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
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
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?
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?
Sunday, June 17, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
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
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.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Sorbet Houses & Homeless People
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.
xxx
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.
xxx
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