Australia’s East Coast is a virtual wonderland of beach towns. From small, sleepy little hamlets to glitzy, designer promenades, the Coast is rife with a beach community for even the toughest of customers.
I stopped in Byron Bay (in the northern part of New South Wales, Byron is the easternmost point on Australia's coastline) with Simon for a quick overnight, most of which I slept through. However, on the return, I found Byron to be a funky little town, full of bohemian ideals and hippie culture against an absolutely breathtaking beach backdrop. A backpackers wet dream, 100% surfer's haven with lessons being given by leather-faced pros on every stretch of beach imaginable, Byron Bay was a great few days. To start, the whole place runs on the anti-philosophy of No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service. Here, in Byron, it’s all about barefoot, shirtless service. Flip-flops were a practical luxury item. In Byron, everyone shed all conventions and I went along with the craze, tucking my Haviannas into my day bag for the duration. In addition, as I made my way through the maze of streets lined with bazaar-like stores filled with trinkets from dark corners of Asia, stores sporting frangipani incenses, tuberose oils, Thai fisherman pants, Indian tunics,Vietnamese silk skirts, golden Buddha heads and silver ankle bracelets, I was hard pressed to find a store actually open on a sunny afternoon. Signs hung gently in the windows, swaying from the recent posting that read: “Be back in 10 minutes.” Most of the shopkeepers were “sneaking a wave” when the surf provided. And, 10 minutes usually meant an hour plus. When I did find an open store, sunny day or otherwise, the shopkeepers usually had a beer or a glass of Shiraz in hand, as they threw a “How you going, mate? Can I help?” my way. Laid back is an understatement. But, it worked here.
The folks in Byron embraced the charm of the place, preferring and asserting individuality in all fashions, starting with dress -- polka dot top hats, Raggedy Ann knee socks, layered tulle skirts, koolats for men, floral patterned daisy dukes, and wrist warmers (in 90 degree weather, mind you…). The only cohesive body decorations seemed to be dredlocks, tattoos, and of course, piercings. But, the bent toward being unique extended far beyond frock. The creative arts were alive and well in Byron. Art galleries peppered the place; my own hotel room had the work of three different artists’ for sale. Entrepreneurs sat in closed doorways after hours, selling beaded necklaces, handmade wind chimes and homemade soaps. Street performers were everywhere: mock cover bands plugged into street outlets – 4 guys, no rhythm – belting everything from Billie Jean, the jazz version, to Will She Be Loved by Maroon 5 to Motown. Lone guitar players sat idly at every corner, top hat at the ready for an extra dollar. All had weird little voices, but crowds were large, generous and boisterously involved. (This has happened everywhere – these horrible Aussie bands of 1-5 guys. I think it occurs, and endures, because Aussies have too many drinks to realize how horrible it all really is by the time the singing urchins come out to play. Hence, it turns out to be a bonafide blast. So, really…what’s the harm, eh?) Add to the singers, contortionists, magicians, kids riding unicycles while juggling, and one over-40-year-old-man dressed in a yellow leotard with red wings. A human chicken, he clucked and pecked until you gave him a tip. At which point, he looked up to the heavens and let out a whopping “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Welcome to Byron Bay.
Farther up, closer to Brisbaine on Queensland’s Gold Coast, there is an actual place called Surfers Paradise. I know, right? A marketing strategy from inception. It’s Australia’s answer to Florida, almost frozen in time circa 1975 when the plastic slatted loungers at dodgy looking tiled pools of pastel-colored high-rise communities and hotels were in Floridian vogue. Makeshift carnivals line the boardwalk and casinos lurk behind every doorway; Surfer’s Paradise, to me, was stuck in that Jersey Shore-esque, early Miami Beach time warp. Restaurants with names like Pancakes in Paradise and Surfer’s Seafood Lovers were plentiful. I noticed many a Red Lobster, McDonalds, Hungry Jacks (Australian Burger King), and Subways, along the Strip. The only addition that I found that brought the place current was the influx of designer boutiques to cater to an upper echelon of visitor (though most I met in Sydney that would fit the demographic advised me AGAINST coming to Surfers Paradise in the first place): Ralph Lauren, Hermes, Louis Vuitton, Gucci. But, overall, Surfers Paradise, I felt, could use one big face-lift. A little north of Surfers was a smaller town called Southport that might be considered the South Beach of the Gold Coast, housing some ritzier hotels, restaurants and shops. Here is where Donatella Versace has decided to try her hand at being a hotelier. Why HERE? I’m not sure. But, it didn’t seemingly stop me from booking a room for the night. Unremarkable, except I remember A LOT of gold. A lot of overdone, cluttered ugly-ass patterns on china, throw pillows, lobby lounge chair fabric, and tablecloths. And a lot of those Versace/Medusa-hair inspired heads embossed on everything from towels to sheets to the room pencils. BUT, the saving grace of Surfers, Southport and the Gold Coast is the beaches. If for no other reason, the Gold Coast should be a stop on everyone’s tour circuit around Australia. They’re absolutely amazing, expansive and pristine perfect beaches that weren’t crowded, eroded, or polluted. But…a quick stop only. I hightailed it back to Byron the next morning, removing my own gold necklace if but for just the afternoon.
I’m on my way north to Cairns, Port Douglas, Cape Tribulation and the Great Barrier Reef. More soon…
xo
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Simon Says...
At 7:20 AM, Sarah and I awoke startled as my phone rang. Simon the Stranger. Downstairs. “You don’t have a big bag, right? I’ve got my bike in the back.” Uh, now you tell me…? Scraping the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes, we wheeled me down to meet Simon. “Ah, he looks lovely,” remarked Sarah from afar. Ok, sure. Temporary big goodbyes to Sarah (she’ll meet me in Melbourne and I might come back to Sydney for Australia Day (equivalent of July 4th – yeah, I’m a bit hooked), I focused back to my driving partner. Pleasantries exchanged, Simon and I set off in his black hatchback. (I don’t know what he was worried about, the bag fit beautifully…)
After peripheral small talk, I started to wonder how should one act on a 9-hour road trip with a stranger? On no sleep. My biggest road trips were to and from Michigan with Lukoff where I rationed her Snapple to avoid abundant pee breaks (the girl’s got a bladder…and while I wasn’t tolerant of frequent urinators then, I’ve started to soften). With Jen, we’d take turns driving, playing DJ, choosing the snack of the moment, waving at hot passerby in 300Z’s. Road tripping was easy. What to do with Simon?!?!
Could I take off my shoes? Could I put my feet on the dash?
What if I fell asleep?
Would I do the “oh-I’m-not-sleeping-head-snap” to mask or would I embrace the nap?
If I embraced, what if I drooled? Worse, snored? Worse even, both?
What if my head lolled onto the window where I made hot breath marks as I slept? Should I share my food? Would he partake or refrain?
Could I eat a banana? Where would I put the peel?
Could I hum, better sing quietly, if I liked a song? What if I sang the wrong words?
And what was the limit on questions?
What were within “getting to know you” boundaries?
All of this filtered through my head as I decided to just run with…gulp…being myself.
It worked. Not 2 hours into the trip, passing “The Hunter”, I had my bare (!) feet on the dash, had consumed a banana (peel in a garbage bag that I was keeping for the duration) and was sharing gummie worms with Simon, formerly the Stranger, now the Sweet. He took a lot of the orange ones, the leftover color, how considerate. Simon was quiet, at first. But soon enough, we were laughing like old friends. I even nodded off a few times and while I’m sure he was too polite to tell me, I think a snort or two might’ve escaped my lips on the reawake. By 5 hours into the trip, we were comparing war stories on relationships, both of others and our own. Simon’s trip north was a spur-of-the-moment one; he needed a moment to just clear his head on his life, away from the confines of his apartment with his girlfriend in Sydney. Josh would call every so often to check status. He had a date with “Mexico” the night before (girl of Mexican descent, for the less clever readers out there…) and was keen to dance around the details via mobile, giving Simon and I something to speculate on.
The landscape was lovely, really pretty. The Blue Mountains then the Great Dividing Mountain Range were to our west the entire drive and they offered quite a spectacular view. What impressed me the most was just how much of the land we passed was untouched, wholly natural, and completely green. Australia has a population of 20 million (Total! If you need perspective the U.S. just surpassed 300 million…) and it’s here, riding through the unmanned wilderness that I realized how such a concept is possible. And we were traveling the coast, not the outback. I can’t imagine how those drives will be, the outback drives. Solely animal country, I reckon. Though the road signs (and roadkill) indicated kangaroos and koalas abounded, we had no spottings. Simon pointed out a wombat, or was it a sloth? Maybe I should’ve made that sidetrip to the Sydney Zoo…
By the time we reached Byron, we were golden. Golden enough, seemingly, that while Simon dropped me off at hotel after hotel “that he deemed Marie-worthy” to check for vacancy, he was comfortably working up to the question: Wanna just split the night? Um, sure. So, now it’s a car ride AND a shared hotel room with Simon the Stranger. What would my mom say? We found a great little beach side vacancy right off of town and settled in. Simon left me to rest for a few hours while Simon did what, I’ve come to learn, Simon does. Bike, dip, then shower. A guy after my own heart, he also scouted a great little restaurant called The Balcony overlooking the main drag in Byron. After a few beers off the beach, we had dinner, a great bottle of New Zealand white (I’m a buyer), and laughed our asses off. Then, off to bed for a continued road trip further up the coast in the morning, after a bike, dip, and shower in the stunning setting of coastal Byron Bay.
A new friend made, the 29 hours I spent with a random Aussie stranger were great. The next day, after Simon left me at the very cheesy Versace hotel along Queensland’s Gold Coast (I promptly returned to the hippie enclave of Byron Bay after 24 hours), he texted me a note that proclaimed me “the funniest and very good value,” a term that loosely translates to quality which I plan to make my own over the next months. Nice! Being myself worked. Sometimes you forget how satisfying that simplicity really is.
Now back in beautiful Byron Bay. Lowdown to come…
xo
~M
After peripheral small talk, I started to wonder how should one act on a 9-hour road trip with a stranger? On no sleep. My biggest road trips were to and from Michigan with Lukoff where I rationed her Snapple to avoid abundant pee breaks (the girl’s got a bladder…and while I wasn’t tolerant of frequent urinators then, I’ve started to soften). With Jen, we’d take turns driving, playing DJ, choosing the snack of the moment, waving at hot passerby in 300Z’s. Road tripping was easy. What to do with Simon?!?!
Could I take off my shoes? Could I put my feet on the dash?
What if I fell asleep?
Would I do the “oh-I’m-not-sleeping-head-snap” to mask or would I embrace the nap?
If I embraced, what if I drooled? Worse, snored? Worse even, both?
What if my head lolled onto the window where I made hot breath marks as I slept? Should I share my food? Would he partake or refrain?
Could I eat a banana? Where would I put the peel?
Could I hum, better sing quietly, if I liked a song? What if I sang the wrong words?
And what was the limit on questions?
What were within “getting to know you” boundaries?
All of this filtered through my head as I decided to just run with…gulp…being myself.
It worked. Not 2 hours into the trip, passing “The Hunter”, I had my bare (!) feet on the dash, had consumed a banana (peel in a garbage bag that I was keeping for the duration) and was sharing gummie worms with Simon, formerly the Stranger, now the Sweet. He took a lot of the orange ones, the leftover color, how considerate. Simon was quiet, at first. But soon enough, we were laughing like old friends. I even nodded off a few times and while I’m sure he was too polite to tell me, I think a snort or two might’ve escaped my lips on the reawake. By 5 hours into the trip, we were comparing war stories on relationships, both of others and our own. Simon’s trip north was a spur-of-the-moment one; he needed a moment to just clear his head on his life, away from the confines of his apartment with his girlfriend in Sydney. Josh would call every so often to check status. He had a date with “Mexico” the night before (girl of Mexican descent, for the less clever readers out there…) and was keen to dance around the details via mobile, giving Simon and I something to speculate on.
The landscape was lovely, really pretty. The Blue Mountains then the Great Dividing Mountain Range were to our west the entire drive and they offered quite a spectacular view. What impressed me the most was just how much of the land we passed was untouched, wholly natural, and completely green. Australia has a population of 20 million (Total! If you need perspective the U.S. just surpassed 300 million…) and it’s here, riding through the unmanned wilderness that I realized how such a concept is possible. And we were traveling the coast, not the outback. I can’t imagine how those drives will be, the outback drives. Solely animal country, I reckon. Though the road signs (and roadkill) indicated kangaroos and koalas abounded, we had no spottings. Simon pointed out a wombat, or was it a sloth? Maybe I should’ve made that sidetrip to the Sydney Zoo…
By the time we reached Byron, we were golden. Golden enough, seemingly, that while Simon dropped me off at hotel after hotel “that he deemed Marie-worthy” to check for vacancy, he was comfortably working up to the question: Wanna just split the night? Um, sure. So, now it’s a car ride AND a shared hotel room with Simon the Stranger. What would my mom say? We found a great little beach side vacancy right off of town and settled in. Simon left me to rest for a few hours while Simon did what, I’ve come to learn, Simon does. Bike, dip, then shower. A guy after my own heart, he also scouted a great little restaurant called The Balcony overlooking the main drag in Byron. After a few beers off the beach, we had dinner, a great bottle of New Zealand white (I’m a buyer), and laughed our asses off. Then, off to bed for a continued road trip further up the coast in the morning, after a bike, dip, and shower in the stunning setting of coastal Byron Bay.
A new friend made, the 29 hours I spent with a random Aussie stranger were great. The next day, after Simon left me at the very cheesy Versace hotel along Queensland’s Gold Coast (I promptly returned to the hippie enclave of Byron Bay after 24 hours), he texted me a note that proclaimed me “the funniest and very good value,” a term that loosely translates to quality which I plan to make my own over the next months. Nice! Being myself worked. Sometimes you forget how satisfying that simplicity really is.
Now back in beautiful Byron Bay. Lowdown to come…
xo
~M
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Sydney, City Redefined
Continuing from where we left off post-New Years, my days in Sydney have been nothing short of thrilling. Taking the ferry from Sarah’s flat in Abbotsford (a suburb) each morning was divine. I’m sure the novelty wears off, but seeing the Harbour Bridge loom large against the backdrop of every color of sky never ceased to amaze this city girl. I’ve always defined city by the bar of Manhattan. We all do, us New Yorkers. But, Sydney raises that bar a bit. Sydney is city redefined. I spent a day walking it from end to end. From the wealthy, leafy streets of the suburbs of Darlinghurst, Potts Point, and Paddington on high, through the sea-level neighborhoods of waterside Woolloomooloo’s (say THAT three times fast) Finger Wharf of trendy restaurants, past the lush Royal Botanical Gardens that open onto the Opera House and the Harbour, to the oldest part of the city, the historical Rocks district. Yes, I wore flip-flops. No, I shouldn’t have.
But past the city center, in every direction, are the beaches. Glorious, glorious beaches. The eastern beaches (Bondi, Coogee, Bronte, Tamarama) face off with the northern beaches (Manly, Palm Beach) and you belong to one school or the other. Each of them offers a different vantage point to take in the amazing coastline, but also each caters to a certain slice of life. Bondi is the original, the mack-daddy (who even says that, sorry…) of Sydney’s beaches. Expansive and eclectic, Bondi caters to all. Tourists mingle with locals on the surrounding strip, peppered with restaurants and cafes, of both cheesy and classy varieties. On Bondi, the energy is always magnetic (as well as the surfer boy bodies…). Tamarama is the see-and-be-seen beach, while Coogee and Bronte (my favorite) are laid back and gorgeous, without as much attitude. Then, there’s (touristy) Manly Beach, farther north. A ferry ride away, Manly is chock-full-of-foreigners (as if I should talk…). I closed my eyes for 20 minutes and woke up nose-to-nose with a Spanish contingent that deemed it perfectly acceptable to invade my personal breathing space. Regardless of which beach, everyone carries a surfboard, everyone “dips” in the water, and everyone loves the sand. Sydney’s a total eye-fuck, all of it.
Deciding to get out of town for a bit, Sarah, Tim, Sally (Tim’s sister) and I went up to the Hunter Valley for the day. “The Hunter” is the Sydney’s local wine region. I’ve never done the Napa thing (shocker…) so, this was a whole new ballgame for me. Miles and miles of vineyards, far as the eye can see. At noon we started at Audrey Wilkinson, where I discovered verdelhos and semillions. Forget the shiraz, who knew white could taste so good? By midmorning we were tipsy, by mid-afternoon we were “blind,” as Sarah would say, bolting out Celine Dion ballads in the car ride home, making a visibly annoyed Tim (our designated driver) pull over on the side of the road to go “clear his ears” a time or two. How we made it out that night is beyond me, but these Aussies don’t EVER turn down another cocktail or a good party, so onward we went to meet Sarah’s friends. All great, Leigh stands out as I’d heard so much about her over the past year (and she presented me with a Harbour Bridge bookmark for my travels, aww…). She’s headed to South America for the next 5 months. Not that I can actually be jealous…but, well, let’s be honest, I am.
My last days in Sydney brought the Harbour Climb, where true to the name, I climbed the Harbour Bridge. While it was a perfect day and the views were astounding, reaching every nook of Sydney’s landscape, the climb itself was a little anti-climatic. I wanted trembling knees, rickety steel girder passes, drop-offs that gave me a birds-eye view into the art of suicide. Nope, nothing so dramatic. I guess the tip-off should’ve been that my group was largely comprised of 65-year old with hearing aids and a couple from Ohio that won their trip to Sydney from Visa (yes, those sweepstakes pay off sometimes…), but I was still craving the adventure aspect of the morning. No dice. I couldn’t even bring my camera so had to shell out tourist robbery prices for the “official” Harbour Climb produced photos. Yes, I had to do the Climb (it’s one of those things you have to do here), but afterwards, I totally felt like a sucker.
I went out of Sydney in style. A true Saturday night out with the girls. Dinner was Thai (Australians eat thai like we eat sushi) at Longrain (yes, it was on my “list”) where I felt right at home when Lachlan Murdoch walked out of the restaurant as we were walking in (I just can’t get away from Harper…but he’s adorable in person). From there we went to Hugo’s in King's Cross, an indoor/outdoor lounge/club where we partied until about 3 AM. Then, went with the runner-up from Rockstar Supernova (I never heard of this show, am learning…) and a former hook-up of Miss Leigh to Lady Lux, some after-hours bar. When I looked at my watch, it was 5 AM. OK, I don’t know the last time I was out until 5 AM in New York. Maybe at Star Room in the Hamptons, circa ’99? Limelight circa ’96? Bedrox circa ’91? Regardless, I had a date at 6:30 AM! I was driving up the coast with Josh’s friend, Simon. Never met him, but had committed to a 9 hour drive with Simon the Stranger. And now, it was 5 AM. Shit, shit, shit. I’d only have one chance to make a first impression. I’m not exactly charming without sleep. Let’s face it…I’m NOT AT ALL charming without sleep. Uh-oh.
Gotta sleep, sorry…nap.
More soon,
~ M
But past the city center, in every direction, are the beaches. Glorious, glorious beaches. The eastern beaches (Bondi, Coogee, Bronte, Tamarama) face off with the northern beaches (Manly, Palm Beach) and you belong to one school or the other. Each of them offers a different vantage point to take in the amazing coastline, but also each caters to a certain slice of life. Bondi is the original, the mack-daddy (who even says that, sorry…) of Sydney’s beaches. Expansive and eclectic, Bondi caters to all. Tourists mingle with locals on the surrounding strip, peppered with restaurants and cafes, of both cheesy and classy varieties. On Bondi, the energy is always magnetic (as well as the surfer boy bodies…). Tamarama is the see-and-be-seen beach, while Coogee and Bronte (my favorite) are laid back and gorgeous, without as much attitude. Then, there’s (touristy) Manly Beach, farther north. A ferry ride away, Manly is chock-full-of-foreigners (as if I should talk…). I closed my eyes for 20 minutes and woke up nose-to-nose with a Spanish contingent that deemed it perfectly acceptable to invade my personal breathing space. Regardless of which beach, everyone carries a surfboard, everyone “dips” in the water, and everyone loves the sand. Sydney’s a total eye-fuck, all of it.
Deciding to get out of town for a bit, Sarah, Tim, Sally (Tim’s sister) and I went up to the Hunter Valley for the day. “The Hunter” is the Sydney’s local wine region. I’ve never done the Napa thing (shocker…) so, this was a whole new ballgame for me. Miles and miles of vineyards, far as the eye can see. At noon we started at Audrey Wilkinson, where I discovered verdelhos and semillions. Forget the shiraz, who knew white could taste so good? By midmorning we were tipsy, by mid-afternoon we were “blind,” as Sarah would say, bolting out Celine Dion ballads in the car ride home, making a visibly annoyed Tim (our designated driver) pull over on the side of the road to go “clear his ears” a time or two. How we made it out that night is beyond me, but these Aussies don’t EVER turn down another cocktail or a good party, so onward we went to meet Sarah’s friends. All great, Leigh stands out as I’d heard so much about her over the past year (and she presented me with a Harbour Bridge bookmark for my travels, aww…). She’s headed to South America for the next 5 months. Not that I can actually be jealous…but, well, let’s be honest, I am.
My last days in Sydney brought the Harbour Climb, where true to the name, I climbed the Harbour Bridge. While it was a perfect day and the views were astounding, reaching every nook of Sydney’s landscape, the climb itself was a little anti-climatic. I wanted trembling knees, rickety steel girder passes, drop-offs that gave me a birds-eye view into the art of suicide. Nope, nothing so dramatic. I guess the tip-off should’ve been that my group was largely comprised of 65-year old with hearing aids and a couple from Ohio that won their trip to Sydney from Visa (yes, those sweepstakes pay off sometimes…), but I was still craving the adventure aspect of the morning. No dice. I couldn’t even bring my camera so had to shell out tourist robbery prices for the “official” Harbour Climb produced photos. Yes, I had to do the Climb (it’s one of those things you have to do here), but afterwards, I totally felt like a sucker.
I went out of Sydney in style. A true Saturday night out with the girls. Dinner was Thai (Australians eat thai like we eat sushi) at Longrain (yes, it was on my “list”) where I felt right at home when Lachlan Murdoch walked out of the restaurant as we were walking in (I just can’t get away from Harper…but he’s adorable in person). From there we went to Hugo’s in King's Cross, an indoor/outdoor lounge/club where we partied until about 3 AM. Then, went with the runner-up from Rockstar Supernova (I never heard of this show, am learning…) and a former hook-up of Miss Leigh to Lady Lux, some after-hours bar. When I looked at my watch, it was 5 AM. OK, I don’t know the last time I was out until 5 AM in New York. Maybe at Star Room in the Hamptons, circa ’99? Limelight circa ’96? Bedrox circa ’91? Regardless, I had a date at 6:30 AM! I was driving up the coast with Josh’s friend, Simon. Never met him, but had committed to a 9 hour drive with Simon the Stranger. And now, it was 5 AM. Shit, shit, shit. I’d only have one chance to make a first impression. I’m not exactly charming without sleep. Let’s face it…I’m NOT AT ALL charming without sleep. Uh-oh.
Gotta sleep, sorry…nap.
More soon,
~ M
Friday, January 05, 2007
Dick Clark had nothing on Sydney...
Happy New Year!
I’ve landed safely on the other side of the world (again) and I feel great. It was such a natural recapturing of self to get off that plane, don my travel hat, and do my post-plane five check (computer, phone, Ipod, camera, wallet), making sure all were properly stowed with me. Around a corner, I heard an Aussie twang of “Marie Elena!” (pronounced 'Marry Elennah') and turned to find Sarah’s familiar smile and energy barreling my way. Sarah, for those of you keeping track, shared Bariloche with me; enhanced my time in Hoi An in Vietnam, and now part of a more permanent plot, will heavily color my Australia.
After a quick window-aisle seat mix-up at the United counter in NY, where I was informed that I wasn’t going to be “flying window” until my Auckland-Sydney leg, I was told to recheck at the Air New Zealand desk upon arrival into LAX for a possible seat reassignment. There I met a watermelon-flavored Bubble Yum chewing, bottle-blond divorcee from Larchmont on her first solo venture overseas at 55 (passport hanging around her neck on a rope, but…good for her!) who was in the market for an aisle seat. So, we swapped. I was gracious, utterly happy to have a window at all, albeit in row 65. Bubble Yum Barbie was irate. She’s “nevah sat that faahr back in a playne.” Snap the gum, chew-chew-chew, snap again. The watermelon wafts my way. I tiptoe off, leaving Barbie to harangue the desk attendants, hopeful that they don’t change their mind about me. At boarding for Group 10—Row 60 and higher—they aware me that I’m being upgraded for “my troubles.” Premium Economy instead of the cargo class economy ticket I booked. Great. “It’s a window, right?” No. No, it’s not. “Thank you very much but I’ll stay in cargo class, I need the window seat.” Out walks an official to demote my upgrade back down. “I’ve never had that happen,” he says. “What,” I say, a bit dumbfounded. “And upgrade refusal.” “Oh, it’s all about the window, for me.” “Well,” he says, as he ticks away on the airport keyboard in front of him, “how’s this, then? 7K, a first class window? Now, that’s an upgrade, don’t you think? Merry Christmas.” Huh? Really? I know I have a lot of dumb luck, sure. But this? Talk about starting off on the right foot. For the 13 hour flight to Auckland, I had my own little cubby of an area – complete with desk, TV, wireless access, bed, linens, and lest not forget the champagne to chase my Ambien. In the world of first class, who has ever heard of jet lag? Not me. Fresh as a daisy, I arrived into Sydney for Sarah.
I’m now a few days into my Australian adventure and let me tell you, Sydney does not disappoint. I’ve been wracking my brain for a comparison city, even had conversations with other travelers about it. Closest I can come is a bit of San Francisco -- with the bays, the Pacific, the bridge centerpoint, the nearby vineyards, the top-rate cuisine, the culture, the weather and the upscale feel of it all -- but better. So much better. Sydney is one of those cities that you have to see to really appreciate. It’s hands-down one of the most beautiful places I’ve been. Inlets leading into inlets, bays to bays to ocean, all navigated by ferry, sailboat, catamaran. Hilly green blocks of original architecture (no two houses are the same) that sit perched atop cliffs overlooking both city and water, skyscraper backdrop, beaming sunshine. I had no idea. I didn’t expect that from Sydney. At all. I usually fall for the cities that are quaint, more weathered, more UNESCO World Heritage declared, but Sydney’s modernity is surprisingly fresh, even pleasant and the views just don’t get any more spectacular. In addition, add in Sydneysiders. Since I’ve yet to experience other Australian cities, I can only speak to Sydney’s population, but they’re divine. As Sarah’s friend Lou, girl, from London said to me the other night when comparing NY and London to Sydney: “Aussies just have the time.” And, that’s just it. Everyone here is happy to chat with you, to say hello, to ask about your day. Everyone is approachable, but more importantly, everyone approaches. Set that against the landscape (and I haven't even mentioned the beaches yet!), add in some amazing food, and a penchant for cocktails – you get the wonderful world of Oz (so far…)
So…terrific to see Sarah. We picked up right where we left off in Vietnam. A year ago. Crazy to wrap my mind about the fact that a year ago today, I was in Nha Trang, on a beach, partying with a rock star. She’s huge, the rock star, now that I’m here to see just who I spent time with in Vietnam. All over MTV and the radio. But, that’s Melbourne. Another city, later in the month. First night was with Sarah (where I’m staying). Maybe we were delirious with being in each other’s company, maybe it was the jetlag, but we were “blind,” as she says, by the time we got home. Just story after story accompanied by wine glass after wine glass. BYO here is big, be it beer or bottles of wine, even in the nicest places. Keeps it cheap. We went for Thai food, of course. I’ve been waiting for my Thai, this part of the world corners the market (outside of Thailand, of course). Oh, perfection...
New Years at Josh’s (another meet in Argentina) was outrageous. In the States, we all grew up in the 80s with Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Years Eve. Surely in the course of the evening (before we had the fake license from Vermont and snuck into New York City against our parents wishes), likely in the den of either a mothy-smelling cousin or aunt, or possibly at the home of the neighbors down the street (when befriending your neighbors was in vogue), we’d see images of Sydney – the Harbour Bridge aglow, the Opera House silhouette, the fireworks illuminating the sky. The first major city, televised, to move into the New Year. I had to pinch myself a little. There I was, in a flat in Kirribilli (the Prime Minister’s ‘hood), staring across the harbour at that very Opera House, aglow in celebration, fuzzy warm hues reflecting off the water as the sky lit up over and over and over again. BREATHTAKING. Sarah was even pinching herself (and she’s Sydney-born for godssake), yelling “Score, Marie. Score,” over the plans that I’d secured at Josh’s. Each of Josh’s friends was more wonderful than the previous one I was speaking with; each of them “had the time.” It was a terrific night, a night that made me remember why I love doing what I’ve chosen to do with my life. Equally as important, though, were the people that carried me through each new experience, this one included. A new year, with new friends, and a continued reason to look forward with optimism. I think 2007 is going to be a very good year….
More soon. There’s just so many Sydney stories to share.
~M
I’ve landed safely on the other side of the world (again) and I feel great. It was such a natural recapturing of self to get off that plane, don my travel hat, and do my post-plane five check (computer, phone, Ipod, camera, wallet), making sure all were properly stowed with me. Around a corner, I heard an Aussie twang of “Marie Elena!” (pronounced 'Marry Elennah') and turned to find Sarah’s familiar smile and energy barreling my way. Sarah, for those of you keeping track, shared Bariloche with me; enhanced my time in Hoi An in Vietnam, and now part of a more permanent plot, will heavily color my Australia.
After a quick window-aisle seat mix-up at the United counter in NY, where I was informed that I wasn’t going to be “flying window” until my Auckland-Sydney leg, I was told to recheck at the Air New Zealand desk upon arrival into LAX for a possible seat reassignment. There I met a watermelon-flavored Bubble Yum chewing, bottle-blond divorcee from Larchmont on her first solo venture overseas at 55 (passport hanging around her neck on a rope, but…good for her!) who was in the market for an aisle seat. So, we swapped. I was gracious, utterly happy to have a window at all, albeit in row 65. Bubble Yum Barbie was irate. She’s “nevah sat that faahr back in a playne.” Snap the gum, chew-chew-chew, snap again. The watermelon wafts my way. I tiptoe off, leaving Barbie to harangue the desk attendants, hopeful that they don’t change their mind about me. At boarding for Group 10—Row 60 and higher—they aware me that I’m being upgraded for “my troubles.” Premium Economy instead of the cargo class economy ticket I booked. Great. “It’s a window, right?” No. No, it’s not. “Thank you very much but I’ll stay in cargo class, I need the window seat.” Out walks an official to demote my upgrade back down. “I’ve never had that happen,” he says. “What,” I say, a bit dumbfounded. “And upgrade refusal.” “Oh, it’s all about the window, for me.” “Well,” he says, as he ticks away on the airport keyboard in front of him, “how’s this, then? 7K, a first class window? Now, that’s an upgrade, don’t you think? Merry Christmas.” Huh? Really? I know I have a lot of dumb luck, sure. But this? Talk about starting off on the right foot. For the 13 hour flight to Auckland, I had my own little cubby of an area – complete with desk, TV, wireless access, bed, linens, and lest not forget the champagne to chase my Ambien. In the world of first class, who has ever heard of jet lag? Not me. Fresh as a daisy, I arrived into Sydney for Sarah.
I’m now a few days into my Australian adventure and let me tell you, Sydney does not disappoint. I’ve been wracking my brain for a comparison city, even had conversations with other travelers about it. Closest I can come is a bit of San Francisco -- with the bays, the Pacific, the bridge centerpoint, the nearby vineyards, the top-rate cuisine, the culture, the weather and the upscale feel of it all -- but better. So much better. Sydney is one of those cities that you have to see to really appreciate. It’s hands-down one of the most beautiful places I’ve been. Inlets leading into inlets, bays to bays to ocean, all navigated by ferry, sailboat, catamaran. Hilly green blocks of original architecture (no two houses are the same) that sit perched atop cliffs overlooking both city and water, skyscraper backdrop, beaming sunshine. I had no idea. I didn’t expect that from Sydney. At all. I usually fall for the cities that are quaint, more weathered, more UNESCO World Heritage declared, but Sydney’s modernity is surprisingly fresh, even pleasant and the views just don’t get any more spectacular. In addition, add in Sydneysiders. Since I’ve yet to experience other Australian cities, I can only speak to Sydney’s population, but they’re divine. As Sarah’s friend Lou, girl, from London said to me the other night when comparing NY and London to Sydney: “Aussies just have the time.” And, that’s just it. Everyone here is happy to chat with you, to say hello, to ask about your day. Everyone is approachable, but more importantly, everyone approaches. Set that against the landscape (and I haven't even mentioned the beaches yet!), add in some amazing food, and a penchant for cocktails – you get the wonderful world of Oz (so far…)
So…terrific to see Sarah. We picked up right where we left off in Vietnam. A year ago. Crazy to wrap my mind about the fact that a year ago today, I was in Nha Trang, on a beach, partying with a rock star. She’s huge, the rock star, now that I’m here to see just who I spent time with in Vietnam. All over MTV and the radio. But, that’s Melbourne. Another city, later in the month. First night was with Sarah (where I’m staying). Maybe we were delirious with being in each other’s company, maybe it was the jetlag, but we were “blind,” as she says, by the time we got home. Just story after story accompanied by wine glass after wine glass. BYO here is big, be it beer or bottles of wine, even in the nicest places. Keeps it cheap. We went for Thai food, of course. I’ve been waiting for my Thai, this part of the world corners the market (outside of Thailand, of course). Oh, perfection...
New Years at Josh’s (another meet in Argentina) was outrageous. In the States, we all grew up in the 80s with Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Years Eve. Surely in the course of the evening (before we had the fake license from Vermont and snuck into New York City against our parents wishes), likely in the den of either a mothy-smelling cousin or aunt, or possibly at the home of the neighbors down the street (when befriending your neighbors was in vogue), we’d see images of Sydney – the Harbour Bridge aglow, the Opera House silhouette, the fireworks illuminating the sky. The first major city, televised, to move into the New Year. I had to pinch myself a little. There I was, in a flat in Kirribilli (the Prime Minister’s ‘hood), staring across the harbour at that very Opera House, aglow in celebration, fuzzy warm hues reflecting off the water as the sky lit up over and over and over again. BREATHTAKING. Sarah was even pinching herself (and she’s Sydney-born for godssake), yelling “Score, Marie. Score,” over the plans that I’d secured at Josh’s. Each of Josh’s friends was more wonderful than the previous one I was speaking with; each of them “had the time.” It was a terrific night, a night that made me remember why I love doing what I’ve chosen to do with my life. Equally as important, though, were the people that carried me through each new experience, this one included. A new year, with new friends, and a continued reason to look forward with optimism. I think 2007 is going to be a very good year….
More soon. There’s just so many Sydney stories to share.
~M
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Follow the Yellow Brick Road...
It’s almost midnight. December 26th, 2006. I’m leaving for Sydney, Australia in one, yes one, day and…I have absolutely nothing to wear. Sydney is chic, as is Melbourne. The Outback is rugged, New Zealand is hike-centered, the islands of the South Pacific and the Great Barrier Reef are all linen and lycra, flowy skirts and skimpy swimwear. I’ve forgotten how to pack; my list isn’t helping. I don’t know what to bring. I’m overwhelmed, I haven’t done this in a while. Clothes are strewn all over my floor, shoes are no longer neatly tucked in their shoe-rack homes, and I’ve decided that I use way too many products. Frocks that fit perfectly in South America, yeah…not so much. (I guess I won’t bring THREE bagel sandwiches of varied assortment on the 24-hour plane ride to Sydney). That cute go-to skirt from Vietnam, yeah…not so cute. (I guess I’ll remember the term “impulse buy” this time out). New York has seeped back into my blood. I’ve been here too long. I’m stressing over the pack, not the trip. Good and bad. Just pack and go, Marie. Pack and go.
So, it’s been a while since we’ve done this. The blog dance. I’ll have to reacquaint myself with it, though I’m looking forward. Since we left off in Paris with my mom and sister, I’ve spent 4 months in New York trying to sort myself out. It took a while, I’ll admit. The other home stays were all short-lived. I had weddings and commitments, other people’s stuff—things that deflected attention from “being home.” Being home, for real, was tough. I’d gotten used to the travel schtick, the life it entailed, being on the move, waking each day to a new sunrise over a different horizon. I fell in love with the constantly rotating cast of characters; I adored the challenges of each new cultural situation. New York, I felt, hadn’t changed. I yearned to be back out there, in the world, on the road. There’s so much to see, why see the same thing every day?
However, part of this year was the desire to try my hand at not just traveling, but writing. Not this, the off-the-cuff blogging. A real sit down attempt at actually creating a piece of narrative about my adventures. Me-speak sure; but with great scenery, completely honest stories (good and bad) and a genuine respect for punctuation and vocabulary. I had to spend some time doing that. I felt it part of the process; it was equally important. So, after tending to bone spurs from walking the world in flip-flops (another lesson), readjusting to Eastern Standard Time and getting out of bed when I had really didn’t have anything pressing to do (for those who know me well, always a struggle), I took some woe-is-me (if world travelers can actually partake in woe) isolation time. I wrote off everyone I knew and spent a few solitary weeks in the Hamptons at the house of the very generous Millers; it was only then that I FINALLY started to write. Like traveling, I became obsessed.
Back in the city, I would venture to the gym in the AM, waving hi to Rosenberg and her trainer on Mondays and Thursdays, then hit Gotham Coffee House on 68th Street and settle into (after hovering for a vacancy) one of the two bay window seats in the joint and write all day. Usually about 6-7 hours (yes, that includes "screwing around online" time), surrounded by my journals, my guidebooks, my photos, my blogs, and my ruled notebooks of each country’s details. Gotham became my office; people popped by to say hi; Cathy and Hayden (who work there) knew me by name and put my daily soup in a to-go container instead of a fancy ceramic bowl because they knew it took up too much room on my “desk.” Everyone asked a million questions about my coffee shop days:
"They just let you sit there all day, like it's your cubicle?" Yes, though I never had a cubicle.
"Do you put money in the communal tip jar?" Yep.
"What if you don't get a seat?" I wait. Someone is always leaving.
"Do you make friends with other daily patrons?" Some. "Which ones? What's mingling criteria?" It varies.
"Do you go outside to make phone calls?" I rarely answer while I'm there, but yes.
"Are there some people who you can't stand, who have bad coffee shop manners?" Oh yes...
But, these are all stories for another day, as coffee shop culture is a whole other blog.....
After about five recounted country experiences and two hundred pages of writing that I’m insanely proud of, I realized it was turning summer in Australia. Temptation. Big time. Torn between sticking around New York (ducking old-college-acquaintance-turned-Mommy-run-ins on the Upper East Side) and finishing my book at the coffee shop OR heading off to Australia to complete the trip I planned 14 months ago, learning to incorporate writing into my life wherever I happen to be, I opted for the latter. I leave in a day. I’m overjoyed to be continuing my journey, thrilled to see travel friends from along the way, and eager to put both passions that the year has brought me together into one grand adventure. The South Pacific awaits.
But, for this moment, so does my closet.
More soon from the Land of Oz…
~M
So, it’s been a while since we’ve done this. The blog dance. I’ll have to reacquaint myself with it, though I’m looking forward. Since we left off in Paris with my mom and sister, I’ve spent 4 months in New York trying to sort myself out. It took a while, I’ll admit. The other home stays were all short-lived. I had weddings and commitments, other people’s stuff—things that deflected attention from “being home.” Being home, for real, was tough. I’d gotten used to the travel schtick, the life it entailed, being on the move, waking each day to a new sunrise over a different horizon. I fell in love with the constantly rotating cast of characters; I adored the challenges of each new cultural situation. New York, I felt, hadn’t changed. I yearned to be back out there, in the world, on the road. There’s so much to see, why see the same thing every day?
However, part of this year was the desire to try my hand at not just traveling, but writing. Not this, the off-the-cuff blogging. A real sit down attempt at actually creating a piece of narrative about my adventures. Me-speak sure; but with great scenery, completely honest stories (good and bad) and a genuine respect for punctuation and vocabulary. I had to spend some time doing that. I felt it part of the process; it was equally important. So, after tending to bone spurs from walking the world in flip-flops (another lesson), readjusting to Eastern Standard Time and getting out of bed when I had really didn’t have anything pressing to do (for those who know me well, always a struggle), I took some woe-is-me (if world travelers can actually partake in woe) isolation time. I wrote off everyone I knew and spent a few solitary weeks in the Hamptons at the house of the very generous Millers; it was only then that I FINALLY started to write. Like traveling, I became obsessed.
Back in the city, I would venture to the gym in the AM, waving hi to Rosenberg and her trainer on Mondays and Thursdays, then hit Gotham Coffee House on 68th Street and settle into (after hovering for a vacancy) one of the two bay window seats in the joint and write all day. Usually about 6-7 hours (yes, that includes "screwing around online" time), surrounded by my journals, my guidebooks, my photos, my blogs, and my ruled notebooks of each country’s details. Gotham became my office; people popped by to say hi; Cathy and Hayden (who work there) knew me by name and put my daily soup in a to-go container instead of a fancy ceramic bowl because they knew it took up too much room on my “desk.” Everyone asked a million questions about my coffee shop days:
"They just let you sit there all day, like it's your cubicle?" Yes, though I never had a cubicle.
"Do you put money in the communal tip jar?" Yep.
"What if you don't get a seat?" I wait. Someone is always leaving.
"Do you make friends with other daily patrons?" Some. "Which ones? What's mingling criteria?" It varies.
"Do you go outside to make phone calls?" I rarely answer while I'm there, but yes.
"Are there some people who you can't stand, who have bad coffee shop manners?" Oh yes...
But, these are all stories for another day, as coffee shop culture is a whole other blog.....
After about five recounted country experiences and two hundred pages of writing that I’m insanely proud of, I realized it was turning summer in Australia. Temptation. Big time. Torn between sticking around New York (ducking old-college-acquaintance-turned-Mommy-run-ins on the Upper East Side) and finishing my book at the coffee shop OR heading off to Australia to complete the trip I planned 14 months ago, learning to incorporate writing into my life wherever I happen to be, I opted for the latter. I leave in a day. I’m overjoyed to be continuing my journey, thrilled to see travel friends from along the way, and eager to put both passions that the year has brought me together into one grand adventure. The South Pacific awaits.
But, for this moment, so does my closet.
More soon from the Land of Oz…
~M
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Parisian Yin and Yang
Lisbon was followed by Lagos, a southern ocean town in the Algarve that offered much less frenzied a pace than the northern city of my flight lessons. It was breathtakingly beautiful, rocky mountain cliffs that dropped off steeply into the surf below. The Algarve beaches, which boasted both lovers’ alcoves and banana boats, were seasoned with tourists enjoying Europe’s high season. The expanse of sand on which my hotel had a slice of land was large and airy, rock formations set off in the distance, an Atlantic blue sea meeting a summer day’s blue sky, a swift and constant breeze making the heat bearable, even enjoyable. My days in Lagos were spent on a beach lounger, lazily heading into the town each night. A cobblestone maze of ups and downs, Lagos’ town is dotted with restaurants and cafes, all serving the finest seafood and spirits imaginable. It was a blissful three days, though, ANY day on a beach is a good day from my perspective. From Lagos, I quickly stopped back in Lisbon, en route to Paris. There I would meet my mother and sister for a week in the City of Lights. I must admit, I was a little apprehensive to meet up with them (of course, while simultaneously excited); having traveled for so long on my own, running to my own rhythm, indulging my own set of rules, plans, likes, dislikes, urges, I wondered how I would do with travel partners. FAMILY travel partners, no less. Uh-oh…
I got back to Paris, having spent 23 hours on a train, luckily in my own car for the duration, to a sleeping mother and sister in a teeny-tiny room that was stifling upon entry. They were wiped from their trip, while I, on the other hand, was rearing to go. After a quick change of rooms to a suite, a hasty unpack, and a survey of the “where to” question, we headed out, if to do nothing else than familiarize ourselves with the neighborhood. We were staying in the St. Germain des Pres area of the city, an upscale tree-lined shopping district, filled with historic restaurants and hot spots. First stop, Café de Flores, a favorite haunt of Hemingway, Sartre, et al… for a little sustenance. The allure of the Paris streets in summer makes me smile, seeing all the cafes grandly opening their arms to patrons, asking them to sit and linger over a coffee, a glass of wine, a baguette, while watching the passerby on the street. There isn’t a city that equals Paris in that regard, that energy of street life is unmatchable. But, alas, my mom wanted to sit inside. Air-conditioning, no cigarette smoke, away from the riff-raff. OK. We’re the ONLY people IN the restaurant. OK, no worries. It’s FINE. We eat. And, it all rushes back. You forget how good the bread is, how enticing the crepes are, how hearty the salads taste, how fragrant the cheese smells, how sweet the chocolate tastes, and how quickly the wine relaxes. Mmmm, Paris delicacies. Video killed the radio star. Europe’s killed my waistline.
In the past week, I’ve accumulated countless Parisian tales. They start in storied places like the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and the Arc de Triomphe, they ramble down streets like the Champs Elysses, Blvd de Montparnasse, and Rue de Bac, they quiet in places like Notre Dame and the Sacre Couer, they explore Pompidous and Orsays while getting rowdy at the Moulin Rouge and Buddha Bar, they spend lavishly at Longchamp and Bon Marche, they fall in travel love with beautiful French men named Antoine, and they all end at the Hotel Pont Royal. All of the things you know and love about Paris are on display in these stories, the bonus of course, is that THESE stories include family rows about where to dine, what each day’s schedule consists of, hurting feet, morning crankies, why so-and-so makes themselves gag when they brush their teeth, or so-and-so insists on using a French accent to ask for coffee. Other stories address why napping is a partial occupation for so-and-so, leisurely lazy meals vs. baguettes on the go, who holds the map, who had a tone in their voice over breakfast, and who picked a better area to go shopping. You get the gist. Sometimes being with family is really easy, sometimes it’s really hard, not bothering to censor and hold tempers when censoring and temper-holding is required. I know I’m guilty of NOT being the easiest girl on the travel circuit, and I’m a bit of a travel snob at this juncture of my life. I’m not totally patient when asked if the “inclusive ticket” includes “everything,” or if we should ask the information counter if we’re on the right line (when there’s ONLY one…) “just to be sure,” or something equally obvious. Yes, yes, yes. I know this. So, I’m sure you’re not at all surprised to hear that I was definitely pushed to my limits this week, then reeled back in by my equally tolerant family as I took them on the Marie tour of Paris (of course, I held the map…but, they let me). They were great, and all the bicker faded to grey. I took my moments to indulge in smoke-filled lazy lunches at overly-expensive restaurants that my mom thought “ridiculous,” read my paper each day, write in my journal, and cavort until the wee hours at Parisian clubs. So, the dynamic, though it took getting used to, worked. Yin-Yang. All in all, a terrific week…
Now back to NYC, where I have to figure out my next steps. I know they involve a return trip to Argentina and a few months in Australia, New Zealand, Tahiti, and Fiji. The order and timing of which remains to be seen… I’ll keep you posted.
More soon…
~M
I got back to Paris, having spent 23 hours on a train, luckily in my own car for the duration, to a sleeping mother and sister in a teeny-tiny room that was stifling upon entry. They were wiped from their trip, while I, on the other hand, was rearing to go. After a quick change of rooms to a suite, a hasty unpack, and a survey of the “where to” question, we headed out, if to do nothing else than familiarize ourselves with the neighborhood. We were staying in the St. Germain des Pres area of the city, an upscale tree-lined shopping district, filled with historic restaurants and hot spots. First stop, Café de Flores, a favorite haunt of Hemingway, Sartre, et al… for a little sustenance. The allure of the Paris streets in summer makes me smile, seeing all the cafes grandly opening their arms to patrons, asking them to sit and linger over a coffee, a glass of wine, a baguette, while watching the passerby on the street. There isn’t a city that equals Paris in that regard, that energy of street life is unmatchable. But, alas, my mom wanted to sit inside. Air-conditioning, no cigarette smoke, away from the riff-raff. OK. We’re the ONLY people IN the restaurant. OK, no worries. It’s FINE. We eat. And, it all rushes back. You forget how good the bread is, how enticing the crepes are, how hearty the salads taste, how fragrant the cheese smells, how sweet the chocolate tastes, and how quickly the wine relaxes. Mmmm, Paris delicacies. Video killed the radio star. Europe’s killed my waistline.
In the past week, I’ve accumulated countless Parisian tales. They start in storied places like the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and the Arc de Triomphe, they ramble down streets like the Champs Elysses, Blvd de Montparnasse, and Rue de Bac, they quiet in places like Notre Dame and the Sacre Couer, they explore Pompidous and Orsays while getting rowdy at the Moulin Rouge and Buddha Bar, they spend lavishly at Longchamp and Bon Marche, they fall in travel love with beautiful French men named Antoine, and they all end at the Hotel Pont Royal. All of the things you know and love about Paris are on display in these stories, the bonus of course, is that THESE stories include family rows about where to dine, what each day’s schedule consists of, hurting feet, morning crankies, why so-and-so makes themselves gag when they brush their teeth, or so-and-so insists on using a French accent to ask for coffee. Other stories address why napping is a partial occupation for so-and-so, leisurely lazy meals vs. baguettes on the go, who holds the map, who had a tone in their voice over breakfast, and who picked a better area to go shopping. You get the gist. Sometimes being with family is really easy, sometimes it’s really hard, not bothering to censor and hold tempers when censoring and temper-holding is required. I know I’m guilty of NOT being the easiest girl on the travel circuit, and I’m a bit of a travel snob at this juncture of my life. I’m not totally patient when asked if the “inclusive ticket” includes “everything,” or if we should ask the information counter if we’re on the right line (when there’s ONLY one…) “just to be sure,” or something equally obvious. Yes, yes, yes. I know this. So, I’m sure you’re not at all surprised to hear that I was definitely pushed to my limits this week, then reeled back in by my equally tolerant family as I took them on the Marie tour of Paris (of course, I held the map…but, they let me). They were great, and all the bicker faded to grey. I took my moments to indulge in smoke-filled lazy lunches at overly-expensive restaurants that my mom thought “ridiculous,” read my paper each day, write in my journal, and cavort until the wee hours at Parisian clubs. So, the dynamic, though it took getting used to, worked. Yin-Yang. All in all, a terrific week…
Now back to NYC, where I have to figure out my next steps. I know they involve a return trip to Argentina and a few months in Australia, New Zealand, Tahiti, and Fiji. The order and timing of which remains to be seen… I’ll keep you posted.
More soon…
~M
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Amelia Earhart lives in Lisbon
Warning: this is a long, but fun blog. Enjoy at leisure…
A city of seven hills, like San Francisco and Rome, Lisbon is a high-low adventure of altitudes (very hard to determine on maps: you start your walks fresh, you end them winded), rambling cobblestone streets (very bad for heels-wearing, being graceful), and stunning old buildings with elaborate tilework facades (very dangerous for gawking at, then tripping over the cobblestones b/c you’re wearing heels…), and a stellar view (no downside). More San Francisco than Rome, partly because of the mock-Golden Gate Bridge (really called the Ponte 25 de Abril, which commemorates the 1974 Portugese Revolution for democracy), partly the location to the western coastline of the continent, partly the good/cultural scene, partly the trolley cars that traverse the hills of the city, Lisbon was not what I expected. Not that I can actually conceptualize what I DID expect. Possibly, I thought it would be more sleepy, more small-town. Possibly, I expected it to be less cosmopolitan, more old-world European. Regardless, I was so pleasantly surprised by Lisbon, I wound up staying four days instead of two, and I couldn’t have been given a better welcome.
Lisbon felt a little bit like Ecuador did the first time around, thanks to Amy Abreu, a friend of Plum, Gina, and Longo’s, who made it her personal business to put me in touch with her husband’s family and friends in anticipation of my arrival. All men, not complaining. My first day was spent with João, Amy’s brother-in-law, who met me in Rossío (a central square full of fountains, cafes, shops, and for now, the cows from the cow exhibit that tours the world) who took me to the two extreme ends of the city. First, Belém, where we took in the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos (church) and The Monument of the Discoveries (in front of which is a large tiled map of ALL of Portugal’s colonial territories. Very impressive for such a tiny country. You tend to think the Spanish discovered the world, when in fact, much of the credit belongs to the Portuguese…), and then went to a little café that dates back to 1837 to have espresso (new thing, love it) and these custard-egg white mini-custard/tart/cakes that you douse in sugar and cinnamon and shove into your mouth. They were…divine. Then, we went to the modern side of the city that was completely refurbished for the World Expo in 1998. It’s an area full of seaside restaurants, a concert hall, aquarium, gardens and million dollar apartment buildings, settled into another café and chatted until his car was about to be towed, and we had to drop some Euros on the table and make a run for it…
Day two brought more exploring, this time of the Alfama district, specifically the Castelo de São Jorge, ala the Princess Bride, where phrases like “My name is Indigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die,” and “Mawrige. Mawrige is what bwings us together today,” littered my head throughout. To think that people actually inhabited such a place once upon a time ago is hard to conceptualize, but fascinating when you are walking across stone passageways high above the city. Then, to ever-more beautiful churches, then to a late lunch. Fish is the thing here in Portugal. Makes sense. On a personal note, my body welcomed the contrast from the Spanish potato, bread, tapas overdose of last week. Evening brought André, cousin of João (the symbols are KILLING me…), who took me through Barrio Alto and Chiado, the older, now trendy parts of Lisbon, teeming with bars, restaurants, outdoor cafes, and throngs of people. We caught the sunset at a park overlooking the water, and chatted about Lagos and music, mostly Van Morrison, who he’s just getting into (!?!?!)
Day three brought a trip to Docas (the Docks), per João, where I lazily ate fresh sea bass under the “Golden Gate” at a promenade of outdoor restaurants, drank port (aaahh…) and made friends with the neighboring table of two Portuguese guys and an American girl, all of whom happened to be on my train to Lagos later in the week. Night introduced me to Paulo, Pedro’s friend who took me to dinner with him and his friends. Eight of us in total, it was like Ecuador all over again. Great company, food, wine, conversation, what could be better? We continued onto a waterside bar (they need more of these in New York – forget rooftops, waterside spots are the thing), and then Paulo and I went to Lux, “the” three-level club in Lisbon, where before we knew it…4:30 AM. Huh? How did that happen? I barely made it to Sintra the next morning, a UNESCO World Heritage city (I need to count how many of these I’ve been to, definitely double-digits) that is filled with more castles and old, winding streets, and of course, charm. It was in Sintra that things got interesting…
The night before at dinner, José, a friend of Paulo’s, was telling me about a friend of his, Luís, who is an aerobatic pilot. You know, the kind of pilot who does tricks in the air in a two-seater plane. Talk about a daredevil. Of course, I’m all, I would LOVE to do that, blah blah blah… Next thing I know, I’m on the phone with Luís, tentatively making a flight time for the next day. I didn’t REALLY think it would happen. However, on my way to Sintra, my phone rings. Paulo. Tells me that I need to be at the airfield outside Sintra at 2:30 PM if I want to fly. GULP. Um…well, I won’t have time to really SEE Sintra, then. Right? Right. But, it’s the chance of a lifetime, and why the hell not? So…I make a quick tour of the castle, then have lunch (bread, cheese, water – very light, I’m going to be a little queasy, likely…), and head to the airfield. Paulo meets me. GULP. Paulo, who is terrified of flying comes to actually watch me do this because he can’t believe I will... BIG GULP.
I meet Luís, who is eating SPAGHETTI CARBONARA, when we get introduced. IS THIS MAN ASKING TO BE SICK IN THE PLANE? He’s a robust, affable guy, thrilled to take me with him for the day. Turns out, MTV and Ford (the sponsor of his plane) are doing a documentary on extreme flying, aerobatics. Luís is one of the top aerobatics pilots in the world, so he’s their focus. So…….I fly with him to the shoot in full flying garb (with the hat that made me think of Snoopie, all I needed was the scarf), in his two-person-Red Barron-type-glass-sliding-over-the-top-of-your-head-plane, doing tricks along the way, chatting with him through my mouthpiece, receiving him in my headset. WHAT IS GOING ON? Then, watch him from the ground while they film. I must’ve lost my stomach about 10 times, but it was fucking unreal. Exhilarating doesn’t cover it. It’s indescribable. THEN, I go up in a 4-person Cessna with the guy filming and a pilot, while they shoot footage from the air (!!), open-door-Vietnam-war-helicopter-style. I’m taking photos, giving thumbs-ups to Luis, dying about what the hell my life is, all the while open-mouthed over the spectacular Portuguese coast. Talk about SEEING a country. This is the way to do it. Then we were to fly back to meet José, who was going to pick me up and take me back to Lisbon to make my train to Lagos.
Needless to say, I didn’t make my train to Lagos. Instead, I spent the day on a roller coaster in the sky, without a track, twirling, pirouetting, flipping and dipping, in a aerobatic aircraft, filming a kamikaze pilot messing around with gravity, and having the time of my life. I learned to fly a bit (I was terrified to be in control of that machine, but secretly loved every minute of it, knowing that if I did anything wrong, I had back-up), but every time I gave the controls back to Luís, somersaulting we went. My photos are half right side up (ocean underneath us), half upside down (ocean on top of us). Oh my god. The most AMAZING thing I’ve ever done. (Kar, I thought of Neal the whole time…) I now need to jump out of a plane, to skydive, I’ve decided. I think that’s likely the ONLY thing that can top this.
José met me on safe landing back on Earth. He took me to change, as we had dinner plans, of course. We went to Cascias (Lisbon suburb) to the Design Hotel there (each room designed by a different person), a boutique hotel of fabulous proportions, for dinner. Dinis, the owner of the hotel, restaurant and adjoining club, Nuts Club, was a friend of theirs and hosted 10 of us for sushi. He shared with me that Uma (Thurman) and Andre (Balazs) finally called it quits this week, and I shared him with him how to make a good saketini to accompany his sushi: “The drink of next summer, for sure. Thank you for that.” After a quick peek at Bob Sinclair, seemingly “the” world’s #1 DJ of the moment, who was playing at the club, and the rumor of Athena Onassis staying on premises, I had to call it quits. It was well after 3 and I had an 8 AM train to Lagos in the morning.
Think I made my train? Think again.
More soon.
xoxoxo
A city of seven hills, like San Francisco and Rome, Lisbon is a high-low adventure of altitudes (very hard to determine on maps: you start your walks fresh, you end them winded), rambling cobblestone streets (very bad for heels-wearing, being graceful), and stunning old buildings with elaborate tilework facades (very dangerous for gawking at, then tripping over the cobblestones b/c you’re wearing heels…), and a stellar view (no downside). More San Francisco than Rome, partly because of the mock-Golden Gate Bridge (really called the Ponte 25 de Abril, which commemorates the 1974 Portugese Revolution for democracy), partly the location to the western coastline of the continent, partly the good/cultural scene, partly the trolley cars that traverse the hills of the city, Lisbon was not what I expected. Not that I can actually conceptualize what I DID expect. Possibly, I thought it would be more sleepy, more small-town. Possibly, I expected it to be less cosmopolitan, more old-world European. Regardless, I was so pleasantly surprised by Lisbon, I wound up staying four days instead of two, and I couldn’t have been given a better welcome.
Lisbon felt a little bit like Ecuador did the first time around, thanks to Amy Abreu, a friend of Plum, Gina, and Longo’s, who made it her personal business to put me in touch with her husband’s family and friends in anticipation of my arrival. All men, not complaining. My first day was spent with João, Amy’s brother-in-law, who met me in Rossío (a central square full of fountains, cafes, shops, and for now, the cows from the cow exhibit that tours the world) who took me to the two extreme ends of the city. First, Belém, where we took in the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos (church) and The Monument of the Discoveries (in front of which is a large tiled map of ALL of Portugal’s colonial territories. Very impressive for such a tiny country. You tend to think the Spanish discovered the world, when in fact, much of the credit belongs to the Portuguese…), and then went to a little café that dates back to 1837 to have espresso (new thing, love it) and these custard-egg white mini-custard/tart/cakes that you douse in sugar and cinnamon and shove into your mouth. They were…divine. Then, we went to the modern side of the city that was completely refurbished for the World Expo in 1998. It’s an area full of seaside restaurants, a concert hall, aquarium, gardens and million dollar apartment buildings, settled into another café and chatted until his car was about to be towed, and we had to drop some Euros on the table and make a run for it…
Day two brought more exploring, this time of the Alfama district, specifically the Castelo de São Jorge, ala the Princess Bride, where phrases like “My name is Indigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die,” and “Mawrige. Mawrige is what bwings us together today,” littered my head throughout. To think that people actually inhabited such a place once upon a time ago is hard to conceptualize, but fascinating when you are walking across stone passageways high above the city. Then, to ever-more beautiful churches, then to a late lunch. Fish is the thing here in Portugal. Makes sense. On a personal note, my body welcomed the contrast from the Spanish potato, bread, tapas overdose of last week. Evening brought André, cousin of João (the symbols are KILLING me…), who took me through Barrio Alto and Chiado, the older, now trendy parts of Lisbon, teeming with bars, restaurants, outdoor cafes, and throngs of people. We caught the sunset at a park overlooking the water, and chatted about Lagos and music, mostly Van Morrison, who he’s just getting into (!?!?!)
Day three brought a trip to Docas (the Docks), per João, where I lazily ate fresh sea bass under the “Golden Gate” at a promenade of outdoor restaurants, drank port (aaahh…) and made friends with the neighboring table of two Portuguese guys and an American girl, all of whom happened to be on my train to Lagos later in the week. Night introduced me to Paulo, Pedro’s friend who took me to dinner with him and his friends. Eight of us in total, it was like Ecuador all over again. Great company, food, wine, conversation, what could be better? We continued onto a waterside bar (they need more of these in New York – forget rooftops, waterside spots are the thing), and then Paulo and I went to Lux, “the” three-level club in Lisbon, where before we knew it…4:30 AM. Huh? How did that happen? I barely made it to Sintra the next morning, a UNESCO World Heritage city (I need to count how many of these I’ve been to, definitely double-digits) that is filled with more castles and old, winding streets, and of course, charm. It was in Sintra that things got interesting…
The night before at dinner, José, a friend of Paulo’s, was telling me about a friend of his, Luís, who is an aerobatic pilot. You know, the kind of pilot who does tricks in the air in a two-seater plane. Talk about a daredevil. Of course, I’m all, I would LOVE to do that, blah blah blah… Next thing I know, I’m on the phone with Luís, tentatively making a flight time for the next day. I didn’t REALLY think it would happen. However, on my way to Sintra, my phone rings. Paulo. Tells me that I need to be at the airfield outside Sintra at 2:30 PM if I want to fly. GULP. Um…well, I won’t have time to really SEE Sintra, then. Right? Right. But, it’s the chance of a lifetime, and why the hell not? So…I make a quick tour of the castle, then have lunch (bread, cheese, water – very light, I’m going to be a little queasy, likely…), and head to the airfield. Paulo meets me. GULP. Paulo, who is terrified of flying comes to actually watch me do this because he can’t believe I will... BIG GULP.
I meet Luís, who is eating SPAGHETTI CARBONARA, when we get introduced. IS THIS MAN ASKING TO BE SICK IN THE PLANE? He’s a robust, affable guy, thrilled to take me with him for the day. Turns out, MTV and Ford (the sponsor of his plane) are doing a documentary on extreme flying, aerobatics. Luís is one of the top aerobatics pilots in the world, so he’s their focus. So…….I fly with him to the shoot in full flying garb (with the hat that made me think of Snoopie, all I needed was the scarf), in his two-person-Red Barron-type-glass-sliding-over-the-top-of-your-head-plane, doing tricks along the way, chatting with him through my mouthpiece, receiving him in my headset. WHAT IS GOING ON? Then, watch him from the ground while they film. I must’ve lost my stomach about 10 times, but it was fucking unreal. Exhilarating doesn’t cover it. It’s indescribable. THEN, I go up in a 4-person Cessna with the guy filming and a pilot, while they shoot footage from the air (!!), open-door-Vietnam-war-helicopter-style. I’m taking photos, giving thumbs-ups to Luis, dying about what the hell my life is, all the while open-mouthed over the spectacular Portuguese coast. Talk about SEEING a country. This is the way to do it. Then we were to fly back to meet José, who was going to pick me up and take me back to Lisbon to make my train to Lagos.
Needless to say, I didn’t make my train to Lagos. Instead, I spent the day on a roller coaster in the sky, without a track, twirling, pirouetting, flipping and dipping, in a aerobatic aircraft, filming a kamikaze pilot messing around with gravity, and having the time of my life. I learned to fly a bit (I was terrified to be in control of that machine, but secretly loved every minute of it, knowing that if I did anything wrong, I had back-up), but every time I gave the controls back to Luís, somersaulting we went. My photos are half right side up (ocean underneath us), half upside down (ocean on top of us). Oh my god. The most AMAZING thing I’ve ever done. (Kar, I thought of Neal the whole time…) I now need to jump out of a plane, to skydive, I’ve decided. I think that’s likely the ONLY thing that can top this.
José met me on safe landing back on Earth. He took me to change, as we had dinner plans, of course. We went to Cascias (Lisbon suburb) to the Design Hotel there (each room designed by a different person), a boutique hotel of fabulous proportions, for dinner. Dinis, the owner of the hotel, restaurant and adjoining club, Nuts Club, was a friend of theirs and hosted 10 of us for sushi. He shared with me that Uma (Thurman) and Andre (Balazs) finally called it quits this week, and I shared him with him how to make a good saketini to accompany his sushi: “The drink of next summer, for sure. Thank you for that.” After a quick peek at Bob Sinclair, seemingly “the” world’s #1 DJ of the moment, who was playing at the club, and the rumor of Athena Onassis staying on premises, I had to call it quits. It was well after 3 and I had an 8 AM train to Lagos in the morning.
Think I made my train? Think again.
More soon.
xoxoxo
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