Six Months

3 continents 14 countries 36 cities 20 flights 10 long distance trains 9 cross country buses 21 airports 1 backpack (2 rolling cases) 187 days 780 arguments 10 000 cocktails 3 friends 6 months

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Eerie Eastern Europeans & Dashing Danes — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-05-30 11:35 — 0 comment(s)

Want to feel inferior? Go to Denmark

Of all the places we have been to on this trip, Prague has probably been the one to elicit the 'oh my gosh, you'll LOVE it there' response with the greatest frequency. It is, as far as cities go, the It City (or one of them ... anyone read how Sydney has been voted the number 1 city by the Conde Nast Traveller magazine?). The two words that cropped up time and time again, were 'cheap' (music to the budget travellers ears) and 'beautiful' and so the expectation bar was set rather high.

When I wrote earlier of certain themes of the trip, like late night welcomes and freak weather, I neglected to mention a third, rather significant one - The Staying in a Ghetto Theme. As our cab cheerfully sailed out of the city and continued on, showing no signs of stopping at any point, it seemed we had done it again. Later, as a homeless alcoholic pressed me up against the freezer in the miniscule grocery store behind our apartment, regaling with me tales of his alleged stint in Australia and calling me baby every second word, it became patently clear that we had.

Ghetto aside, our apartment was brilliant, and a welcome respite from hostels. There is nothing quite like having your own space to return to at the end of the day, and a bathroom not occupied by 30 other grubby backpackers, or a kitchen not vulnerable to the sticky fingers of sangria thieves. We even had cable which, admittedly, was all in czech with the exception of MTV Austria - but the tentacles of American MTV reach far and wide, and so the whole world can be privy to such gems as Date My Mom. Including English deprived Australians in Prague.

Of course, Prague is beautiful. Cobbled streets lined with tiny stores, winding their way to St Christopher's bridge, quaint cafes in the historic city centre, watched over by the astronomical clock, ... the city is a postcard, no matter what angle you look at it. And then there is Prague Castle where the guards will laugh if you try hard enough and are not averse to self takes (see photo album). Prague turned on its lone sunny day for our visit to the castle - Autumn was eveywhere, in the clear sky, in the leaves we tried to catch from the balcony and in the colours of the garden overlooking the city.

The constant refrain of how cheap Prague is, finally came to fruition when we went out for some traditional Czech cuisine to farewell Gee. And when I say traditional, I mean within the realms of good tatse - no roasted pig's knee was consumed. For AUD$20 each, we all had an American sized main meal, 3 bottles of wine between us and an assortment of czech spirits that were, in a word, our unravelling. As we filed out of the restaurant, throats burnt from various vile concoctions the waiter (in a perturbingly knowing fashion) saw fit to serve us, said waiter had the temerity (granted we were inexplicably shaking his hand at this point and promising to return) to say we 'didn't drink like Czech people'. Perhaps that could be because we still have our throat linings, whereas Czech babies have their's stripped at birth.

As a sidenote, Eastern Europeans have revealed themselves to be the strangest race of people encountered so far. There is something intrinsically eerie about them all (ok, ok, since watching Hostel I am completely bias) however the homeless man in the grocery store only preceeded other, more bizarre encounters. One more notable one occurred when we were walking towards the old square, on a bitingly chilly day, arms wrapped around ourselves, heads down against the rain. Suddenly, a dapperly dressed gentleman, perhaps in his early 50s, was upon me, bundling me up in his coat and ferrying me to the shelter of a nearby cafe before I even had time to draw breath. Like the homeless man before him, his term of endearment choice was 'baby' and so I found myself being addressed in feverishly intimate tones, 'isn't it cold baby, or are you cold baby? Would you like a massage?' Satie, my walking companion at the time, did not bat an eyelash. Merely drifted away so as to give enough distance to suggest no prior knowledge of who I was. She watched on, with the same perverted interest as everyone else, as I wrestled free from his binding coat and politely declined the massage offer.

We farewelled Gee, in an emotional display, the next evening. She boarded a rickety train at our local station (without a doubt a location for a Hostel scene)and sailed out of view, Frankfurt bound. We were not to know that hours later we would fly into Frankfurt in an unplanned detour and be strolling the halls of Frankfurt airport simultaneously. So close, yet so far away.

This unplanned detour to Frankfurt airport was all part of the most ridiculous of Travel Days to occur thus far. More ridiculous than Seattle-New York via Vegas, arriving at 3am. Nearly on par with Rome-Santorini via Athens, arriving at 6.30am (although nowhere near as torturous). But, it was only a matter of time before we ran into some form of airport trouble, it had all been going far too smoothly with our tickets. Upon arrival at Prague airport (lovely, and in our top 5 favourite airports) at 1.30pm, for our scheduled 3pm flight, we found said flight to be missing from the departures board. Futher investigation revealed it to be, inexplicably, cancelled. And so we were put on a 5.30pm flight to Frankfurt. Hello four hours to kill. At 6.30pm, we landed in Frankfurt airport for the third time to find our flight to Copenhagen had been delayed. Douse self in Sarah Jessica Parker's new fragrance to pass the time. 8pm, board plane to Copenhagen, which proceeds to taxi for half an hour, before we finally take off and land in Copenhagen at 10pm. Three countries in one day. No, make three countries in 4.5 hours.

We arrived at our hostel in Copenhagen at 11.30 to find Satie's booking (separate to ours due to her earlier departure) had been cancelled. Half an hour later, some other poor, late soul's bed was cancelled, and Satie was checked into a dorm of 9. Eight of them were 19 year old male backpackers. The floor was sticky and a bucket sat by one of the bunks, in preparation. Satie partied by proxy that night.

The next morning the papers bore news of Scandinavian Airlines having to ground a whole fleet of the planes we were scheduled to catch from Prague to Copenhagen, following a crash landing where a propeller had sliced through the plane taking out 3 rows of seats. And presumably the people sitting in them.

It has to be said, Denmark is the over achiever of countries. They are beautiful. Eternally happy. Enjoy a high standard of living (and inflict the consequences of this wealth on the not so wealthy tourists) are environmentally conscious, incredibly polite, so well dressed as to induce inferiority complexes in the non Danish mortals and prance around in aforementioned good fashion, pushing prams containing insanely beautiful children. I am even going to go so far as to say Denmark is one giant science experiment that has been successfully kept under wraps and Copenhagen will soon, in a sudden and peaceful movement, take over the world. We found ourselves longing for Germany where at least they were open about their attempts at racial engineering.

We farewelled Satie in Copenhagen, another loss to our troops, leaving just Dee and I. Our final full day was spent in Tivoli Gardens where we momentarily lost each other and it seemed Satie would be farewelling herself from Copenhagen, and our last supper was pizza and red wine. We may have been in Copenhagen, but our taste buds were in Italy. We put Satie and her backpack on the 9.33am bus the following morning. The Trio had been broken. It was time for Dee and I to continue on alone.

And when I say alone, I mean with our German family, who we set out to reunite with the following day. Once again, we found ourselves in Copenhagen airport, killing time by running around frantically changing flight schedules following the snap decision to extend our 3 week stint in Münster to a month. This may have had something to do with our bags being 6 kg over the limit and us not having to pay for this if we were spending a month in Germany ... that, and where better to spend a month than in beautiful Münster?

Again, our flight was delayed, thank God Copenhagen airport is, fittingly, superb (number 1 on the list of faves) with endless food and shopping options. If we had any kroner, which we didn't, except for the 15 we had received selling our souls on the street (non Danish souls do not sell as well as pure Danish souls). In Berlin it was delayed again and, finally, delirious and ready to jump off the next plane we had to get on, we arrived in Münster.

All was right in the world again.

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A Cold Shock — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-05-30 11:33 — 0 comment(s)

From 45 to 12 degrees ... rain, rain, more rain and Freud

And so we were back in the land of the comfortingly strapping Germanic people. Large of face, gutteral of tongue, sturdy of jeans and boot, it felt good to be back amongst them all. Once again, processed meat was a food group and people looked at thongs like they were dirty, and the people wearing them, equally so.

Vienna managed to successfully incoporate two major themes of the trip - late night welcomes, and freak weather. We met Satie at JFK at 3am, ushered Amber into our hostel in New York at 2.30am, and so it was only fitting that we found Miss Gee Ross at the train station at midnight, asking a conductor how to get to our hostel. Said conductor backed away at the sight of Dee, Satie and myself running towards Gee, our shrieks falling only on the ears of the shady characters who populate Vienna's main station at midnight. We inexplicably robbed Münster of its Summer in June, took the rain to Paris, the winds to Santorini and then the freak cold snap to Vienna (which followed us all the way to Münster where, hitherto, the sun had been shining). And when I say freak cold snap, I mean 12 degree days and icy rain storms. We flew out of 40 degree Athens and, upon our arrival in Athens, the temperature dropped and the heavens opened. No weather channel could explain it, but we knew. It was the simple fact of our presence.

And so our sightseeing was hampered somewhat. It was freezing, we had bags full of linen and summer dresses, and it was raining nonstop. The Imperial Palace is beautiful, but not when your face is about to snap off. Thus we found ourselves in the most favoured store of the Australian traveller (because we don't have it back home, despite the fact we severely need it,) H&M, perusing the sale racks and buying such necessities as beanies, scarves, enclosed shoes and gloves. Admittedly my cream knit gloves have not been worn yet and were probably overkill. However, when I do wear them, they will look fantastic.

Rugged up, we attempted to assault the cultural hotspots of Vienna, only to seek refuge in Starbucks at around the same time everyday because, at around the same time everyday, the rain would start as soon as we set foot outside our hostel. And, as much as we would persevere through the biting drops, as soon as the familiar green sign came into sight, we would run in, and then glare bitterly at the suave Europeans to whom rain is but a blip on the fashion radar. They, no matter the weather, remain chic in knee high boots and tailored trenches. Life is unjust.

I would like to entirely blame the weather, however it cannot be denied our own laziness played a small part, for the fact that our night life consisted of the hostel bar and a deck of Greek playing cards. And yes there is a difference between a normal deck and a Greek deck given the Greek penchant for sexual deviancy and alternate orientations. Aaaanyway. Of course, the WomBar was full of Australians, Germans, Poms and Americans, served rancid red wine for 2 euros and the barstaff, inexplicably, wore hawaiian shirts and spoke with some sort of ghetto twang. Our evenings were whiled away playing Arsehole, and teaching it to various nationalities, whilst watching CNN's seemingly endless coverage on the passing of Pavarotti and the imminent arrival of the Pope. One blight on this blissful schedule was the thieving of our sangria from the hostel's communal fridge. I mean, really, who does that? And worse, it was done under our very noses, most probably as we shuffled the offensive deck 2 metres away. Photographic evidence was taken and word disseminated throughout the hostel, to no avail. The sangria was never recovered.

In the name of psychology, did get to two important sites, the Sisi Museum and the Freud Musuem. Sisi first, to warm us up - this extraordinary woman had an eating disorder and depression (both undiagnosed, but us shrewd psych students discerned it with ease) lost a son to suicide and then, just to top it off, was assassinated in Switzerland by a knife through the breast. Sisi's dresses, preserved in glass cases, revealed the thinnest woman of Nicole Ritchie proportions, with placards beneath photos reading, on alternate occasions, 'Sisi displayed concern for retaining her extremely trim figure' and 'but Sisi did love her food, she often bought large amounts of pastries from the bakery.' It doesn't take a scientist to see an unhealthy relationship with food happening with a woman who wrote incredibly dark poetry in an effort to express her all encompassing unhappiness (depression). It was three smug girls who sat in the old offices of Freud, nodding sagely at each other, soaking up the pervasive atmosphere of world changing knowledge.

A visit to Vienna isn't complete without seeing the Naschmarkt. And when I say seeing, I do mean eating yourself into a coma. Olives, nuts, stuffed peppers, cheeses, baklava, dried fruits, lollies - every conceivable type of treat is sold by this long line of fresh food stalls and, every conceivable type of treat is able to be sampled ... so the belly ache you walk away with will most likely not be a result something you actually purchased, instead a result of over exuberant sampling. Well, it was in my case anyway.

Vienna is absolutely beautiful, the people are lovely and, when it isn't raining, the Imperial Palace gardens are extraordinary. The WomBar isn't half bad either and there is an english cinema if you run out of things to do. Which you shouldn't. But if a movie happens to open (Hairspray) when you are in Vienna, keep it in mind.

We left our hostel at 5.45am on Sunday, after frantic packing, bound for Prague. Vienna farewelled us with a telling off by a cafe owner at the airport, a telling-off being a farewell custom we long ago resigned ourselves to.

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A Week in the Cradle — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-05-21 11:53 — 0 comment(s)

Getting our geek on in Athens

'Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And eloquence.'
John Milton.

'Athens is gross and really dirty, you only need to go there for 2 days.'
Every seasoned backpacker we encountered on our travels, who has been to Athens for 2 days.

The thing is, we had a week to spend in Athens. And to everyone else, this seemed an inordinate amount of time to spend in a city that's 'only thing going for it is the acropolis.' And the other thing is, I loved Athens. I loved everything about it. The weather (searingly hot) the food (fresh, cheap and delicious) the shopping (markets, boutiques) and the fact that overlooking the entire city, visible from where you might be having your morning coffee, is the world's preeminent symbol of antiquity, The (astounding, beautiful, jaw droppingly incredible) Acropolis.

We were staying in Hostel Zeus. Yep. Hostel Zeus. Perhaps the most spartan of all hostels thus far (and that was completely unintentional ancient history reference,I promise)Hostel Zeus provided its guests with a mattress cover, and the option of a terrace bar ... that was boarded up in 1986. So, all in all, extremely pleasant. We were, for the first night, alone in our 4 bedroom dorm. And then, the next morning, as I dropped my towel and went about putting together a suitably cool and floaty Athenian outfit, our fourth dorm mate walked in. Satie flung herself at the door, he reversed out apologising profusely and I clothed myself. A few days later, I would walk in on Forrest having an intimate moment with himself and the visual stimulation provided by his laptop. I feel like Forrest and I got to know each other on an intensely personal level, despite the fact he was gay, 40 and we slept in opposite bunks.

Athens has long dominated my education landscape - from year 12 Ancient History when we were forced to watch videos of a woman in white linen super imposed against all the big monuments, saying 'dis is deee A-crop-o-lissss' all the way through uni where professors in sandals and billowing haiwaiian shirts waxed lyrical about all things Greek and Roman. And so when our Ancient Ruins Day dawned, I felt the nerd blood begin to pump. It was a suffocatingly hot day and there is little respite offered by any of the monuments, except thimbles of lemonade for 6 euros outside the Acropolis. Which, by the time you have walked up there, is a bloody enticing offer because any bottled water you may have brought with you will undoubtedly have boiled en route and your are about to start licking the ground for some sort of moisture. Not that the ground would have any moisture.

Anyway.

Ancient Ruins Day was the culmination of hours spent with my nose in Thucydides and listening to my uni tutors get so excited about Pericles they literally foamed at the mouth. It was a day that I promised myself would happen all those years ago, in ancient history class with Leni when the now infamous phrase of 'disss is deee A-CROP-O-LISSS' was first uttered. That day, one I will never forget, I stood atop the Areopagus and surveyed a shimmering Athens, walked through the propylaea and sashayed around the Acropolis, stood in front of the Parthenon and stared, did it again with the Erechtheion, sat in the audience of Dionysus' theatre, and, as the sun set, took a turn about the Ancient Agora. I had conquered Rome and now, finally, Athens.

(It must also be noted that Athens boasts the most incredible Starbucks. In the world. A testament to the Athenian architectural eminence, it is three levels of Starbucks heaven.)

We farewelled Athens with a payment dispute with the oily haired youth who manned the desk at Zeus. His parting words were 'I was going to give discount on air conditioning. Not now.' The discount comprised of 2 euros, and clearly out concern that we had booked the hostel under one amount per night yet were being charged for an entirely different amount altogether, was grounds to negate an act of such generosity.

And so Greece was over. My list of Ancient Ruins had been ticked, my list of Foods to Eat had been ticked three times over, and I had finally tracked down what all cool Mediterranean girls were wearing that Summer, Aladdin pants. It was time to move on. Time for the tans to fade, for Satie to get her wish for cold weather and time to trade dolmades and moussaka for cake and chocolate. That night, after a brief interlude with one of life's constants, Athens Airport, we were in Vienna. It was 13 degrees and raining. There was not a dolmade nor a cocktail in sight.

Our Mediterranean Summer was over.

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A Constant State of Repose — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-04-29 11:28 — 0 comment(s)

Santorini, the land of doing absolutely nothing.

Whenever I think of the Greek Islands, apart from envisioning gay men writhing around on various Mykonos dance floors, and Australian Topdeckers singlehandedly keeping the economy afloat through alcohol and coconut oil consumption, I see those little white houses attached precariously to cliff faces, looking out over endless stretches of beach and the flat, sparkling Mediterranean Sea. Something like this: http://www.4321.co.il/greeceweddings/wedding-in-santorini.jpg

And so, when faced with the tough decision of what Greek island we would most like to visit, I based my vote almost entirely on those little white houses. It was My Greece, just like Granada was My Spain - I had to go to these places in my mind's eye, if for no other reason than to settle it with myself that they exist and are as beautiful as they are in travel magazines and my head.

We were staying in Perissa Beach, which is situated at the Southeastern part of the island. It is a black beach, thus the sand is mostly made of lava, and it stretches for nearly 7km, dotted with straw umbrellas and watched over by the massive Mesa Vouno, the site of ancient Thira. Our first introduction to this beach was when we passed out on the sunloungers at about 9am on the day we arrived. But first, let me take you back to Santorini Airport, 7am ...

We actually flew in closer to 6.30am, but had erroneously informed our shuttle bus it was 7.30. Cut to us waiting outside the airport, sitting on our bags, pale faced and desperate to close our eyes anywhere that wasn't the stone floor of Athens Airport. At 7.30am, Roberto roared into the carpark, manning the mini van like it was some sort of Aston Martin-esque vehicle, not a white 1994 mini van often seen at Catholic school events. He leapt out, threw our bags into the boot and then, in stilted English, proclaimed 'I be back. I need,' and he wielded his index finger in our face for emphasis, 'ONE coffee. Ok?'

Ok. We fell asleep sitting up in the back of the van.

And then we feel asleep on the sunloungers whilst waiting for our room to be ready.

And thus we were welcomed to Santorini. Wild driving, patent need for coffee (just one)and lying in the sun. A succinct summation of the lifestlye, if ever there was one. And, to be honest, nothing much changed. Wild driving continued on quad bikes (not ours, we appropriated them from our English friends) the patent need for coffee is a constant state for me, regardless of the city, and lying in the sun was only ever not happening if we were lying in bed, or lounging on our favourite couch at our favourite bar. In fact, I would hazard a guess I spent most of the week in some sort of reclining position, moving only to shove food in my face. And when I say shove food in my face, I mean consume some of the most delicious food in the world because, in my mind, Greek and Italian food are in a constant tussle for superiority in the food stakes. Greece also excels in the canned food department. Dolmades, giant beans, okra ... even moussaka (but I didn't go that far ... tempted as I was). Not to mention the non canned goods Greece also excels in (Leni and Jojo feel free to correct my spelling), fetta, loukumi, spanikopita (sold at the 24 hour bakery which was singlehandedly run by an octogenerian woman who, hair in a severe bun, permanently be-aproned, ran every store on the bloody island) halva, baklava, eggplant, taramasalata, tzatziki etc etc. Yes, this entire blog could very easily become about food.

Anyway, I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, the beach (and me lying on it, having cocktails brought to me from the Beach Bar) from which we only moved to go to Dorian's pub for sweet red wine and then onto Fusion for cheap cocktails, where we befriended the owner and unofficially became spruikers for this fledgling bar. And when I say spruikers, I mean the main part of our job required sitting on the same couch every night and drinking until the early hours of the morning. So good were we at enticing people to this bar (and when I say enticing, I mean sitting and drinking) that a job was offered for next summer. Come and live in Santorini, there is a room above the bar for you, and we will pay you to stand outside and smile at people. And all drinks are free. Mum and Dad, if I disappear around next July, you know where to find me.

Fusion turned out to be a hotbed of social activity that week. It also introduced us to a vast and varied cast of colourful characters who border on fictional. There was Mark who we met one night sitting on the wall of someone's house. He not once dismounted his scooter, even when needing to minimalise the metre distance between us to shake hands ... he, instead, scooted over. The metre. On his scooter. There was Harry who genuinely did not speak one word of English, so opted for an eternally benevolent expression regardless of the conversation subject matter. The perpetually shirtless DJ who mistakenly invited me into his box to 'spin some records' ... an offer I, regretfully, didn't end up taking him up on. There was the owner, Allison, whose life is what Under The Tuscan Sun esque novels are made of; fed up with her dreary London life, one way ticket to Greece, meets Albanian lover in Athens (aforementioned DJ), opens bar in Santorini. It was also at Fusion that we encountered the dubious company of two Norweigans who consequently and indeed simultaneously, fell in love with Satie. She won them over with her sparkling wit and ability to conceal her repulsion at them smearing tobacco over their gums every fifteen minutes. Now, there are times when removing oneself from cloying conversations is nearly impossible. And, to her credit, Satie really did pull out all stops. However, it came to be that the most viable option was to simply find a new conversation circle to enter elsewhere in the bar, seeing as ours was proving impossible to enjoy and impossible to exit. Our knights in shining armour came in the form of an English family - Dad, his best mate Big Phil, and the three sons. The Norweigans joined in, leaving only when Krister literally couldn't see anymore. To this day, Satie shudders when her phone beeps, lest it should herald a lovelorn text from one of her two Scandinavian lovers.

And so Santorini passed on a Summer breeze, a haze of cocktails, black sand and sweet red wine. By day we lay sprawled on the beach sun loungers, by night we reclined on Fusion's loungers. Little bronzed children kicked the soccer ball in the street our balcony looked over, Roberto coaching his own little 3 year old bambino with the vigour reserved only for Europeans (Greeks no less) and football. Our hair became wild with saltwater and our skin got darker and darker until we blended in with the sand.

It was a little slice of heaven as Europe's autumn closed in on our Mediterranean Summer.

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Airports. Soul Suckers. — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-04-14 18:48 — 0 comment(s)

The highs and the lows of ... Airports

Over the course of the past 5 or so months, we have become intimate with many airports ... I think the number is something nearing 20 with 3 more countries to get in and out of before we get home. Take Frankfurt airport, for example; three times we have strolled those hallowed halls, without ever actually having been into the city itself. No mean feat. Copenhagen; we have whiled away many hours on two separate occasions, with a third impending. And Athens airport. Ahhh Athens airport. We have flown into it from Rome, out of it to Santorini, back into it from Santorini and back out of it into Vienna. We have slept in it, shopped in it, become delirious with fatigue and hunger in it, marvelled at the diversity of things to do within it, grown resentful of it for not having enough to do in it, accusatory of its security levels (let it be known cans of dolmades are not even CHECKED to be sure they are indeed dolmades)- ultimately, a deep and complex relationship has been forged, through the highs (discovery of shopping haven) and lows (horror at McDonalds inexplicably closing at 2am).

But, before we could get to Athens airport, in all its glory, we had to get out of Rome. And before we could get out of Rome, we had to kill 4 hours in our campsite (check out being at 10, airport shuttle bus booked for 2pm). In fact, the entire period of time that was getting ourselves out of one ancient city into another, was defined by elongated periods of Time. Five Legs to be exact.

The Five Legs
1) Campsite Wait. 10am-2pm. Hungover. Desperate for a burger. None in sight.
2) Rome Airport Wait. 2.15pm-8pm. Hangover continues. Only pizza in sight, no burger. Burger preferable to pizza. Will hold out.
3) Rome-Athens Flight. 8pm-11pm. No comment. Flight was blur.
4)Athens Airport Wait. 11.30pm-6am. Airport littered with prone bodies of slumbering backpackers, many in sleeping bags. Alternate between inexplicable positivity 'this is going SO quickly' and maniacal patrolling of corridors for something to do.
5) Athens-Santorini flight. 6.30am-7am.

And, upon arrival, a 6th leg was added.

6) Wait For Room To Be Vacated & Cleaned So We Can Check In. 7am-11am.

Some journal entries of that part of my life that is now a pain filled blur:

5.46pm, Rome Airport ... the wait continues. Never found hamburger, was forced to plunder Lowest Point of Hangover without requisite hangover food. Am now much more chipper, not so delirious, but would STILL sell firstborn for a cheeseburger. And a vanilla latte. 1 sugar. Ahhh Americanisation.

11.50pm - Athens Airport - leg 3 of torture extravaganza is over. now, simply have 4-5 hours to kill in terminal before can check into Santorini flight. Passing time singing rousing renditions of Save Tonight and River Deep, Mountain High.

2.18am - Ahhh Athens Airport, how so very intimate we are.

4.35am - Things To Do Whilst Waiting in An Airport
* give yourself a migraine in the perfume department of duty free
* rationalise buying a bottle of pear vodka, then decide against due to all too fresh memory of hangover
* sleep on floor - try not to feel homeless/dirty, instead pass it off as homeless chic/resourceful
* stand dolefully at McDonalds entrance knowing you technically cannot buy a big mac because you are about to lie on the beach for a week in new swimmers, the pants of which are inexplicably and embarrassingly tiny.

3.15pm - Santorini - Princess Hostel - how is this day still continuing? Surely it is Friday, not still Wednesday the 22nd. Surely I am no longer human, instead bizarre alien beamed from one time zone to the other with no concept of rhythms usually considered inherent to being human.

I have to go and make myself a strong cup of tea before I tackle the blissful reward that was Santorini. The Five Leg Torture Extravaganza still gets me, even today.

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Dolce Vita — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-04-06 21:45 — 0 comment(s)

Italy part 2

En route to Florence's main bus station, we were, as was becoming customary, fined again. What was particularly annoying about this fine was, moments before the straw-haired transit officer approached us, when Satie had asked whether or not we should validate our tickets, I had said confidently (pinned to my seat by my 30kg of luggage)'don't worry about it, we will just fall over lurching to the front of the bus, we only have one more stop anyway.' Yep. One stop too many in the world of super keen ticket checkers whose version of being kind is splitting the fine between the three of us, as opposed to fining us all individually. So kind. Thank you.

In bitter moods, we then proceeded to trawl the station four times in some sort of farce movie sequence, no one providing any sort of definitive directions as to where the bus station actually was - Italy is wonderful in many, many respects ... food, wine, leering men ... it's just that directions is not one of these. Helpful customer service is another. We found our Siena bound bus with 5 minutes to spare, Dee had a tussle with the ticket seller (the roots of which are still inexplicable) and we boarded ... and slowly departed civilisation.

Siena itself is, after the big cities of Italy, wonderfully quiet and quaint and probably sick of people writing books about being beneath its sun. Half an hour south of Siena lies Tocchi, the four house town we were staying in which boasts a greater geese population than it does human. It is, however, one of the most beautiful places in the world and had I been beneath its rays for longer than a week (and with my laptop) I can guarantee I would have bashed out a similarly saccharine novella.

Our farmhouse stood atop rolling olive green acreage at the end of a long, narrow and very dusty road (which we walked a total of two times and complained of the heat every inch of the way). We had a pet horse (Mari Lou) a dog (Mose) some chickens and 2 ducks to call our own, and feed the scraps of our attempted Tuscan cooking to. Our first introduction to the region's food came from a bona fide Tuscan, Costanza whose parents owned the place we were staying in, and she fuelled us onto incredible culinary feats, as outlined in various journal entries ...

Saturday, 11th August: Hurrah! Am chef, Italian chef, with natural hold on tastes and flavours. Have just cooked delicious scrambled eggs.

Sunday, 12th August: Domestic goddess streak continues - just prepared fresh bruschetta mix for tonight's dinner. Perhaps should do recipe book.

Ultimately, we became recluses. Rotund recluses at that. Our days were spent eating and reading in the baking sun (then running inside from swarms of bees that I assume thought my hair was a beehive) and our nights whiled away beneath the setting Tuscan sun, red wine in hand (cheap and delicious in the land of plenty). Our anti social tendencies were revealed when we did venture into the city, once for a grocery shop and once for Palio, and this dislike of crowds and humanity in general was probably not the best state of mind to be in considering our next stop was Rome.

Rome was, accordingly, a shock to the system. Gone was our charmed existence, in its place was a campsite, crowds, and Indian men shoving roses in your face then demanding fiscal compensation. However, nothing beats the thrill of a new city and so our hermit shells had to be shaken off (if nothing else, I needed to be as small as possible to wedge myself into my bunk which was nailed precariously to the cabin wall and resembled a bizarre nest-bed more than it did an actual place of slumber) and our inner tourists embraced. I fear that if I wax lyrical about Rome I will do it a major disservice because Rome, like Paris, has to be seen to be believed. You cannot read about Rome (unless you are reading someone with far greater literary skill than me) and get everything it is about. I could tell you that the massive Pantheon rises out of the middle of nowhere, nonchalantly heralded only by Rameses' obelisk. That we came ambling out of an alley shoving gelato in our faces, and there it was, this extraordinary relic of one of the greatest civilisations to ever exist. I could tell you the sight of the Colosseum nearly brought me to my (nerdily shaking) knees, that the Roman Forum that precedes it, and Constantine's Arch that neighbours it, exist alongside modernity as if it is the most natural thing in the world. The Trevi Fountain, you could stare at for hours and never tire of it and the Spanish Steps are the best place to sit with thousands of other foreigners and attempt to comprehend it all. But I cannot possibly do any of it justice. It is a city you just have to see.

We channelled our inner demure ladies when we visited the Vatican City, no one likes to stick out, particularly when God is watching. And needn't have bothered (or at least tried so hard ... I wore the equivalent of a body suit and a sign on my head saying 'non revealing clothing' even though it was about 35 degrees). Short shorts, skirts, midriffs, plunging necklines - everything one's Nana would rather die than see you in - were out in force and turned away with equal force.

Our last night in Rome involved some Australians who, when not shrieking out 'who wants a Vaginamite sandwich tomorrow morning' and loudly proclaiming how arrogant Americans are and how loved Australians are in comparison (the irony was astounding) were pleasant company. We did, however, take our leave when she of the Vaginamite began hooting about how much French people love Australians (a love I was not privy to) and then demanded to know if those who didn't want Vaginamite tomorrow would prefer Penis Butter. Yessss. Vaginamite and Penis Butter. Can. You. Fathom.

And so it came to be that the next morning, hungover as it seems to be the custom on Travel Days, we began the trip from hell to get to Santorini. It would be 20 hours, 3 airports, and a large amount of time getting intimate with Athens airport later, that we would touch down on the sunny shores of Santorini. For now, the Dolce Vita was over.

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It's a Beautiful Life — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-03-15 12:44 — 0 comment(s)

Italy Part 1

Do not go to Milan.

Actually, let me rephrase. By all means, go to Milan if
1) you are a fashion model - then please, strut these uninspiring streets in all your grasshopper glory
2) if you are simultaneously a fashion obsessist and made of money (in which case you JUST might be a fashion model anyway). Shoppers Dee and I may be, made of money we certainly are not.
3) you are using Milan as a stopover, your gateway into one of the most beautiful, exciting and exhilarating countries in the world

We flew into Milan from Malaga, Spain, a cheap flight that would get us out of Spain and into Italy. It was a full day of travel before we checked into our Milan 'hotel' at midnight. A bus from Granada to Malaga station, a bus from Malaga station to Malaga airport, a plane from Malaga to Milan and then a bus from Milan airport to Milan city (oh, how familiar I am with the Spanish and Italian bus system now. When in doubt, there will always be a bus.) From the centre of Milan, we caught an extortionate cab to our hotel. Which leads me to my next point.

If you are ever in Milan (going against my advice, because I know none of you are fashion models, and I question to what extent made of money applies) do not stay in Adellci Hotel. Do not be fooled by the word 'hotel' tacked onto its name. It may be the cheapest thing on hostel world.com, because, in Milan, it costs to breathe (unless you are a fashion model, I would imagine it is free then, and probably comes with a complimentary hit of coke) but do not be sucked in by its soothingly cheap price tag. In fact, do not be sucked in by the word hotel. It is not a hotel, it is a horror movie set masquerading as a hotel. It may have a few sheets of foolscap paper scattered across the school desk which moonlights as reception on the odd occasion customers actually check in, but this is simply a guise of professionalism. It would have been ok, if our door actually locked properly. I could have even overlooked the fact that the toilet across the hall didn't sport the, I would have thought, necessary appendage, of a door. The one next door to our room did though, because Satie locked herself into it ... she could be heard to wail, as we jostled to get her free, 'this is how I die, isn't it.'

Do, however, go to Venice. If you do anything in your lifetime, make it Venice (or Florence, or Rome, or Siena ... or, really, just Italy). Venice is beautiful. Venice is picturesque, photogenic, ridiculously charming and hopelessly romantic. It banished the horrors of Milan, and practically whipped out a picture book of What Italy Should Look Like and flipped through the glossy pages saying 'prego prego prego'. It is the only city thus far, thats central station has been situated in a pretty part of the city. In Venice's case, you step out, and fall head over heels with a literal postcard image. It takes about 30 seconds to progress from infatuation to full blown love affair. Then a tourist steps on your foot, or sneezes in your face, and a man hassles you to buy a fake prada bag ... and, as it always does in these touristy cities, reality prevails for the moment.

We were staying in Australia ... I mean, a campsite (it's ok, not in a tent, I couldn't pitch a tent if my life depended on it, nor do I have any interest in it) which was (as all campsites through Europe are) a drop off point for everyone's favourite brand of traveller, the Contiki/Topdeck breed. Needless to say, our nights were spent lying in our bunkbeds listening to Aussie C words pick fights with other Aussie C words. I mean, really, can we not think of another word? Is vagina the best we can do? Surely, if our generation continues travelling, in five years we will cease to be known affectionately as Aussies (we will cease to be known affectionately at all) instead, simply as the C word. Not because we are them (well, most of the time) but because it is the only word we seem to spout with any sort frequency. That and 'fuck'. And occasionally 'mate'. Long gone are the simple days of g'day and kangaroos, we now have far more sinister things defining us, and they include derogative references to the female anatomy. Makes. Me. So. Proud.

But I digress. The backdrop to this Australia vocal and verbal ablution, was the delightful Venice. We spent our days eating head-sized pizzas (always go to the back streets for the cheaper and more authentic food) sipping lattes at checkered cloth covered tables, from chipped mugs with cows on them and stalking gondola men for the perfect action shot. All you need to do in Venice is walk, the city does the rest for you, purely by existing. And if you can find a tiny cafe, in one of the narrow back streets, untainted by the massive tourism market that seems to drive this city in the summer, then you can get a pretty cheap (and delicious) coffee and watch the world go by. And get leered at by Italian men. Whatever.

Bologna was next, a train trip (and a fine, who knew you had to validate your ticket after buying it) and a rather long cab ride, and we were at our hotel (smugly booked as one of the cheapest accommodations on hosteworld.com) in the Bologna countryside. Bologna was to be our campsite reprieve, we fashioned it as a hotel retreat, so as to make our campsite stints in Venice, Florence and Rome seem more bearable. At first, it seemed, we had fallen for the Horror Movie Set Moonlighting as a Hotel ruse once more ... then fellow patrons trickled in, the lights went on in reception and we exhaled. The novelty of having our own bathroom, and a buffet breakfast every morning was enough to buoy our campsite and train-fine dampened spirits, as was the fact that Bologna is just lovely. It is the sweetest little university town (since the 1200s or something insane like that) with endless bars, trattorias, cafes and fresh fruit stalls lining the cobbled, arcaded streets. It is worthwhile making time for this little town, even if only for a couple of days - particularly as a stopover in between the hectic Big Cities (Lonely Planet Cities). You feel less like a tourist and more like a local, and if nothing else, the spaghetti bolognaise sauce is superb.

From Bologna, we caught the bus to Florence, yet another campsite, and yet more Aussies. This time, however, we were mercifully more thoroughly dispersed throughout throngs of bronzed European backpackers and skimpily clad Poms who go nuts at the sight of the sun. Again, I will wax lyrical on yet another Italian city. Florence is; artistic, scenic, grand in its old age and rich with art history. It is also bloated with tourists and so, as in Rome, you are hard pressed to find a bona fide Florence-ian, and more likely to engage in any sort of interaction with an American than you are an Italian. That aside, it is wonderful. And again, the perfect city to find a tucked-away cafe, and get out of the throngs of sweating tourists. That being said, a whole lot of sweaty shoulders were rubbed in the queue waiting for David, which is located in an art museum that literally makes no pretences as to why it exists - for David. About 4 paintings hang on the wall in the first room, to the left is a bizarre room of busts and sculptures and then, standing there, framed by an arch and godly light filtering through, is the man himself.
And he is breathtaking.

Nearly as breath taking as the freak rainstorm that hit Florence, the worst in 20 years, as we were skipping through the city. And yes, we were skipping, fuelled along by caffeine, in our calico frocks, perhaps yelling bonjourno to cafe owners who, in their spare time, stand on the steps of their store fronts and talk to passersby. At first, it was a rumble of thunder, then the clouds closed in and boom. Lightening, thunder, gale force winds (of course, Dee and I were perambulating along the bridge at that point, and yes we stopped to take a photo. Ever wonder what kind of people get photos of natural disasters? Why they are standing in the midst of a freak storm photographing flying houses? That's Dee and I. Anything for a good photo.)Aaaanyway, we ran for cover (stopping to photograph and entire row of scooters that had toppled in a domino-esque fashion) only to find most archways occupied by shivering tourists and, by this point we were so wet anyway we saw it only fit to continue. The walk to our campsite involved a narrow set of incredibly steep stairs (the hilltop view comes at a price) which, as we approached them we noted, had turned into a veritable waterfall. When we reached the top, the cafe housing smugly dry Italians (the men are such girls, one actually screamed when he got wet) laughed in our (bedraggled) faces, and so we had no option but to continue to the campsite, rather than endure the humiliation any longer. And so we got back to the campsite, having crossed uprooted trees and waded through flooding gutters, to discover our cabin flooded. The window was open. Dee's bed was soaked through. Satie's bag had puddles in it. Our floor was a wave of mud.

For a couple of nights, it was a not so beautiful life.

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Finding My Spain — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-03-08 13:55 — 0 comment(s)

Valencia, Madrid and finally, Granada ...

It was in Valencia that we were reunited with our German bruder, Christian, and finally ate paella. The European Crew (minus Tommy) was reformed and the cuisine trifecta was complete, Sangria, Tapas and Paella. Hunting down the perfect dish, however, was not without its difficulties. In fact, if you ever need someone to quickly and effectively weed out the worst service and the worst food a city has to offer, please call Leni, Christian, Satie, Dee and myself. We did it in Berlin with the Cheese Platter from Hell and we did it again in Valencia. Desperation for water and air conditioning will drive sane, rational people into any establishment.

Although Valencia's beaches are offset by a stunning industrial backdrop, and the water is an unnerving brown, we spent most of our time in Valencia on the beach, straying into the city only at night (to hunt down the shit food/service double whammy we are so adept at) and on the second last day. Smaller, cleaner and quainter than Barcelona, Valencia seems less preoccupied with getting a stylish name for itself and much happier to sip caipirinhas in sundrenched courtyards. And if that's what you gotta do, then that's what you gotta do.

On Dee and my 3 month travel anniversary, the Trio bade farewell to Christian and Leni, and hopped on yet another 4 hour bus to Madrid. Not before the world proved yet again how tiny it is, and I ran into a Kiwi friend I met in America six years ago on a school 'Young Leader's Conference', on Valencia station. Any moment now, my brother's contiki tour will appear at one of our budget accommodations, I am waiting for it.

We arrived in Madrid hot and tired and desperately excited to see the nation's capital. This excitement would soon morph into a bitterness borne of theft and inappropriate bodily excretions. Our hostel was bangsmack in the middle of the city, on a prostitute lined street, a stone's throw away from the gay party district and right next to McDonalds. Ideally situated. We checked in with Mr Personality 2007 who sported a dye job from hell and rivalled only our cab driver in the arsehole stakes. Granted it was Satie's penchant for writing her Rs as Zs that got us lost in the first place, but we're still paying you mister, no need to scowl so hard your face folds in on itself.

Madrid is infections, there is no denying that. In parts, it is pretty, though nowhere near as effortlessly as other major cities, but there exists an undercurrent of energy you can't quite put your finger on, nor a name to. If you ever find yourself in Madrid, hungry and impoverished (the universal state of budget travellers) go straight to El Tigre, a bar that serves free tapas with every drink. And if you stay long enough and they start to close around you (around 2am) then you don't even have to buy a drink for the platters of chorizzo and cheese baguettes to arrive. Just, whatever do you, don't look at the floor.

Things began to unravel on our 3rd day, and it is here I depart from my narrative and read straight from my journal (which was penned in a tipsy state and thus I may have to notate at times ..)

I have to record this evening whilst it is still fresh in my (admittedly mojito addled) memory. Allow me to hark back to when man defecated in street. Actually, no must hark further back to the two hours Dee and I spent prostitute watching, as depressing as it was fascinating. Actually, no must hark back to when women raised skirt and urinted into grate, on public, much populated street. Defecation occurred en route to meeting Jeff and Mario. Man was ejected from tapas bar with great force – camel suit
pants then unzipped with feverish sense of panic and alacrity. Squatted, defecated. Dee and I in shock. Turned to see if anyone else saw it, woman passing by belched in my face. Continued to plaza to meet Jeff and Mario, but plaza full of agressive lesbians who kept trying to take chair reserved for Jeff. 80 year old woman in sunglasses took to busking area with interpretative dance from hell with small boom box and wizened husband as props. Fight broke out between two men moments later, scuffling sounds sounding over disco music. Engaged in some bizarre limb locking wrestle, rolling in gutter. Distracted momentarily, when fat man in white suit liberated phone from my possession and strolled away.

NB: Dee and I ran off like a shot to try and catch Fatso (who vapourised, probably on a waiting scooter) and so Mario got up to join the chase, still holding his sangria, then the waitress started chasing Mario yelling about him not paying. Mario threw euros at the table and continued running, sangria still in hand.

And so it was with a somewhat bitter taste in our mouths that we departed Prostitute Lane and Hell's Hostel for Granada. Madrid's parting kiss, or slap in the face, came in the form of abuse from a homeless man as we alighted our cab at Madrid's autobus station. Or perhaps it came in the form of the ticket seller who was too busy flirting with her disturbingly baby faced colleague to sell us our tickets to Granada. She did, however, pause long enough in batting her eyelashes, to inform us the next 3 hourly busses were full.

Hello bus station caffeteria, our old friend.

The bus ride to Granada was hellish, not least because it was four hours long and was each hour passed, the temperature rose to a balmy 41 degrees, peaking, of course, when the bus driver decided to take a break in the middle of nowhere. What made it even more painful was two girls in front of Dee who passed the time engaging in bizarre faux lesbian antics for, I can only assume, because no one else enjoyed it, the viewing pleasure of the lone male of the trio.

Granada is my Spain. I finally found it. Prior to actually arriving in Spain, if you had said to me, paint a picture of Spain with words, as you see it, I would have described Granada. After the frenetic pace (and public ablution penchant) of Madrid, Granada was the perfect antidote. White stucco houses, narrow alley ways under an umbrella of blue sky, stone water bubblers and geranium filled balconies. We spent our first day in the tea house area, which is a narrow and steep little street where tapas houses jostle with Middle Eastern restaurants and tiny but deep stalls selling the fruits of the combined Spain and Islamic influences that makes Granada so unique.

And then, of course, there is the Alhambra, which we chose to visit on a 45 degree day. Actually, rephrase, which we chose to walk to on a 45 degree day.
The Alhambra is, scorching heat, profuse sweating and lack of a water bottle over the size of 80ml aside, exquisite. The palace is a beautiful homage to Islamic art and architecture, but with a Spanish flavour. We went to the neighbouring fortress and looked down over a sunburnt Granada, cradled by the huge, dry mountains. The gardens were beautiful, at once green, luscious, neat and charming and, rather thrillingly, I have found my new house. The Summer House. It is my dream house, realised. Stark white walls, square courtyards with orange trees and ceramic ponds, so much space and sunlight, a literal Mediterranean paradise

And then it was a bus again, to Malaga, where we caught another bus to the airport, where we caught a plane to Milan and out of Spain.

For now, adios Espana, bonjourno Italy.

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First Pair of Knockers Out ... Spotted! — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-26 11:12 — 0 comment(s)

So said a spotty, pallid, English youth as he bounded around a city beach in Barcelona, beside himself with joy.

On the plane from Paris to Barcelona, I closed my eyes and imagined Spain. The sun, sangria, sundresses, brown skin and bare feet. Sweating profusely in my I-Have-To-Wear-5kg-Of-Clothing-So-My-Luggage-Meets-Restrictions outfit, I envisioned the beach and me on it, and endless mojitos. I had to. There was no air conditioning and I was desperate.

Barcelona was our first Spanish city and, according to the Lonely Planet, the most un-Spanish of them all. A heady fusion of old and new, with a lean towards the new and chic, Barcelona bustles as much as it siestas, it parties as much as it sunbathes, sprawled in the scorching summer sun. Our neighbourhood, Gracia, was a charming riot of boutiques, lolly stores, Middle Eastern restaurants and tapas bars, all jammed together on narrow tree lined streets overlooked by flower pot filled balconies. It was small enough for us to become local, and perfectly positioned for a relatively short stroll into the city.

It really is impossible to spend any time in Spain and not become completely and utterly relaxed about life. Sangria becomes your breakfast juice, but that's ok because you don't wake up before midday anyway (the magic hour. Drinking before midday is just sad.) And you don't wake up before midday because you don't go to sleep until late, because around about 4pm you have a siesta anyway. What else are you supposed to do? Everything closes down, you have nowhere to go but back to sleep, whether it be in bed, on a sunlounger on your balcony (until you are informed it is inappropriate in Spain to sunbathe on balconies) or on the beach. And if you are on the beach, it is so bloody hot and the walk there has resulted in being so parched, it makes absolute sense to have a refreshing glass of sangria, particularly when supermarkets sell it in handily packaged juice-like plastic bottles.

The beaches, whilst definitely the best antidote to the blistering Summer sun, are city beaches so they are certainly not the most beautiful going around, especially to beach snob Australians. And they are not for the non-nudist-embracing either, as most women tend to eschew the other half of their bathing suits. You can easily separate the Spanish men from the prudish Anglos, if not by their skin tone, then by the simple fact that the Anglos are the ones who actually blink an eyelash ... and/or peel off their clothes to reveal pallid limbs and skip to the water yelling gleefully the now immortal line, 'first pair of knockers out ... spotted!'

Much to Leni's (who we were reunited with after her Paris jaunt ended a few days after ours') disappointment, we didn't eat any Spanish cuisine (save for tapas designed for the western palate in the form of mini hamburgers) but instead frequented a Middle Eastern restaurant, Equinox, where our loyalty won us star treatment and special post dinner treats, invita la casa (I really hope that means 'on the house'). We did sink to an all time culinary low, however, with the decision to patronise an all you can eat for 9.95 salad bar. The four of us transformed into frenzied, plate piling animals who, despite the buffet being completely and uninspiringly limp, pressed on in a ghastly and mortifying display. At some point, the haze of beast-like desperation suddenly cleared, revealing us, with embarrassing clarity, for what we had become. The saddest of the dining world ... all you can eat, Homer Simpson style, scrooges.

To get the full idea of what Barcelona is really about, you simply have to ramble. Whether that be purely along Las Ramblas, past the brilliant shopping, street performers and artists, sidewalk cafes and paella restaurants, all the way down to the port with its imposing Christoper Columbus statue – or through the winding backstreets where can find the best (and often the cheapest) tapas bars, gelato stores and the lesser known boutiques where the annoyingly attractive Spanish girls find their annoyingly chic outfits. Due to the unveiling of a new Frugality plan, unveiled mid-Barcelona, that involved shunning public transport, the four of us did a lot of walking. Including the daily 12km round trip walk to the beach, done in suffocating heat, most often with towels draped over our burning forms, as our spindly legs (made spindly by excessive walking) zigzagged this way and that. If frugality wasn't enough to drive the Spindle Leg Walking Plan, the appearance of the aforementioned annoyingly attractive Spanish girls and their bambi legs was. Whoever said Spanish culture appreciates 'real women' obviously overlooked the period in which the country jumped on the spindle bandwagon and bred out things like thighs and hips. We were ten times more 'real' than any Spanish women I saw and I blame the tapas entirely.

As tradition has come to dictate, our final night in Barcelona was a large one and, due to the benefits of Equinox loyalties, a cheap one at that. Like Pied Pipers, we skipped down the main drag of Gracia, gathering Equinox staff, Antoine the crazy tapas man and anyone else who wanted to join five sunburnt and delirious Australians (the 5th being a new European Jaunting co-star, the perenially glamorous Jeff-Originally-From-Sydney-Now-Works-In-London) in Sangria and Spanglish.I awoke the next morning, two hours after we went to bed, unable to walk due to a rolled foot, which rolled in a spectacularly uncoordinated manouevre whilst gadding about gathering people. Hungover and hobbling (me), we made it to Barcelona station only to miss our train. Not because we were late (miraculously we were early) but because we were in Spain. No Need To Hurry is the country's motto. Thus it was four sorry girls who boarded a very warm bus for four hours, with only an empty lolly bag between them ... in case of emergencies ...

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A Tumultuous Love Affair — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-19 23:08 — 0 comment(s)

Falling in love with the city of love was the hardest part.

Where do you possibly begin with a city that has been immortalised (rather successfully) in film, literature and music for about as long as it has been in existence? Do you start with the snooty Parisians who, high on living surrounded by such impossible beauty, rarely deign to mix with Non Parisians, especially if they don't speak French (or are German ... lest we forget Victory over Paris in Berlin's Parisiaplatz). Or do we, continuing along the vein of petty, trivial things, in order to get them out of the way, comment on the weather which made sightseeing (read: skipping along the River Seine in a striped babydoll dress sipping a Cafe au Lait) a needlessly tiresome process. But lets not blame Paris for that, let's blame the human propensity for screwing up the environment. And so now the two things that dampened our days in the City of Love & Baguettes are dealt with, I can proceed on a much higher note.

We arrived in Paris a little worse for wear, the reasons for which have been previously documented. No one likes a hangover and a flight. As we stood in the cab rank, a shouldering a total of 30kg of luggage each (except for Satie who went with the backpack option and so weighs in at a mere 18kg) watching large gleaming Mercedes ferrying weary travellers away and thinking how God really skimped on Sydney in the cab department, a decrepit vehicle that sold well in 1987 came to a halt in front of us. No gleaming Mercedes for the grubby Australians. Some time was spent gesticulating wildly to our cab driver, in order to make our address in Paris known - not because we don't speak French, but because we don't speak Mandarin.

Our residence, off Boulevard Voltaire, in the charming district of Nation (Nass-e-on, Mum, my French pronunciation has come a long way) was on the second floor of a quaint apartment block that belongs in Hollywood's library of French cliches. As did the street on which it was situated. Riddled with similar cute apartment blocks, one covered in ivy and sporting a courtyard perfect for breakfasting on pain au chocolat in, mornings saw the windows flung open and the residences enjoying the balmy weather on their little wrought iron balconies.

Our first official day in Paris (not counting the one in which we ate a kebab and fell asleep at 8pm) it rained. Our sightseeing enthusiasm undeterred, we donned berets and Chanel couture (a girl can dream) and set out for the Eiffel Tower. It is nearby this stunning monument that I embarrassed myself beyond belief. It has happened before and it will happen again - I like to blame my weak ankles and gammy knees. I fell over. Face planted. I absolutely, face first, ass in the air, hair in a puddle, fell over.

Once more, a direct entry from my journal ...

Later ... in cafe drinking $9 cup of hot chocolate. Had to soothe soul and ego following disastrous and mortifying trip. As in fall. Stack. FACE PLANT. Waitress = rude & french.

On a quaint French street ... running through the rain in a carefree manner, wind in my hair, bag clasped to my chest, calling out to Dee and Satie in gay tones. Left ankle gives way, twinging as it cruelly bows out. Buckling from full weight of chinese-bloated body, left knee folds it in, leading to bizarre moment of surfing, arms outstretched, down puddle riddled alley. Eventually fall onto belly, seal style, and continue to surf the puddles for a good two metres, gliding to a halt, facedown in particularly large puddle. Am now drenched, there is a hole in my leggings, a scrape on both my knees and my right elbow.

Strangely, the day then became magical. The rain eased enough to be able to walk through it, and so we made the Arc di Triomphe our next port of call. Why not knock over all the Lonely Planet hotspots in one day. Drenched. And bleeding. From the knees and the ego. We reached Champs Elysee as the rain stopped for good, the sun began to set, and Paris suddenly decided to smile. As did a strange man who kissed me after his friend photographed us together beneath the Champs Elysee sign with his mobile phone. As we walked down Champs Elysee, it was decided that although the day had surfed dizzying heights (sitting beneath the Arc di Triomphe as the sun set) and plundered crushing lows (facedown in a puddle being stepped over by chic Parisians and their Chanel wearing dogs) it was the kind of introduction to a city you never forget.

Rain (and a mini hailstorm) forced us to take cover in romantic archways and Edith Piaf soundtracked cafes the following day. A simple half hour walk down Rue Faubourg, past Bastille and onto Notre Dame, became an extreme sport. However, as it often is with extreme sport, the work was worth it. Notre Dame is exquisite. And although it is somewhat ironic to have to watch one's bag and shield it from pickpockets in God's house (pickpockets are mad for sinning under His nose) it was an architectural and spiritual highlight. We continued on, down the River Seine, to the Musee D'Orsay. A simple flick through the Lonely Planet would have revealed to us what we discovered after a half hour walk, that the D'Orsay was closed ... but combatting blustering winds scudding off the river was well worth the walk. The sun came out that day ... at 9pm.

And to the Catacombs, for an education in the macabre. This 2km stretch of quarry is the home of the skeletal remains of over 7 million Parisians, displayed in, as the guide at the beginning puts it, in a 'decorative manner'. I'm not going to lie to you, it is bizarre. Particularly when the father of an especially heinous father-son duo produces a blue light, holds it underneath the nasal cavity of a skull and encourages his son to take a photo. I mean, really. And, watching various tourists embrace skull photography with great enthusiasm, I was left to wonder, what is the appropriate pose for you, a skull, and a pile of artfully arranged femurs? Do you smile? Are you really that happy to be surrounded by the remains of 7 million people who died in horrendous circumstances? Do you look sombre, so as to befit the occasion? Because, when flipping through your travel album twenty years later, do you really want to see you posing dourly next to a leering skull? Surely not. We elected to skip this photographic dilemma and instead, watched in horror, as people went about making their own rules that at times, as aforementioned, involved props.

Take two with the D'Orsay failed to see us actually enter the building. To the uninitiated eye, it would appear we were casing the museum for a potential break in. This time it was open, but the queue was two hours long and the museum closed in two hours. Tip - for the big stuff in Paris, pre buy tickets. Or cry. We walked home, along the River Seine having walked over 7 million graves, a million spokes piercing the stormy sky.

Third time was a charm with the D'Orsay, which was as confusing as it was wonderful. I got lost and ended up riding escalators for a good half hour admiring the lesser known sculptures they put near the bathroom, for lack of wanting to look like I was actually lost in a museum. Having learnt our lesson, we set out to pre buy tickets to the Louvre and got thoroughly lost. That being said, if you are going to get thoroughly lost anywhere, do it in the winding little laneways of Paris. There is no better place to be. Especially when you sit down to some lemon pie and a cafe au lait, only to have a passing, portly old gentleman pat an imaginary extended belly and point at you through the window. We didn't, however, learn our lesson enough. That evening we attempted to see Harry Potter only to find both french and original versions were sold out. So we pre bought our tickets for the following night, in perhaps the most exciting pre buy to date.

The Louvre and Harry Potter dawned on the same day. Venus de Milo blurred into Voldemort , Mona Lisa into Draco Malfoy. It was a very, very exciting day. I really don't need to say anything about the Louvre, because I really can't say anything that will do it justice. Yes Mona Lisa is tiny, yes I almost cried when I saw Venus de Milo and yes the Greek, Roman and Estruscan collection is heaven, endless rooms of heaven. A personal highlight for me, however, came in the form of an Australian tourist, straight from the Kel Night mould. He managed to situate himself in an empty archway (Venus' room was under construction, so there were plenty of these empty archways) and, adopting some god forsaken imitation pose, boomed to his fellow tourist group 'oi, it's Simon de Milo ...'

Simon de Milo.

There we are, in the Louvre, everyone breathless and starry-eyed, bloated with culture, Asians peacing out madly - and the Australian coins himself Simon de Milo. Not quietly either, but in a loud, suburban twang, in a hall that needed no help with accoustics. I laughed, very hard.

For the record, Harry Potter was superb. Absolutely superb. And book number 7? Breathtaking.

Our last full day in Paris began as it did every morning, with severely sprained necks. Our beds rivalled concrete slabs for comfort. Leni arrived in the morning to continue her European Jaunt. From the word go, it was the most beautiful day in such a city, anyone could have asked for. If the first day was a faceplant in a puddle, the last was a bubble bath in champagne. Crepes and cafe au lait, from a tiny off the beaten track (until the Lonely Planet reviewed it) lined our stomachs for yet another dalliance with the dead. This time the skulls were safely ensconced in the rather beautiful Cimetare Pere which is the resting place of Moliere, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison among thousands and thousands of others. And let it be said, this time, we took pictures and we smiled. What else would Oscar Wilde have wanted?

Sacre Coeur was next, along with a brilliant, sundrenched view of the city in all its glory. And of course, the sun came out for our final 24 hours, so everyone was out lounging on the grass, listening to buskers sing Heal the World (no I did not make that up). And finally, we came full circle and spent the rest of our last evening at the Eiffel Tower. It was the day before Bastille Day, so the city was feeling festive, and by sunset the lawn in front of the tower was packed with picnicking Parisians (and drunken youths a la Milsons Point on NYE). Not to be outdone in the picnic stakes, we rustled up some Camembert, red wine (purchased from the very same cafe we had sought refuge in following the face plant) chocolate and Madeleines and had ourselves a bona fide French picnic, as the sun set behind the Eiffel Tower and the fairylights came on to scatter it with stars.

We left for Barcelona the next morning, having finally fallen in love with Paris.

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Cycling Legs, Mini Trips and Moving Out — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-16 17:01 — 0 comment(s)

If you can't cycle, you're not European. We flew the coop, missed our mutti terribly and took a few mini trips - Berlin was never the same.

Just two days after getting home from Munich, we left for Berlin. At 5am. Christian and Tommy, who were sharing the four hour drive (flight) down the autobahn, predicted traffic and so as the sun rose on Michaelweg, we were peeling out of it, packed tightly in the comfort of fine German vehicular machinary. After a Bathroom and Bad Coffee Stop, and four hours of some serious singing, we arrived in Berlin at 11am, found our hostel and then sought out the most important thing, a kebab. Christian's promise of Berlin having the best kebabs came good.

Leni met us at the hostel, on the same morning, for the first of what has become several European jaunts. Tradition dictates we christen a new city by eating immediately (done) drinking immediately and sussing out the city centre (read: shops) and so, I am embarrassed to say, we spent out first day in the history HOTSPOT that is Berlin, drinking Mojitos and window shopping at Ka De We. We attempted to make up for it the following day, by scheduling a full day of sightseeing, only to be completely waylaid by pouring rain and a gay pride parade, en route to our planned Museum binge. And so it came to be that instead of prancing around an art gallery, I was pranced around by super smooth gay men on leashes. We managed one museum on museum island that day, and it had absolutely nothing to do with Berlin. I was happy as larry, however, because it had everything to do with Greek and Roman history.

A rather large night followed that saw all plans to leave the hostel nixed, and a group of Texans join us in the hostel bar for some raucus fun. So raucus, in fact, that Tommy managed to get shushed by security. He was later heard trumpeting 'I am the German spider man'.

As is becoming custom, our last day in the city was the best. The sun actually shone, so we didnt need to gad about in leftover ponchos from the World Cup with 'Deutschland' emblazoned across the back, and we, finally, did an activity that acknowledges Berlin for the historical HOTSPOT that it is. We did a walking tour that ended with a passionate monologue on the steps of the ault art museum from the guide and welling eyes from us. Berlin is like a foster child that has been passed from dysfunctional family to dysfunctional family, through one of the most volatile periods of history. And yet it retains its beauty and its strength as a city, and you really get a sense of that, walking past and through buildings that have been desecrated and rebuilt, some several times.

We did a bit of our own walking tour afterwards, led by Christian to whom Berlin is what New York is to me. I will not blame his impeccable guide skills on what happened next. The consumption of the worst food in the history of food consumption, most memorably a cheese platter ordered by Satie. Never has Brie resulted in such a stunning, enmasse gag reflex. Buoyed by a goblet of red wine, I may have shrieked 'this is the shit of Satan', as Satie slumped, wordlessly by her platter.

The day after our triumphant return from Berlin, Mama, Papa and Christian took us to a seasonal fair that is held on the lawns of a castle in Munster (as fairs often are). We foolishly downed chips and mayo and a crepe, before enthusiastically hopping on board one of Christian's 'favourite childhood rides' which involved frantic whipping about of capsules at a steadily increasing pace. Satie and I partnered up, narrowly avoided strapping ourselves into an actual capsule of vomit (the man found our horror at this near miss amusing) and then proceeded to yell such gems as 'ARE WE GATHERING PACE?´'I AM GOING TO VOMIT ... WELL IF YOU VOMIT, ANGLE YOUR HEAD THAT WAY SO THE BACKLASH DOESN'T GET ME ...' I didn't vomit, but I did pinch a nerve. How embarrassing. Am I eighty?

A few days after that we did a day trip to Koln (Cologne) and climbed all 500 (alleged, I am going to go out on a limb and say it was 1000) steps to the top of the Koln Cathedral. It was enthralling ... once we got to the top. Which involved snaking around panting poms who took inappropriately timed breathers when the winding steps were at their most narrow. This day trip marked our 15th city and 2 month trip anniversary. We cheersed to it with red wine in the plaza. We also cheersed to the news the boys' apartment was officially (or unofficially, depends on how much furniture makes living quarters official) ready and it was time to leave Michaelweg and our parents and strike out on our own.

Our final hours spent with Mama Rita were spent cycling around the town of Munster. Yes, cycling. There are more bikes than people in Munster, cars actually give way to cyclists on the road (instead of try and run them down, like me) and the majority of Munster's crime is tied up in bike thievery. So you can just imagine the three of us straddling giant hire bikes and taking off around the city, none of us having cycled since the age of 10; one loses their cycling legs after a while. Dee rear ended Rita within five minutes of taking off and Satie, in a stunning display of athletiscism, narrowly averted falling off her bike and into the river. By day´s end, so smug in our capabilities were we, that we cycled home to Michaelweg from Graelstrausse at 1am ... even after a celebratory Liquor 43 or two. If anything, we were celebrating getting Tommy's waterbed up the stairs, as much as we were the apartment being completed.

We officially moved in the following day, and, following our final dinner at Michaelweg, we hosted another round of celebratory drinks, on a larger scale than the previous evening. Leni jetted in for the weekend, we drank champagne, and it all culminated in a wildly interpretative dance to Atomic Kitten in the living room, newly minted as The Girls' Bedroom. It was a headachey foursome who made the trip to the Netherlands the following day, and it was a very calm Saturday night spent watching White Chicks and eating Doppelkeks.

Our final days in Munster sped to a close far, far too quickly. So quickly, in fact, that we will most probably be returning some time in September to recapture the Graelstrausse magic. We spent our days eating pizza (might have had something to do with an attractive pizza maker, not so much the delicious ruccola pizza he made) and ice cream sundaes comprising of 60 scoops, drinking cheap Spanish red wine on the cluttered balcony (and spilling it all over said balcony ... Satie) reading law papers and trying to prep Lennart for his exams (which goes to show how dire his preparation was considering my help was the best option going) shopping, watching Boston Legal (apparently an effective study method for budding lawyers) inhaling the healthy combination of chips & mayo and doppelkeks and extending our three word German vocab to an impressive 15+.

And the final night suddenly rolled around. We had our Last Supper at a lovely restaurant nearby, then returned to Graelstrausse to disturb the neighbours for a couple of hours (and close the door in their face, politely, when they appear for the second time, be-robed and with arms folded). Eventually, we removed ourselves from the building and took ourselves off to the Tracks of Munster. Really. I have said it before, but this was the actual Tracks of Munster. The crew were all there - Tommy, Anke, Basti, Jacob, Nicole - and shots abounded, namely because tequila was the best thing to get with the free drink tab.

I cannot describe the pain of the following day. Our train left for Frankfurt at 6am. We rolled in through the door, bloated with the heady mix of kebabs, pizza and tequila, at 4.45am. I crawled into bed until 4.50am, when Satie whipped the covers off, demanding to know why I had gotten into bed with the alarm due to go off in ten minutes. Half an hour of frenzied packing ensued, what were emotional goodbyes were delivered with drunken nonchalance, and we set off for the station in outfits borne of being on the floor at the time, and not stuffed into suitcases.

And so we made it to Frankfurt and onto our plane to Paris in the exact manner in which we arrived in Frankfurt from New York. Hungover as all hell, grumpy, grubby and in desperate need of sleep. For me, Frankfurt will forever spell headache.

Things always go full circle.

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Becoming German — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-16 16:58 — 0 comment(s)

Eat hearty food, drink plenty of beer and don't mention the war.

Perhaps the best place to start is the flight to Germany. It was nearly as epic as our month long stay in, what my father calls, The Motherland. Epic, not in length (we are Australians, flying internationally is always a long haul) but in frequency of chaos and embarrassing moments. I will type now, directly, from my journal;

Disaster has struck - loose of limb and of tongue, our 3 seats have become a vessel of delirium and embarrassment. Began when flight attendant, identified as gay not only through occupation but through overt mincing down aisles, rolled over Satie´s foot with drink cart. Led to an unfair amount of laughter from me, but couldnt help it. Breakfast soon served and, in peeling back my yoghurt foil, it spurted out, volcano style, splattering over my face and clavicle. Similar occurence with sugar sachets for tea. In moment of jest, said carelessly to girls, 'next I will pour tea on my crotch...' Lo and behold, moments later, backhanded full cup of tea all over Dee and I, soaking the groin area of our travel pants. Once this was sufficiently mopped, turbulence struck and Dee, in a moment of Herculean bravery, hoisted the nearly empty tea cup into the air, to avoid similar type of spill ... only to spill remaining tea on my head. Pants are now drying stiff and blueberry yoghurt spots my new Gap hoodie. Forty minutes to go.

And so we touched down in Germany with as much style as we departed it.

We arrived in Frankfurt with no idea how to get to Munster, little German and a fiendish caffeine desire (me). We successfully navigated our way onto a train (bless the English speaking Europeans, who needs second languages these days) and after 4 hours of German countryside and wonderfully pushy fellow passengers, we touched down in Munster, the sweetest, prettiest, full-of-university-students city on earth.

We slipped effortlessly into the Munster lifestyle ... because, essentially, it was the one we left at home. We had a German mutti and papa who prepared us breakfast in the morning and massive, hearty German meals at night. A German bruder and thus his group of friends and thus, a ready made segue into the 'Munster nightlife' ... just one big university party really. And, because it doesnt get dark until about 10pm, no one really heads out until midnight, at the very earliest, which means one is leaving the hazy, student-packed venues, as the sun rises. We dug deep to revist our youth, the heady days of Tracks, and effortlessly made the transition from ´ageing crone´to ´bona fide partier.´

At some point, in Germany, time ceased to mean anything. When you eat breakfast at midday, sand doors and sing to Roxette in a gutted apartment till 9pm, when the sun finally comes out, then eat dinner as it sets at 10pm, and when you have already changed from Sydney time to West Coast time, to East Coast time, to Germany time in the space of 5 weeks, you get to a point where to have a body clock just doesnt do you any good anymore. It is still there, I've just taken the batteries out for a while.

Prior to moving into the DIY renovated apartment on Graelstrausse, with our adopted German bruders, we occupied the home of Rita and Bernd, on Michaelweg. Mama and Papa, who have previously only had one son for the past 22 years, suddenly had three daughters to contend with. I dont imagine there is much difference, except that once a week Satie cooked - and we did our own washing, albeit after struggling with the appliances somewhat and shorting the power circuit whilst using the grill to grill pizza.

In between waking late, watching Roland Garros, lending invaluable hands to apartment renovations (and lungs, Toni Braxton has nothing on us) trotting down the street for ice cream and lattes, and exhausting the city's department stores, we booked a few days in Munich. Let it be said, that I love Germany. But it was in Germany that I got over long train trips. The seven hour trip to Munich was dogged by delays, missed connections and overpowering toilet smells. And giant pumpernickel sandwiches, stuffed with sausage, being the only food available from the kiosk.

Munich, however, turned out to be well worth the trauma of the train trip. It was stunning. Romantic, ridiculously pretty. Flower box lined buildings, endless churches, cafes sprawled out onto cobblestone streets, busking quartets playing Vivaldi (no I am not making this up). We stepped outside our Simple Life comfort zone and stayed in a hostel, only to realise exactly why we have avoided them thus far. I dont travel halfway around the world to cohabit with Australians yelling the C word in my face every five minutes. Yes, I had to write the C word, my grandparents would have a heart attack if I didnt.

Following a hearty meal of grilled vegetables, I got food poisoning. Yessss, food poisoning. From vegetables. According to my all knowing American-med-student-dorm-mate who, when not putting anyone who thinks single beds are too small for two people to shame, does field work in third world countries, parasites commonly reside in root vegetables. And so the rest of Munich passed in a green, nauseus blur, and a brief, if not dramatic fainting spell on the train station ... which we had to run for because our tickets gave us the wrong platform. No I was not bitter. Just about to vomit on the next German who tried to push me out of my seat.

I am now, cunningly, going to end this blog and immediately begin another one, Germany Part 2, if you will. Only because this one is now too large for one sitting consumption, and I do not want any complaints from my loyal readers for overloading them.

So on the note of nausea and bitterness, I shall temporarily leave you. See you in Germany Part 2.

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Uptown Girls — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-11 10:39 — 3 comment(s)

We've been living in our uptown world - Central Park, The Met, and a long bus ride downtown

Uptown Girls

When our cab pulled up in front of number 850 West End Ave, Upper West Side, New York City, we all sat for a little while, silent with disbelief. It was reminiscent of a similar silence, one that occurred exactly six days prior as we surveyed the ghetto over which Irwin presided. I prodded Dee and told her to go in and double check this was actually our hostel, as the umbrella stretching out over the wide, tree lined path, with '850 West End Ave' scrawled elegantly along the side painted a picture far too pretty for our hostel expectations. Not to worry, however, the inside of it was the very image of the lowest of hostel expectations ... our room was so small we nearly ran out of oxygen on several occasions and there were moments when we even missed Irwin's and our indoor rockery.

This blog is going to be, primarily, about food. This is because, somewhere along the way, this trip became less about seeing the world and more about eating it. We may have missed a few major monuments along the way, but give me a city and I will give you the best place to get a hamburger, a bagel, a coffee, a short stack or a sangria. Surely that is all there is to life.

Our move to the Upper West Side brought with it a total change of lifestyle. Our park of choice was now Central Park, the Manhattanites backyard; we were privy to the best bagels in the city (Lenny's Bagels, as rated by the influential Zagat - any eatery with Zagat's seal of approval has unofficially made it in a city where the average lifespan of new restaurants is 6 months) going 'downtown' meant only as far as midcity and we began hooting smugly at jokes aimed at Upper East Siders. Upper West Siders are so much more broad minded and diverse. We became accustomed to seeing more nannies than mothers, complained if we had to take the bus all the way down to 52nd and ate more pizza and drank more Starbucks than is actually humanly possible ... actually, it was at a particular Starbucks that I had a rather nasty experience that involved me erroneously picking up an old cup, thinking it was mine, and taking a liberal sip of someone else's cold, discarded cinnammon latte. Satie had also taken the liberty of using this cup moments earlier as a disposal recepticle for her green tea bag. Yes I gagged. Very publicly.

We did do the touristy things, however, including Musuem Mile, home to some of the best musuem's in the world, ground zero, 5th ave (repeatedly) and a fantastic movie tour. And it was on this movie tour that we learnt the best method of stalking actors. Whenever you see a fluro piece of paper, taped to a parking meter, it means that a shoot of some sort will be taking place soon. The piece of paper tells you what is shooting - a film, television series or commercial - who is directing it and the main stars. Needless to say there was great excitement amongst the three of us when we discovered Revolution Road, starring Kate Winslet and Leo in their first pairing since Titanic, was being shot a block back from our hostel. We also saw Hairspray on broadway, which was fantastic - the movie is coming out soon with John Travolta and Michelle Pfieffer, everyone keep your eyes peeled - and the third Pirates installment and perhaps one of the funniest movies I have seen in a long time, Knocked Up. And so entertainment, as well as food, was a strong theme for the three of us.

Seeing as New York City is riddled with Irish Pubs, it only made sense that our favourite bar was one and our fondest, most alcohol sodden memories, take place in 'The Parlour' ... apart from a particularly lovely evening spent in a bar on the roof of a building that is in the middle of Times Square. However one cannot maintain a $14 glass of wine habit every night. Thus it is far better to befriend the bartenders of a lowkey Irish pub, who love your accents and your ability to push on through whatever concoction they might want to try out on you. Us Australians don't have strong stomachs for nothing.

It was at The Parlour, that Satie experienced her finest hour thus far. I need not go into detail, Lord knows we have rehashed it amongst ourselves (and for captive audiences across the globe since it happened) enough, however I will raise the curtain of silence enough to give a very brief rundown of events. After a delicious Italian meal at Regional ... my massive pasta dish consisted of 8 pieces of ravioli (someone in the kitchen must have overheard people complaining about American meal sizes and decided to singlehandedly rectify the situation) we walked down to the Parlour and unwittingly (read: completely on purpose because the rest of the bar averaged an age of 65) crashed a bachelor's party. An hour later we were drinking partly on their tab, partly on the bartender's generosity. We were slapping the back of the groom to be, downing shots and slapping the bar with our left hands and teaching our bedazzled audience the words to everyone's favourite birthday drinking song. Of course, it was only manners to demonstrate how the song worked, and so 'here's to Liv/Dee/Satie, she's true blue' was probably sung more than anything else. I paired up for a pool game with a salsa teacher who was delighted I was Australian, as South Australian red wine has been his drink of choice since an illicit affair with an Australian woman ten years ago. In between losing the game for him, he took me for spirited spins around the pool table.

Satie teamed up with the Rudest Man Alive ... and to say that in New York is a big rap. Everyone is rude in New York until you smile at them, then they fall over and ask where you're from. This man was from Brooklyn, 60 years old and with the face of a boot. Every five minutes or so, regardless of who was talking or what they were saying, or even if they were talking to him, he would bark 'STOP. Are you done?' Perhaps this is what pushed Satie over the edge. Perhaps this is what forced her to reach for that extra shot, willingly accept that extra Sydney Sunrise (the cocktail the bartender made and allowed us to name) ... whatever the reason, by the time we left The Parlour, for the Firehouse, Satie was well and truly on the path of no return. An hour later would see her wielding darts at The Dive Bar (actual name) throwing them into the walls and, at one point, using it as a microphone to sing a song to a group of people who clearly had their backs to her. It was only at Dee and my (pleading) insistence, that we departed The Dive Bar and finally returned home. Destruction and havoc were subsequently wreaked and it suffice to say, at this point, that the facilities of 850 West End Ave will never be the same. Nor will Satie's osophegus.

Of course, such an evening gives one an excellent excuse to go looking for a huge breakfast the next morning and it is here that I am going to give The Metro Diner my own personal Zagat rating ... burgers the size of your head, plus a mountain of fries, salad, and a pickle. Satie watched on in pale faced horror as Dee and I hoovered - every so often she departed when it all got too much.

Our final days flew past - we ran through rainstorms at 11pm at night to alleviate cabin fever, went looking for Shopsin's in The Village (the best breakfast place ever and frequented by Drew Barrymore) only to find it had gone - we were thus forced to enjoy a sandwich at The Grey Dog, another wonderful eatery we can highly reccommend - we ate cupcakes at the most talked about bakery, Magnolia (as loved by SJP and a plethora of other celebs) and on our second last day we smuggled a friend and her massive suitcase into our hostel room at 2am in the morning. Basement doors weren't made for nothing, and by that point we were so bitter about our shoebox room we were just looking for a way to get even with the hostel (leaving a fermenting tub of pesto pasta in the fridge for 10 days wasn't enough). And so Amber spent our last two nights with us in the most intimate hostel room on the Upper West Side.

We saw out New York in style, with a karaoke evening back at our favourite pub. Although Satie had vowed not to drink ever again, the lure of The Parlour proved too strong and we fell prey to rounds of white wine as provided by the bar manager as a means of keeping us there for karaoke. We performed a stunning rendition of En Vogue's 'Don't Let Go', half of it with the microphone fortuitously switched off, and I am sure the bartender wondered why the hell he wasted so much white wine on enticing us to stay.

Our singing, however, was not a patch on the vocals of the cab driver who took us to JFK the next morning. As we whizzed through Morningside Heights, I turned to Dee and quietly asked her if the crescendoing vocals were the cab driver or the radio. By the time we were driving past Harlem, it was clear it was the former, and he did not stop, nor lose volume, pace or tone until he had pulled our suitcases from the trunk and set them down on the pavement outside Lufthansa Airways.

And so we bade farewell to New York City, leaving behind a trail of bewildered New Yorkians who still don't quite get why we smile so much.

Best Bagels; Lenny's Bagels, Upper West Side
Best Breakfast; George's Restaurant, Rector Ave, Financial District
Best Value for Money; Metro Diner, Upper West Side
Best Sangria; a tie between Regional on the Upper West Side and Le Petit Cafe in Soho
Best Cupcakes; Magnolia Bakery, Greenwich Village. The kitchen is so small they only bake enough for each customer to buy a dozen cupcakes each maximum. To the SATC fans out there, it is Magnola cupcakes Carrie and Miranda are eating when Carrie tells Miranda she has a crush on Aiden
Best Sandwiches; The Grey Dog, Greenwich Village - you can even bring your dog. It's so hygenic.
Best Way To See The City; Dream Bar, Times Square, get there as the sun is setting
Best Irish Pub; The Parlour (clearly)
Best Starbucks; one of the thousands on 5th ave
Best Way To While Away a Lazy Day; A breakfast bagel, The Met, then Central Park.
Best Hotdogs; definitely a street vendor
Best Place to Find Eccentrics; on the bus
Best Place to Find Vagrant Artists Who Will do Your Portrait; on the Staten Island Ferry

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Manhattanites by Day, Statenites by Night — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-11 10:30 — 0 comment(s)

From the ghetto to downtown New York, we can mix with it all.

Manhattanites by Day, Statenites by Night

And so we stood before a teased tornado of salt and pepper hair, our luggage pooled at our feet, our cab driver roaring from view. One by one, we began to laugh. Because our clothes were sticking to our bodies, because we hadn't slept in what felt like five years, because we were in the ghetto, having watched all the pretty parts of the island pass us by in a cab driven by a madman who didn't speak English (word of note, not many people in New York do). Because initial disbelief at our surroundings gave way to hysterical, barking laughter at the hair. Irwin ushered us into a basement style bedroom that bore two raised queen sized beds sporting butterfly encrusted doonas, a kitchenette that consisted of a toaster and a microwave balancing precariously on the wall, and a sumptuous indoor rockery arrangement.

We fell asleep that night to the soothing sounds of neighbourhood domestics, backfiring cars and the occasional rustle of indoor rockery.

The first week of New York went by in a whirl of big breakfasts, sangria, late night ferry rides, and spotting NYC firemen. No one loves eating quite like the Americans do, and no one does breakfast quite like the New Yorkers. At our regular diner, in the Financial District, Georges (Dad that should ring a bell for you) we came to be loved by the staff for our loyalty and willingness to embrace the menu in its entirity.

The shopping in Soho and Greenwich Village is superb. From perfumeries and flea markets in the village, to 6-garments-to-a-rack-because-they're-so-expensive-we-only-need-to-sell-one-a-week-to-cover-our-rent-anyway boutiques in Soho, to the basics in Gap or H&M or gay porn in the Oscar Wilde bookshop (yes we walked in without even thinking about what the name suggests, yes we were forced to browse and make admiring noises so as not to offend the keen sales assistant ...). Our time was thus spent drifting from cafe to boutique, to second hand bookstore, to bar with the occasional detour to a park to rest our salt bloated bodies. There was an accidental stumble into Chinatown, late one night when our lone brush with the subway resulted in us getting out at some south coast station. Needless to say several NYPD men were approached and needless to say, every single time ... 'where ya from? Awstralia? No way ... you guys got kanagroos out there huh?'

A highlight was a visit to a psychic in the village (true locals, as we became, call the centre of Greenwich Village, the village, and the east part, East Village ... trust me, it matters. Areas and names matter in New York more than they matter in Sydney and that says something) which resulted in a deep discussion on a park bench and a follow up jug of sangria at our regular place, Le Petit Cafe in Soho. This jug led to deep, introspective discussion, spoken at volume levels achieved only by the ingestion of excess alcohol, which led to our being super friendly to an old couple sitting next to us, which resulted in the realisation they too were Australian, which resulted in the realisation the man was from the suburb next to me and owns the nursery on my Auntie's street. Yes, you can go all the way around the world and sit in the corner of a tiny cafe in a tiny neighbourhood in one of the busiest cities on the planet ... and still find a neighbour.

This week in New York also saw the inception of the Lazy Sunday (which can also occur on a Monday if the Sunday is unexpectedly busy) and began on a fine Sunday spent in Battery Park, overlooking Liberty and Ellis Island. Manhattanites dont have backyards, for the most part, and so on a sunny days they trickle out onto any patch of grass they can find and Mr Softees (poor cousin of Mr Whippy) line the streets tempting children and career obsessed anorexics that populate the chick lit genre so beloved by the cities' authors.

We left Staten Island, and Irwin's hair, having learnt Lower Manhattan (Financial District, Soho, Greenwich Village and Nolita) by heart. Which is a good thing. Because once you cross midtown and into the Upper West or East side, you never go downtown again. Unless you absolutely have to - like, say, if you are a banker and your office resides there, or you desperately want to be seen in the Meatpacking District (painfully, painfully trendy) or you have to pick up a dress on hold at Alice + Olivia, but even then you'd just send your nanny.

Besides, like, do cabs even go there?

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Flights, Ferries & Fantastical Hair — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-11 10:25 — 0 comment(s)

Start spreading the news ... I'm leaving today ... I'm going to be a part of it ... NEW YORK NEW YORK

Flights, Ferries and Fantastical Hair

New York, New York. I have almost been putting off writing about our two week stint in the city famous as famous for its buildings as it is its abusive customer service. Not because I haven't wanted to write endlessly about it, wax lyrical about its unique charm and unparalleled vibe, till you are all begging me to stop ... but because it was a fortnight of so much hilarity, so much shopping, so many weird and wacky interludes one can only experience with people who never stop, in a city that never sleeps.

We flew from Seattle, via Las Vegas, an eight hour flight on the second worst airline in the world, American Airlines. We survived the trip and potential deep vein thrombosis by befriending two flight attendents who allowed us to hang out in their special area, whilst they, eyes agog, pressed us for information on Australia's wild flora and fauna. For perhaps the millionth time in the ten 3 weeks we had been away, we assured wary Americans that crocodiles do not emerge from suburban gardens and steal sleeping children from their cots. Nor do sharks suddenly appear in swimming pools, competing for most dangerous backyard critter alongside plate sized spiders and gloved red kangaroos.

It was 2.30am when we flew in over the bright lights of the big apple. Brooklyn glimmers and Manhattan twinkles and even though you haven't slept in 20 hours, and all you want to do is knock yourself out and sleep for 24 hours straight, you get that little shiver of excitement.
Never mind the man next to you has been liberally helping himself to your spearmint leaves for the past hour, nor that he insists on lifting his tee shirt up intermittedly to reveal to you his tan, as his wife sleeps peacefully beside him - the fact you will soon be escaping his greasy pony tail and greasier smile, combines with the impending touchdown in one of the world's most exciting cities, and the shiver of excitement escalates into delirious, relief filled laughter.

We found Satie slumped against a wall, in a small roped off area of arrivals they keep open for such outlandishly timed flights as ours. Contrary to my earlier email, she was not curled in a ball singing Waltzing Matilda. She has asked I correct that, fearing some of you may genuinely believe it to be true. We had nowhere to go for 3 hours - in the city that never sleeps, the entire bloody airport was sleeping, and so we sought refuge in an empty terminal. It was 6.30 when we finally left, having exhausted duty free and debated the merits of purchasing a litre of apple vodka for $20 (before realising we didnt have our tickets to claim the actual freedom from tax) and, thanking the Lord for the flat rate cab fare from JFK to anywhere in Manhattan, we set out for Battery Park, the southern most tip of the island. A grossly oversized breakfast (perhaps, along with bagels and cream cheese, the best thing about New York) later, we were on the ferry to Staten Island, one of the burroughs surrounding Manhattan, and the location of our accommodation for the next 5 days.

The location of our accommodation ... and our landlord's hair.

Irwin Ferrera, whose name I firmlz believe is one derived for stage purposes, sported a head of hair unrivalled in volume, in hue and in pure defiance of gravity and good taste. It blazed above his head, a furious storm that afforded at least 7 cm in extra height. When we stepped out of the cab, breathing in the rubbish scented air of our surroundings, taking in the ghetto into which we had unwittingly stepped, to be greeted by Irwin's hair, we all, quite comprehensively, lost it.

And here I shall leave you. It is only the beginning. Irwin's hair can be spied on our online album, although the photos do not do The Mane justice as, in his own words, 'I haven't brushed it this morning.'

Stay tuned.

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Cold Feet & Starbucks Heaven — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-11 10:21 — 0 comment(s)

Seattle and Canada turn on the scenery and churn out the Starbucks. For the second time in my summer focussed, beach loving life, I see snow ... and my feet nearly freeze off because of it.

Cold Feet & Starbucks Heaven

From the very beginning, Canada was fantastic. The moment Courtney turned her car into the carpark of Victoria's Regent Hotel (the very hotel her father is, fortuitously, the manager of) the tone and indeed the bar for the rest of the trip, was set. Chilled champagne awaited the weary and seasick travellers, in the penthouse suite (known on the street as Room 606) and it was joined by one of my Top 5 purchases thus far, my 1 litre bottle of Baileys for $20 purchased duty free on board the clipper. To celebrate Court's birthday that had just passed, and Natty P's, that was impending, we went to the bar at the top of the hotel her father's partner is, fortuitously, the manager of, and drank cocktails looking out over the sweet city of Victoria.

And now the tone is set, I get lazy. In an effort to condense the week that was Victoria, Vancouver and Whistler, I will resort to sub-headings, every lazy writer's best friend.

Most Inappropriate Footwear Moment

Goes to the lowest point of the trip, when Dee, NP and myself could all be spied in an assortment of thongs, going up the bizarre flying chair that has some scary name like Excelerator, to the top of Blackcomb mountain. Someone really should build a little platform sight-see-ers can hop off onto, instead of leaping off aforementioned flying chair onto snow with absolutely no foot respite in sight. Yes we were pointed at, yes there was some snickering and yes there were many, many pitying looks.

Most Proactive Homeless Person

Goes to Normal the Doorman (self coined titled) who cleverly situates himself at the cab rank outside a Vancouver bar, and opens the doors for people with a cheerful and toothless 'Hi, I'm Norman the Doorman at your service' ... Dee panicked and shut the door in his face, but did this impinge on his sunny service when she reopened the door to get out? No. Norman the Doorman rather unwillingly shares his territory with the lady who picks flowers from a nearby flower bed and sells them to people Norman the Doorman has already bailed up, and neither of these two tolerate Hernia Lady, whose opening gambit consists of appearing at your side, bent at a right angle, and announcing her hernia as one might announce their possession of a hat.

Best Bars/Restaurants

• Vista Bar, Victoria
• Senefa - Vancouver ... if it's a quiet night and your group is majoritively female, they waive the minimum spend of $500 for a bed, and you can spend hours lounging on Middle Eastern inspired beds, eating and drinking Middle Eastern inspired cuisine. Best drink = Marrakesh Mint
• Joey's Tomatoes, Vancouver ... drink the Lemon Drop and eat everything on the menu

Most Insane and Possibly Not Real View

Anywhere you happen to turn when situated in Whistler. The place leaves you breathless about 10 times a minute - it is absolutely not possible to see any ugliness anywhere, at any time.

Canada's Version of Tracks ...

Garfinkels, where the average age is 19, save for a particularly sad bachelor's party and ... ourselves

The Best Place to Take Stock of Canada's Unfair and Surely Under-Appreciated (by the locals) Beauty ...

The Victoria - Vancouver ferry

The Time Liv Almost Got Into a Bar Brawl (I know, practically unheard of)

Plan B, Victoria. El Rancho meets Empire (if you can imagine) in this Victoria hotspot where all the youths go of a Saturday night. Imagine, then, you are on the dance floor, when two annoyingly drunk girls start, for some unbeknown reason, bumping violently into your group, giggling horsily. When your friend asks them politely to stop, imagine that one smiles smugly, gives her the finger and says calmly 'fuck you'. Imagine then, that they continue to bump into you with great relish. The only thing left to do is to shove the both of them so their spindly bodies fly across the dance floor and say 'could you get the fuck away from us.' When you outweight them by a good 20 kgs, chances are this is the most effective method.

Best Word to Say To Canadian/American Bartenders Because They Find it Endearing

Water

Best Drink

Pear cider

The Time Dee Narrowly Averted a Mugging

At the pizza place everyone flocks to post Plan B. Strolling down the street, Dee's ears pricked up as she passed a suspicious looking pair, loitering near the pizzera, and overheard 'here come some rich girls, lets get them.' The more sentimental one said, after a moment's consideration 'they look like they've made an effort, leave them', although this didn't stop the meaner one following Dee and NP into the pizza shop and lingering behind them for a few minutes. The lesson is, girls, always make an effort when going out. Muggers appreciate it, if no one else does.

Worst BBQ-ing Effort

Goes to NP who, with her heart in the right place, charred the hotdogs and in doing so, the name of all Australians ... it's a good thing there just happened to be a chef at the bbq who stepped in, politely ushering the three Australians into the role of observer, not so much bbq-er ... although, why the hell I was ever anywhere near the bbq is another question entirely.

***

And so we move to Seattle. Following another bout of the Clipper and all the tantalising dances with nausea that come with it, we arrived in rainy downtown Seattle, to be met by our gracious host, Tad. The following day dawned bright and sunny, and Tad took us to Pike Market Place, where men throw fish, people eat the best donuts in the world, and mount a giant pig statue, all simultaneously. It is also opposite the first Starbucks ever, and one would have to be insane to be in Seattle and actually pass up the opportunity of supping coffee brewed at such a historical site.

For the rest of our stay in Seattle, crawled all over the massive troll used in the film Ten Things I Hate About You, ate lunch overlooking part of the harbour, went up the Space Needle and took a memorable drive through the picturesque campus of the University of Washington - where Tad pointed out the building of Ted Bundy's old dorm (apparently no one is allowed to know where it actually is) and took great pains to explain the delicate ins and outs of fraternities and sororities. As we drove down Greek Row, he could be heard to utter such gems as 'oh that's Alpha Beta, you go there if you're not hot and the hot sorority rejected you... there is Alpha Beta Gamma Kappa Gamma, they're famous for their singing ...'

Best Summation ...

Liv: 'to spot at American on an Australian campus, all you have to do is look for thick flip flops, impossibly short shorts, an abundance of fake tan and a faceful of make up, inappropriately thick for tutorials/lectures.'

Tad: 'to spot an Australian on an American campus, look for skinny jeans, a belt worn over the blouse and a big pair of sunglasses.'

As much as I love the US of A, I'll take Australia anyday.

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Sorbet Houses and Homeless People — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-05 20:44 — 0 comment(s)

Full House glossed over San Fran's alarming homeless population and crime rate ...

And so San Fran was a swirl of sorbet coloured houses, steep hills, Starbucks and China Town. Our flight was, as the trend seems to be thus far, delayed due to the fog that often settles over the city, and so we took off a couple of hours later than planned. The morning was spent in the flea pit, moonlighting as a hotel (Tradewinds, House of Lice). Arriving in San Fran, we were picked up by our hotel's shuttle, driven by the crankiest old man imaginable (he accelerated towards old ladies on the road ... not really, I'm just trying to paint as vivid a picture as I can) and driven through the outskirts of the city, to downtown where we were staying. En route, was Tenderloin. The best way I can think to describe this district is the love child of Lakemba and Redfern, with more crack, a higher homeless population and the all inclusive lax USA weapons laws. Dee turned to me, pale, as we watched on as a homeless man held up a woman in an Audi, begging for a dollar (his weapon of choice was a urine stench) and said 'if we're staying anywhere near here, I'll die.' Moments later, Dee would witness a man brandish a knife at an ATM ... granted no one was actually at the ATM, because you'd have to be blind, deaf, dumb, mute or actually money-less and miming withdrawing money to volunteer to access an ATM in tenderloin. Three blocks out of tenderloin, in downtown San Fran our mini van pulled up outside an alley and we were ceremoniously dumped curb side with our luggage. Dee went weak at the knees and started making feverish threats involving cancelling our accommodation and putting a hotel room 'no matter the cost' on her credit card. As it transpired, we were in the hotel section of the hostel, about half a block up, in the thinnest building known to mankind, called The Dakota. It was opposite a crepe house and 2 blocks from Union Square and had a functioning TV, and so Dee was momentarily assuaged (if I spelt that wrong Mum, I'm sorry).

San Fran was freezing cold one minute, blowing a gale the next, and piping hot every moment in between. It also is the best leg work out short of cosmetic surgery, and I am proud to say Dee and I walked from Fisherman's Wharf through Nob Hill and down to our hotel ... which is literally about 1000km and most of it is up hill. This was the day, however, that we consumed the most vile amount of Bad Food That Tastes Good and so completely warranted. Fisherman's Wharf, home of such treats, is absolutely beautiful. We chose a randomly sunny day and, by chance (because the cable cars are terrifying and involve hanging off bars at various angles unbecoming to wearing anything short of an all in one jumpsuit) we walked the whole way there from Union Square (the shopping hub). If you ever get there, go to a fruit shop, which is tucked in amongst the merry go round and endless ice cream parlours, and buy a box of strawberries. Then buy a large tub of chocolate dipping sauce. Photos of us with chocolate sauce smeared all over our American-rounded faces can be viewed on the online album. Once the strawberries (all 16 of them, and they're gigantic, none of this naturally small strawberry business from home ... these are artificially enhanced mommas) have been digested, visit the chocolate emporium (begins with a G, the name eludes me) then In N Out burger, for the best burger in the world. I am talking fresh, made on the spot, with junk food-esque prices. Exclusive to California, In N Out has our Stamp of Approval. And seeing as I am probably on my 40th burger of the trip, that means something people, it really does.

San Fran has felt the most like home thus far, of the cities we've visited. Because of this, we were actually pretty lax with our touristy-ness. We instead chose to eat at as many locations as possible (try the Crepe House opposite Dakota Hotel) shop (Banana Republic needs to come to Australia) and avoid homeless people who had strayed from Tenderloin. We also felt the need to reenact The Sweetest Thing scenes, sans Cameron's legs, and wedge in as many Full House quotes into daily dialogue as possible. When in Rome guys, when in Rome.

We left San Fran in a bizarre physical limbo - fattened by endless eating and yet slimmed by endless walking - and caught our flight to Seattle, a cab to downtown Seattle, and then a clipper from Seattle to Canada. The clipper ride is beautiful, and probably the best way to get to Canada (unless you want to fly, in which case, strap yourself into a tin can and hold on for dear life) however choppy seas were encountered, and so we spent 60% of the trip sitting very still, avoiding any movement lest it prompt any of the waves of nausea to come to a very nasty fruition.

And it is here I must leave you, for my time is nearly up. When I return, it shall be to fill you in on Canada, which was superb. It involves a narrowly averted bar brawl, the worst Footwear Decision in History, the penthouse suite of a hotel and the most proactive breed of homeless person I have ever encountered.

See you all in Canada.

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Hola, Hot Tamales — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-05 20:28 — 0 comment(s)

San Diego - University Jocks, Baywatch Beaches and a whole lotta sunshine. Mexico - Tequila and donkeys painted as zebras.

It has been so long since last I penned a blog. This shall surely produce a divided response. Fury from the true dedicated blog readers and relief at a fresh update, and horror/resignation from the faux-blog reader who secretly hates trawling through the inane stories of this adventure. I shall write on, in the face of both responses.

I last left you when we were departing for San Diego. Because I have limited time, and because once I get started on the topic of Greyhound, I shall not stop, I will provide you with key words regarding our bus ride to San Diego from downtown LA.

*Late (by an hour)
*Oderous
*Long
*Nausea inducing
*Offered fries by two different people on two different occasions because we were eating raw noodles and must have looked homeless/orphaned
*Dirty
*Accidential consumption of green 'Yummy Tarts' - green because off, not because lime flavoured


That being said, the above key terms could just as smoothly be applied to LA in general.

When we arrived in downtown San Diego, Jenny picked us up in her 'truck' (everyone in California drives a monster mobile ... apparently you're nobody until you get a lifted 350 truck that could roll over a house) and took us back to her house which is located in 'College Area' - as the name would suggest, frat and sorority houses line the streets, and everywhere you look is a hot-panted American college student saying 'like' and 'totally' and 'cute'. We 'got cleaned up' and Jenny took us to the local college hotspot for mexican(which is what I existed on for the next 3 days straight ... nothing but burritos and tequila passed my lips) and then down to Pacific Beach for some drinks with the local PBers. For a nightcap we stopped into her boyfriend, Chad's, bar - The Stadium Bar - which was festooned with Fosters paraphernalia, for some unknown reason. Being in San Diego was like being permanently on the set of an all American teen movie. The sun always shone, the frat boys drank Budweiser, and the sorority girls sported perma-tans. Jenny was the hostess with the mostess, and excelled herself the next day when she took us to ...

MEXICO!!!!

Total trip highlight thus far. Chad and one of jen's housemates, Melissa came with us, again in jenny's truck. It was incredible. We only went to Tijuana, where all the college kids truck on down to to get pissed legally, as the Mexican drinking age is 18. We had barely taken 2 steps into the country before we sat down for margeritas, which turned into a couple of rounds, with a tequila shot for good measure, which meant by the time we left the bar to actually start sightseeing, no one was walking a particularly straight line. The colours of the city were so bright, but faded by the sun, so the buildings and signs were in rows of dusty pastels.
Again, time restraints dictate the necessity for key terms:

*Shop vendors - 'bonita chicas, you liiiiike?'
*Dirty
*Manipulative little children who are trained to look sad if you don't buy their parents' wares
*Strawberry margeritas
*a mechanical bull - Michele, I declined to ride it
*the best fajitas in the world
*bloody hot

The next day we explored downtown San Diego, which is like the love child of Sydney and Brisbane, but not as built up - clean, sunny, palm tree filled and spacious. That night Jenny saved the best for last and took us to a popular college spot that's big on a Wednesday (like El Rrrrrancho) called Typhoon Saloon, where a ridiculous cover band called Metal Skool play everyone's fave metal tracks whilst wearing an obscene amount of lycra and being as vulgar as humanly possible short of undressing and performing sex acts onstage. I realise that sounds absolutely foul. We found an Aussie there, amongst the frat boys, who begged us to stay because he was 'sick of being the only arsehole' and had no American friends. It was so good to see the big, ruddy head of an Aussie, after so many square jaws and chinos.

We left San Diego in the same stylish way we arrived - on a rancid Greyhound vessel - and spent the entire day on public transport, trying to find our accommodation which ended up being located in hell (aka down the road from LAX). We ended up being forced to flag down a sherrif's car and get directions, and when we finally arrived at 'Tradewinds', it was to be greeted by the most outrageous hotel/motel I have ever laid eyes on. And that is a huge call. I am talking Porpoise Spit meets 1985 retirement village decor. Microwave food served in a dining room Kath & Kim would have been proud to be seen in - think faux carnation and baby breath flower arrangements, and red serviettes arranged in fans poking out of glasses. A margerita that almost poisoned me. And the crowning moment, the discovery of a dubious stain on my bed. I think I caught bed lice.

The next day we caught a plane to San Fran and unfortunately, this is where I have to leave you. Time has run out, so I will have to wait until next time to regale you with tales of San Fran and its tenderloin district, our trip to Seattle and ferry to Canada. As I type, I am in a hotel in downtown Vancouver - it just so happens Court's dad is some name in hotels, and so accommodation this week has been something of a breeze.

Stay tuned for San Fran and Canada, which I will hopefully have up by the end of the week, with accompanying photos. I warn you, most of them feature us eating.

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What's Up Momma? — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-05 20:24 — 0 comment(s)

Day 3 in LA dawned crisp and sunny ... not that Dee and I would know, seeing as we slept in till 12.21pm. I like to blame jetlag (and the Turd Sausage). We both rolled over in our creaky bunks and said 'well, that's good in a way ... it means we don't have to eat breakfast, which cuts out a cost.' May 5th was Cinqo de Mayo, a giant Spanish festival that everyone goes absolutely nuts for - most of our house guests started swilling Mexican beer at around 10am (not that we'd know) and didn't finish until well into the wee hours of the morning. Upon rising, Dee and I decided to catch the bus to Beverly Hills, along with every single other person in Mid City LA, and so we stood, clinging to the hold-ons, our denim-ed arses in the faces of fellow commuters. The interim during which we changed from the 207 to the 757 saw an old man's baseball cap fly off his head and land on the bonnet of a pick up truck (at which I started laughing hysterically, to the point I was physically incapable of helping him) then Dee's day-pass was whipped from her hands and blown out onto the four lane road. In blind panic (probably thinking 'I can't afford another $3) she sprung to life and followed it out onto the road, only to retrieve it when a kind woman actually stopped her car so Dee could leap in front of it.

And so we made it to Beverly Hills relatively unscathed, and it was everything we could have asked for. Emerald lawns, palm trees, rose hedges lining the paths, Beverly Hills princesses zooming past in Mercedes convertibles, talking loudly on their 'cells' ... perhaps the moment that best encapsulates the insane wealth of that area, was when we spied a large bellied man literally coated in gold, walking out of a dry cleaners, where he'd just picked up his Ralph Lauren pyjamas.
We had a slice of pizza (actually the size of an entire pizza, but that's America for you) then a Starbucks and then, because we were in Beverly Hills and because strolling Rodeo Drive had made us pine for the long lost days of when we could afford garments (not tattered rags) we bought a nice light knit each from Gap on Beverly Drive. It was a must.

When we returned home, it was the turning point. You know after you spend a day or two somewhere new, there is a moment when it starts to feel like home, and that you actually belong there, as opposed to being temporary intruders into someone else's reality? Well, when Dee and I rounded the corner into Gramercy Place, the moment occurred, and the glow about Gramercy Place has continued right through to today, our last day here. It could have been that everyone was off their face, seeing as Cinqp de Mayo coincided with a BIG fight (apparently) between De la Hoya and Mayweather, and the entire house had crawled from the woodwork to wedge in pizza and Buddweiser and cheer on the golden boy. We like to think it was because we had finally made Gramercy Place our home, but either way.

Similar to our stint at Food 4 Less, we picked up some necessities at the 99c Discount Store, to the tune of $3 ... hair ties, juice, a gallon of filtered water (tap water is like chlorine) and Dee found herself yet another admirer in an hispanic octogenarian. Outside the 99c Discount Store, we were greeted by, and I cannot recall if I have told you about the bitter 'behind the scenes guy', but he is a fellow house guest and perhaps the weirdest of the lot (and that is a BIG CALL) ... anyway, he was literally goose stepping down the street in the tightest pants and jauntiest jacket since Grease, his 1985 spectacles glinting in the late afternoon sun. His only words, as he goose stepped by, were 'Cinqo de Mayo, ok?'

Due to jetlag (always blame jetlag) Dee and I didn't get to sleep until 3.30am ... it probably didn't help that we ate pizza for dinner (when in Rome) and so we wound up watching the X Files movie and eating leftover cookies. And yes, in case you're wondering, we are both as fat as butter with sallow complexions and the cholesterol of 63 yr old men. Jaunty Jacket appeared in the doorway for about five minutes of the movie, before melting into the night, muttering something bitter to himself, behind his curtain of oiled hair.

Day 4 saw us return to Hollywood, to meet an old friend of mine for coffee. En route to Sunset, we walked into a passionate one-man hispanic protest that was being blared across the streets via an extremely high powered megaphone; a trio of lounging latinos in a variety of poses (one crouching, one leaning against a tree ... etc etc) and finally, at the bus stop, an old man joined us, whipped out his portable stool, and began air-drumming to the spanish version of 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' which was, and I kid you not, being blared out of enormous speakers otuside a spanish food mart.


The obvious choice of venue was our, now officially favourite, Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on the corner of Sunset and Fairfax. We were, of course, late, because we did, of course sleep in. But we spent the next 4 hours with Adhir, who has moved to L.A. for his acting (and is doing very very well, may I add, watch this space) spotting faux celebrities (and yes they were all faux) and pressing Adhir for any skerrick of Hollywood gossip he could provide. In the late afternoon (Dee and I have to be home by sun down) we strolled down Sunset for our bus, fighting the tempation to nip into the International House of Pancakes (IHOP) for a shortstack. Once on the bus, we were nearly gassed - in fact we are lucky to be here, so intense was this smell - by the body and hair odour of a fellow traveller, who sported a tawny, uncontrollable shob (shoulder length bob ... but do not think that by giving it a term it implies it was styled ...) last seen on the head of my yr 9 history teacher. The smell was undescribable. I mean, LA smells vile at the best of times, but this ... this was unparalleled.

On the way home we, of course, ducked into the 99c Store to pick up a gallon of moisturiser and a Snapple each. Skipping past the homeless men, crazy teens on bicycles and leering latinos, we made it home by sundown, to enjoy a nutritious meal of noodles and a cinnamon bun.

And today, we depart for San Diego. Thank God. Although the bizarre comfort of Gramercy Place will be missed, its stable of freaks shall not be so. Namely Jaunty Jacket.

NB: Lorenzo still hasn't changed his outfit. It is now 5 days running. Nor has he left the couch. We seriously don't think he has a room here.

And a parting gift of a recent conversation I had with the Harmless Nerd turned Convicted Criminal:

HN: Where are you off to now?
Liv: San Diego
HN: (knowing smile) oh ... I should come with you ... surprise a cute redhead I know down there ...
Liv: mmmm
HN: Wonder if she's as cute as I remember ...
Liv: Maybe ...
HN: she broke my heart (laughing tone abruptly changes)
Liv: oh dear
HN: I asked her to marry me and she said no. I spoilt her, more than any guy should ever spoil his kid, his daughter. She put me through so much shit. I gave ger fresh flowers everyday, do you think she said yes when I asked her to marry me? No. Oh no, no no, when we hook up again, she's coming to ME.
Liv: I think ... yesss ... hang on (roleplays suddenly remembering something)

RUNS, EXITS STAGE RIGHT

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If You Hear a Knock on the Window ... It's Not a Kangaroo — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-05 20:13 — 0 comment(s)

Los Angeles was the first stop on a 6 month around-the-world extravaganza. It is ugly, ecclectic, surreal, manic, and as hedonistic as it is impoverished. Hollywood pulses, Downtown intimidates, and the rich are rich and the poor are poor - there is no middle ground.

NB: title comes from actual quote, as wheezed by house guest, 'Lorenzo'


And so the time for the first official blog is here. This may be a long one, I encourage all to get a hot beverage, and settle in. I'm going to hark back to 1.45pm, May 3rd, a sunny Thursday afternoon. I was late to the airport, but that clearly isn't going to surprise anyone. My mother got far too involved in a story, as she is so apt to do, and instead of veering left towards the International Airport, calmly cruised on into a tunnel that spat us out in Kingsgrove. After a u-turn (narrowly avoiding two policeman on motorbikes) we made it to the airport, just in time to greet Dee at the top of the check in line, and discover my frantic unpacking of items that morning in order to meet weight restrictions was pointless seeing as the United Airlines site lies about aforementioned weight restrictions.

Anyway.

It was a tearful goodbye; our farewell party consisted of our two mums, Dee's little sister and my Nana. Everyone held it together remarkably well, Dee and Alyx even hugged. After sauntering through customs, we found ourselves in the duty free fragrance department. We spritzed for a while, I even attempted to sell a woman Miami Glow, before realising I wasn't at work, and following this awkward interlude, I expressed my desire to purchase a trashy novel to tide me through the flight, and so we spent some time perusing the book store. I settled on Louise Bagshawe, Queen of Trash, and we proceeded to the registers. En route, we found some Vegemite, and purchased that too.

The flight was horrid. To those planning a trip to the USA, I cannot warn you enough of the emotional perils of the flight. To those planning a return trip, and who have forgotten the horror, I urge you to cast your mind back to the last time you spiralled into genuine insanity, and suggest it was actually on a flight to LA.

Dee and I were situated a metre from the bathrooms, which afforded us a plethora of unsavoury smells throughout the 13.5 hour flight. Every so often one of us would gag and inhale our jumper sleeve, rasping 'shit smell.'

One of the male flight attendants (gay as Christmas) took a shine to Dee and his affections culminated in him offering to apply her lip balm for her which Dee, her arms pinned beneath a blanket, could only go along with, politely murmuring her assent and admiration of his accurate application. She found another fan in the form of a borderline personality disorder Navy man who fixed her with his divergent squint and said 'you're a very pretty girl.' He then went onto reveal his life story to me, step-children, second marriage, warts and all.

With an hour to go, Dee lost it completely and my last visual memory is of her trussed up in a sweater, scarf and blanket, like a Christmas turkey, violently flipping from side to side cursing the United Airline's nonexistent in-flight entertainment system.

We arrived at Gramercy Place unscathed, at around 11am, May 3rd. Except for a layer of grime which everyone seems to accumulate following five minutes spent in LA. Jetlag absolutely knocked our socks off, and after prevailing upon the owner for a speedy check in (said owner was feverishly surfing the net for Bon Jovi pictures as we entered the office) we literally passed out for five hours - even though we promised ourselves we'd ride out the day and sleep through the night. We also promised ourselves we'd never catch a cab, but how else do you think we got to Gramercy Place?

Within five minutes of being conscious, we'd perfumed the place with an assortment of spritzes, prompting someone to say, rather incredulously, 'what smells good? ... like a really strong ... perfume smell ...', my toothbrush had fallen in the bin (thank goodness I'd packed a spare) and we both began to suffer ongoing bouts of nausea which I blame squarely on the foolish consumption of a 'sausage' at breakfast on the plane, which has come to be known as the 'Turd Sausage'. Crass, but so accurate.

When we woke up, we set out in search of a grocery shop and, due to a wrong turn (how unusual) ended up in a possible hispanic ghetto, where men hung out of car windows and leered (not that much different to George St) and the streets were empty by dusk. We were directed to a grocery store that stocked the most ridiculous assortment of nothing, and ended up buying a loaf of bread and an insane amount of butter - it seems bulk is all this country knows how to do. Needless to say all we have been eating is vegemite toast. In fact, last night, we coerced about 6 of the American guests into eating vegemite on toast - most approached with trepidation, but we won them over with the occasional 'it's so good for you' and 'packed with vitamin b'. Dee and I dolled out butter and vegemite lathered slices of sweet, sweet American bread, as the crowd thickened with curious onlookers. We then ate some slices ourselves and went back to bed, only to awake at 4am this morning.

What followed the 4am wake up call was delirium in its most pure form, and following a panic attack from Dee when the TV wouldn't work, more nausea accusations directed at the Turd Sausage and an entirely bizarre interlude with a bitter and twisted 'behind the scenes guy' whose robe was so thickly coated in cigarette smoke, I gagged in his face, we went back to bed for an hour, passed out on a single bunk because Dee couldn't be bothered to climb upto her top one.

It should be noted here, that the robed man offered on several occasions to be our tour guide, all of which were politely refuted, and then insisted we all sit through a Gorillaz DVD as his morning wake up ritual. Casual conversation about his life turned into bitter spittings regarding 'the rough ride' his life has been (something about his best friend throwing him out of the house) and he then left the room with the TV not working, and Dee in a blind panic trying to figure out how to get it back on.

Today, we hit Hollywood (after some more vegemite toast) via the bus and metro. Their public transport system is pretty straight forward, even for someone completely incompetent like myself. Our trip into Hollywood can be summed up by the following key terms;

The Walk of Fame (cut and paste us with every single star on it)
The Chinese Theatre
The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf Cafe (we went to two in an effort to track down celebrities and perhaps Perez Hilton ... neither of the above were tracked down, so we simply drank super sweet coffees and departed). The only thing spotted, in fact, was a man in an akubra nursing a mini apricot poodle sporting a matching mini akubra ... and a short sleeved faux cow print jacket ... and his ears were dyed pink. A curious phenomonen also made itself known, with the American inability to get the name 'Dee' right. Everyone has been calling her Day. In fact, on her Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf receipt, she first got 'Day', then on round two got 'Daa' ... after spelling it out to the cashier. I got Elivia. Nowhere near as cool as Daa.
Leering Latinos - it's getting bizarre. We must clearly not be from around here, but is it that obvious?

And finally ... perhaps the best part of all ... The $5.84 Haul (and yes that's US dollars ...)

In need of nutrience that vegemite just cannot provide, we went to Food for Less this afternoon and achieved perhaps the highest of shopping honours. In half an hour, and for under $6 we bought ...

* 2L apple juice
* 2 apples
* 3 bananas
* 10 packets instant noodles
* A packet of 8 giant cinammon buns

We left on a euphoric high.

The people here are, in a word, interesting. And seeing as interesting is such an irritatingly non-descriptive word, allow me to offer you this; a majority of them are 'background actors' ... aka extras, bar Lorenzo who is an alleged personal trainer, but I have my doubts. Perhaps I should leave you with this awkward moment ...

Russian from Brooklyn, NY: 'Have you seen the Professional?'
Hitherto believed harmless nerd: 'No .. when was it made?'
Russian from Brooklyn, NY: '1993'
Hitherto believed harmless nerd: 'Oh no, I was in prison in '93....'

We then all proceeded to watch Wolf Creek together, Dee and I being the only two girls, and clinging to each other for dear life.

Tomorrow will perhaps bring a trip to Santa Monica, which is supposed to be very beautiful, and hopefully on Sunday we'll have lunch with a friend of Dee's, then a friend of mine. We leave Monday for San Diego, and residence with a normal, criminal-record-free family.

Hope this finds you all well, and stay tuned for the next installment - who knows what is around the corner ... (Dee says, 'probably a mugger.')