is) at Marinas hoping to scoop a bargain. Ross was cool, he owns and runs an antique store slash second hand book shop in New Zealand – now doesn’t that sound like a man with his priorities all in the right order?
As far as seat mates go, Ryan and Ross were pretty good. Ryan was from Melbourne, judging from his hands I think he works with cars, and was flying to Virginia to visit his girlfriend and her parents.
I thought I had was a sure thing for 'best trip planned award' but my other seat mate, Ross from Wellington took out that one. He was going to Aruba and a bunch of other places I recognised as lines from the song Kokomo to buy a fire-sale yacht. He had the cash all ready to go and was basically going to spend a few weeks kicking tyres (or whatever the nautical equivalent is) at Marinas hoping to scoop a bargain. Ross was cool, he owns and runs an antique store slash second hand book shop in New Zealand – now doesn’t that sound like a man with his priorities all in the right order?
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
One sleep to go...
If I’d collected a dollar from every well-wisher who’d said, “you must be excited about your trip” in the last six weeks, I could be traveling first class instead of ‘cattle’. The truth is – right now I’m a wee bit scared. Ow, who am I kiddin’, with less than 24 hours to go, I’m closer to terrified.
The bravado of the last six months is quickly eroding and revealing a big ol’ scaredy cat. What am I scared of most? Arriving bleary eyed in LA and jumping straight behind the wheel of car and hitting the freeway. I can do it – right? I’ll be fine once I get going – starting is the hardest part of anything, don’t you think? Worst-case scenario – I’m insured up to my eyeballs.
I do hope the good folks at Dollar Car Rentals have a red Mustang convertible waiting for me. Somehow I suspect ‘Mustang or similar’ will more than likely turn out to be a pea green Chrysler or something equally pedestrian, and blaring the Beach Boys “I wish they all could be California girls’ out of the stereo on Hollywood Boulevard won’t be nearly as much fun as I am anticipating. Should I casually insinuate that I’m a well-respected travel journo from Oz or a little-known soap star? Hmmm. 7.10pm, how much longer ‘til Packed to the Rafters? Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting.
PS – today I turned the tables on tiny black Sam (sontite) with wheels that spin in every direction – and bought a bigger backpack. Ha, take that, packing challenge! ‘all my bags are packed, I’m ready to go…’ C’mon sing it with me…
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Defeated by a tiny black Samsonite
It was never going to be easy to pack everything I needed for six weeks into a 55cm Samsonite and little backpack - and I'm super nerdy when it comes to packing. Not only do I roll everything, I then vacuum seal my clothes to squish all the air out.
But even so, there were plenty of detractors who said it couldn't be done. It kills me to admit that maybe they were right?
It's 3.17pm and I've been defeated by a tiny black Samsonite with wheels that spin in every direction. No matter how much I wish it and will it, the darned travel hairdryer, straighteners, heels and towel won't fit.
Could I live without the hairdryer for six weeks? No. Could I live without the heels - maybe, but it's not worth the risk. I cannot and will not live without the straighteners.
So this leaves me with the old red 65cm Samsonite. An old and slightly battered suitcase that looks so cavernous by comparison. When I dump everything into old red - there's so much superfluous space - it seems such a waste - so much air to carry around.
I'm suspicious of old red. This suitcase hasn't exactly been the 'world proof' legend the marketing hype would have you believe.
First there was the 'zipper' incident on old red's maiden voyage back in 2002. It was 7.30am and I was all packed and ready to head off on my own to London when the zipper jammed. Fortunately Cat had come over to the Willoughby flat to see me off at the airport and carefully caressed the zipper away from the suitcase lining during a tense 15 minutes while I puffed away on my fifth cigarette of the morning. Just 24 hours later the wheels buckled at Picadilly Station and I was forced to carry old red down the stairs to the tube, straining under the weight of the backpack already strapped to my back.
Old red has a chequered past - is it worth the risk?
But even so, there were plenty of detractors who said it couldn't be done. It kills me to admit that maybe they were right?
It's 3.17pm and I've been defeated by a tiny black Samsonite with wheels that spin in every direction. No matter how much I wish it and will it, the darned travel hairdryer, straighteners, heels and towel won't fit.
Could I live without the hairdryer for six weeks? No. Could I live without the heels - maybe, but it's not worth the risk. I cannot and will not live without the straighteners.
So this leaves me with the old red 65cm Samsonite. An old and slightly battered suitcase that looks so cavernous by comparison. When I dump everything into old red - there's so much superfluous space - it seems such a waste - so much air to carry around.
I'm suspicious of old red. This suitcase hasn't exactly been the 'world proof' legend the marketing hype would have you believe.
First there was the 'zipper' incident on old red's maiden voyage back in 2002. It was 7.30am and I was all packed and ready to head off on my own to London when the zipper jammed. Fortunately Cat had come over to the Willoughby flat to see me off at the airport and carefully caressed the zipper away from the suitcase lining during a tense 15 minutes while I puffed away on my fifth cigarette of the morning. Just 24 hours later the wheels buckled at Picadilly Station and I was forced to carry old red down the stairs to the tube, straining under the weight of the backpack already strapped to my back.
Old red has a chequered past - is it worth the risk?
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Eight sleeps to go...
- Passport, with photo taken when I was 21, blonde and hungover, that bears absolutely no resemblance to what I look like now – CHECK.
- Ambitiously small bag in which I plan to expertly pack everything I will need (and at least five kilos of junk I won’t need) for the next six weeks – CHECK.
- A medicore recollection of high school French that I plan to whip out in Montreal and dazzle local Francophiles with – CHECK.
- An intimate knowledge of everything you could ever need to know about American culture, gained exclusively from a diet of Donahue, Oprah, Ricki Lake and Jerry Springer – CHECK.
- Unrealistic expectations of my own abilities to drive on the wrong (yes it is wrong, and we’re right) side of the road – and read maps for that matter – CHECK.
- Burning desire to experience the new – CHECK.
So I think that’s pretty much everything – one day of work to go. YIPPPEEEE!
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