The Lengths You Go To...

Where: Icefields Parkway, Alberta

When: August 2013 (The slow journey home)

What: Refusing to let a downpour get in the way of a good campfire.

Less wild than it seems

Canadian Rockies... a highlight of our 10 months in North America. With a hire car (sorry, 'rental' car) and two weeks to go and do whatever we wanted, the freedom was enticingly good. Too bad the rest of the world have the same idea... but more on that another time.

There are so many awesome options for back country camping in North America. I quickly learnt that back country means walk-in, walk-out and camp basically wherever, not in the regimented allotted sites that national/provincial parks seem to be big on. I also learnt that back country camping is not an option for a couple of backpackers travelling with a year's worth of stuff and a $25 tent.

We reached the Icefields Parkway midway through the road trip. By this time we were used to showering every four days and eating whatever we could cook in our one pot. This campsite didn't actually have a name. Unless 'Overflow' was it's official title. After an entertaining and occasionally awkward conversation with the ranger, we learnt that the campsite was opened to hold all the summer travellers but had been opened this year due to another site further north being completely wiped out by the Alberta flooding. (Didn't hear about it? It was worse than Superstorm Sandy but you know, NYC is very important.)

Nothing like RVs to ruin a great shot

The best part about 'Overflow' was the walk-in section (100m, not 10 kilometres). Finally we got to leave those smug RVs behind! And we could take uninterrupted photos of the *choose your own superlative: stunning/breathtaking/staggering* scenery and pretend we were more wild than we really were. We got a pretty good fire going considering all we had were damp logs and a rule forbidding kindling collection. Thank you hairspray! (It doesn't serve any other purpose on a camping road trip)

I do love making a fire (not in a criminal sense). I especially love the achievement of getting a fire cranking against the odds. Then the rain came.

Why did we even build a fire in summer? Was it particularly cold? Not overly*.  But we'd paid the honesty box $8 and we had marshmallows for dinner. Plus it seems to be the thing to do in North America- it ain't camping unless there's a fire (even if you are wearing singlets and shorts).

I refused to let the rain ruin my hour of poking, blowing and splinters. I took matters into my own hands.

After twenty minutes of getting quite wet, I retreated to the tent, ready to concede defeat. 

If you've sensed there is a fairy tale ending to this story, you won't be disappointed.

Thumbs up!

On the down side, the umbrella was left reeking of smoke. As were all my clothes and everything in the bag the umbrella was later shoved in. 3 months on and after a hose down and being left out in the sun, the brolly is still a scented memento of an interesting road trip.

E.A.

* Apologies for seeming like I'm interviewing myself. I slipped back into the North American style of asking myself a question then answering it.

Photobombing Vintage Style

Where: Navy Pier (Chicago, IL) 
When: June 2013 (extended route back to Toronto after Bonnaroo festival)
What: Possibly the world's first photobomb.

I'll save you the time... according to Wikipedia, Navy Pier is a 3,300 foot pier on the Chicago shoreline of Lake Michigan. Built in 1916,  Navy Pier is Chicago's number one tourist attraction.

Perhaps tourist trap is more fitting but what the hey, it was a beautiful early summer's day on sparkling Lake Michigan. Of course we were going to hang out at the water (particularly as Toronto's waterfront is so cleverly blocked by condos). 

There was quite an interesting historical element to Navy Pier, if you looked hard enough through the overpriced memorabilia. I was particularly taken by the following photograph from 1921.

A few headlines sprang to mind when I saw this picture...

"Woman wins Apathy of the Year Award- Rewarded with bouquet shoved into sash"

"Wind changes during I'm a Little Teapot recital"

"World's first recorded Photobomb"

It's not until you read the caption closely that a whole new level of intrigue arises.

Mayor William Hale Thompson (that's the teapot guy) with Evelyn Slader, Queen of the Stockyard Districts (must be the cardboard cutout on the left), and one of the contestants for Queen of the Pageant of Progress, 1921. Who...? I must have it the wrong way around. Perhaps it's this way:

Or maybe the caption writer was as short changed for time like the content writers at my work who have been known to write "human not included" in a catalogue disclaimer.

E.A.

Huh? What's this all about?

November 10, 2013

Peta Panned was originally set up as part travel blog / part existential crisis. I began writing it whilst living in Toronto, Canada on a 'working holiday'. I fell into an existential crisis of sorts partly thanks to the poor wage I earnt working as a cashier in a restaurant (I am an experienced primary school teacher in Australia). I suddenly realised I was suffering from Peter Pan Syndrome, the avoidance of growing up. Or was I? Was I just making the most of my 'youth' before youth travel visas are beyond reach.

As I found full-time work in admin and juggled finishing my Creative Writing courses (via correspondence), I struggled to find the time to update the blog-- at least to the level you deserved. This was very frustrating as I had so many things to say. When I left Toronto with my travelling sidekick, the time to share the ensuing travel (mis)adventures was even more scarce (as was power and internet often).

We returned home to Australia in September, jobless, homeless and with $50 left on my credit card. Back to our parents' houses we went. And with it, any motivation to write. From living out of each other's pocket in tiny apartments, tents and rental cars, we were suddenly an hour's drive apart without a car or even a mobile phone. But, we'd been there before after living in the UK so we knew what we were getting ourselves into.

Fast forward 2 months and it has dawned on me that I have indeed 'grown up'. Faster than expected, we have our own place to live in a beautiful spot in Newcastle, cars and full-time jobs. My plans to go back to substitute teaching (with all that glorious time off to write) were abandoned when I stumbled onto a job as writer for an educational resource company. Although I wasn't looking to give away teaching, the opportunity to combine my two loves was too good to miss. Plus, it's a whole lot better than the summer jobs I was looking for (usually over the Christmas period stores hire casual workers for the increase in customers).

While choosing which photos to print, I realised that so many brought back funny or interesting memories. A good story is a good story, no matter how old it is. Right? Hence the Retrospective Travel Blog.

I hope you enjoy my rambling reminiscences as I attempt to regale you with stories of my travels- the good, the bad and the mundane (as is often the case). By sharing them, I'll remind myself of why I've had to start all over again (again).

E.A.

If you're new to Peta Panned, please enjoy reading my old 'existential crisis' posts. The first post is here.

Time gets away...

August 13

Three weeks into our trip and I had expected to to have regaled y'all with stories of adventure and misadventure.

My absence is not for a lack of such stories, rather a lack of time. Who would've thought that I'd be too busy actually travelling? (Lucky I took the semester off study!)

Patience is a virtue (that I often lack)...

A pretty picture to prove I am actually on the road and not just being lazy.
Lake Moraine: the prettier bridesmaid to Lake Louise.

E.A.

The Slow Journey Home...

The slow journey back to Australia begins.. watch this space.

Tennessee: Twang and Tornadoes

Toronto to Tennessee: the first leg of the 'Fallopian Tube' road trip

When I told my mum I was driving to Tennessee, she casually asked (in that downplayed frantic mother fashion) about tornadoes. "Oh no, it's not a tornado region," I reassured. I wasn't just making her feel better- I really did think tornadoes were only in Tornado Alley.

Down the I65 we cruised, full from a surprisingly decent White Castle meal where after six attempts at saying, "Combo 15" we'd had a nice conversation with the cashier who, like everyone else we met in Kentucky and Tennessee, insisted we all have a good day now. I found the southern niceness pleasantly cliched, but coming from the North-East, I was almost suspicious of such frank friendliness: were they really just making fun of my accent?

We were an hour outside of Nashville when we saw the storm clouds: a huge mass of indigo with white wisps to show just how dark the rest of the clouds were. We marvelled at how we'd driven straight onto the set of Twister. We summoned our best Bill Paxton buffoon voices, "Dorothy's gotta fly!"

"They don't actually get tornadoes down here to do they?"
"Nah, she'll be right."

In Nashville, we checked into one of the crummiest hotels I've ever seen. I'm still chasing the money that they offered to refund because they let somebody else in our room, leaving us locked out at 1am. It seems their idea of a refund is an accidental charge of the refunded amount. Gotta love paying extra for the experience!

Our room was on the ground level of of three storeys. We drew the curtains to hide from the loitering permies * and checked out some local TV. All the stations were crossed to special weather broadcasts, tracking the tornadoes that had touched down where we'd just driven through. "If you know anyone driving on the I65, tell them to get off and seek shelter." We gawked at the TV. Nashville was now on tornado alert for the evening.


What to do when your plans for a birthday bender** in honky tonk bars are looking grim? You sit in your hotel room and drink beer of course. To quell my silly notion that drinking probably wasn't the safest thing to do under the circumstances, we practised hiding in our safe place under the sink (not a typical household bathroom sink). The beers came too.

The threat eased eventually and we made it out where I discovered:

a) honky tonk doesn't mean Jerry Lee Lewis
smashing out on a piano

c) "Burgers and chips" means just that: potato chips, not fries

d) You shouldn't stand on Elvis

E.A.

* permies = people who live permanently at the hotel
** the use of 'bender' is to insinuate that I am somewhat cooler than I am.

A Tale of Two Border Crossings

July 6, 2013

ONE

What were we thinking? I still can’t believe I let us get into the situation we found ourselves in at the border.

Why am I directing the blame onto myself? Because I’m the natural born (and self appointed) organiser of the duo. But on top of getting ready for the two week / eight state road trip, I was also working 40+hr weeks and attempting to finish university for the semester. I also needed to find a birthday present for my sidekick- a low cost present that is still nice for a 30th and practical for travel (i.e. a BBQ was out of the question). Somewhere in that madness, I forgot the wisdom that is looking presentable at a border crossing.

footwear to impress

Into the customs office we trooped; me in a hoodie and green sneakers, my sidekick in a faded lime green footy jersey and thongs. He was also rocking the haven’t-shaved-for-a-week look with hair so far past a cut but still a long way from a trendy ‘roughing it’ style. In our defence, we had left at 7am on a Sunday and we were dressed for comfort to ease the 20 hr trip ahead. It’s safe to say that border officials don’t give a shit about your comfort.

The dude at the tollbooth was probably the best. I want to call him stern, but it’s not the right word. He just didn't smile. I don’t expect border officials to smile but he spoke like a normal person would, just lacking the facial muscles required to alter from a Terminator seriousness.

“Where are you going?”
"Tennessee.”
“What’s down there?”
“A music festival.”
“When does it start?”
“Tuesday.” Sweating, hoping we didn't accidentally mention we were volunteering (read as working).
“Do you have anything to declare? Alcohol?”
“No. What idiot would buy alcohol in Canada?”
“Fruit?”
“We have four apples.”
“You’re going to a music festival with apples and no alcohol?”
“Yes.”
“How much money do you have on you?”
“Twenty bucks.”
“You’re going to a music festival with apples and twenty bucks?”
“Where are you staying tonight?”
“We don’t know yet. You know, travelling free- Jack Kerouac style.”
“Better come up with something before you get in the office.”

The customs building was a like a portable classroom from the 70s: cramped, loud and a lot of slacking off going on. There were way too many officers but it still took an hour to get processed- probably because there were about seventeen steps*.

First, there was confusion about a clipboard and a green form, mostly about the clipboard though and whether or not we had a pen (the ownership of our Royal Bank of Canada pen was questioned as we left). They should give a Fast Pass to people who bring their own pen.

How we appeared.

The main room was full, and as standing/being vertical is aggressive, we had to sit in a bizarre triangular room tacked onto the office. We listened hard for our names above the conversations and testosterone. We thought we heard it so we tripped our way through the chairs. 

Our man, Ginger Meggs, didn’t hesitate to let us know how many times he’d called our name. I apologised. He looked at our form. He chastised us about our address: Motel 6, I65 Nashville. “You need the exact address.” I apologised. He chastised us for not filling out the bottom section under an OFFICE USE ONLY heading. I apologised. He screwed up his baby face and glared at us with such intense derision that I wondered if he would need botox to get the creases out. I was glad that my life’s purpose, to make his day hard, had been fulfilled.

We sat back down in the triangle. We glared at the people making all the noise. I began to panic that without knowing, I’d become a drug dealer and stashed a kilo of coke behind a panel in our rental car.
We were called back. Ginger Meggs flicked through our Canadian work permits. Just touching them was an insult to the bald eagle.

“What do you do for work?”

“I work in admin.”

“But where?!”

I told him.

“What’s that?”

“Commercial real estate.”

“What about you.”

“I’m a store person.”

“A what?”

“A store person.”

“What’s a stope som?

“Yeah, I’d be interested in that answer too,” the officer slouched next to him asked, spitting tobacco into the dust and eyeing us suspiciously from under the rim of his cowboy hat.

“A store-per-son.” We laughed nervously. A red light flashed above our heads, WE HAVE SOMETHING TO HIDE.

“Why didn’t you just say that then?”

“I’m speaking the same language, douche bag.”

We found a seat in the main office. I made mention of penis sizes then worried Ginger Meggs had supersonic hearing. I wondered if they’d discovered the weaponry stashed in the spare tyre. He called us up again, using an exceptionally loud voice for the metre distance. I paid him $12 for his time. I scanned my thumb, four fingers, thumb, four fingers. I looked into the webcam.
Only the thumb of my sidekick was scanned. 
“Are you stupid or something? I said look into the webcam.”
“What about my other fingers?”
“I’m doing it differently ‘cause I want you to feel like an idiot. I got beat up in high school OK and I’m also feeling threatened by your ginger beard. I’m the only ginger in the village.”

We got back in the car and paid a toll (unofficial extra border fee?). “Welcome to America,” I said into the smog of Detroit’s industrial outskirts.


TWO

3am local time.

We had been driving straight since leaving Chicago at 6:30pm. We were the only car at the crossing.

“Hello.” The border official poked his head out the window.

“Hi, how are you?”

“I’m great! I see you have Ontario plates, welcome back!”

“Thanks.”

“Which part of Canada do you folks live in?” He looked briefly at our permits and passports.

“Toronto.”

“Did you buy or sell anything in the states?”

“We bought beer.”

“How many cases you got back there?

“About 15 cans.”

“Oh so only what you couldn’t drink eh?”

“Yeah.” We all laugh. “Pretty sad really.”

“Have a good night guys.”

E.A

*prone to hyperbole.

NB some facts may have been embellished to fit my memory. For the sake of accuracy, I have indicated these in yellow.

What I learnt at Bonnaroo Part 2

5. Festival virgins are painful

stateofglow.com

At 4:30am in the staff camping, where you have been camped so close that the guy ropes overlap, it’s not cool to keep the whole campsite awake with your lame stories. Especially when General Admission are all sound asleep. Sure, I might be getting too old for this shit (in my psycho rant about some of us having to work in the morning, I may have dropped a I’ve been going to festivals for fifteen years which either made me sound awesome [unlikely] or just plain old).  Either way, I was a hero with our other, awesome neighbours, lessening the blow of going to work with 2 hours sleep under our belt. Lucky our shift comprised of sitting in the shade waiting for something to do. 
The festival virgins did indeed ‘show some fucking respect’ for the rest of the fest.

6. Paul McCartney rocks out

I’m a huge Beatles fan. As a kid I felt like I was born into the wrong generation. I don’t know what songs belong to which albums because my Beatles listening pleasure revolved around a few cassette tapes. 

Years ago on a 6hr death-ride in a speedboat along the Mekong in Laos where you couldn’t hear anyone over the motor or through your crash helmet, I passed the time (and settled my nerves) singing every Beatles song I could think of. 

So I was extremely excited to watch Sir Paul. And he delivered! In almost a 3 hr set, he astounded with his musical prowess, making me reassess my happy-go-lucky-bop-around-behind-a-microphone-while-strumming-a-guitar image of the Beatles. He joked around and told stories, name-dropping like no tomorrow. The ukulele intro to Something was a highlight and everyone lost their shit in the synchronised fireworks during Live and Let Die. Not a bad effort for a 70 year old.

7. Americans don’t know how to do the Timewarp

In the cinema tent (yes, we lined up for an hour), The Polyphonic Spree performed the songs from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. It was quite entertaining even for someone who doesn’t really know the movie (and it makes me a little queasy thinking of Newcastle's embarrassing theatre restaurant of a similar theme). I was pumped for the Timewarp- all those primary school discos had lead me to this moment. Imagine my horror (lame pun intended) when the crowd did not throw their arms in the air or hug themselves whilst shimmying. Further research (youtubing the film clip) has shown that there isn't really a specific dance to the chorus. Must be a weird Aussie thing.

8. You’re not cool unless you’re talking about the drugs you’re taking

By the last day there were 5 or so bags of butts

I’ll put it out there: I’m not cool enough to take drugs. It’s a combination of being a wuss, concern at how my normal silliness would react and just not feeling the need. Good for you if you’re cool enough. I’m sure it saves lots of money you would’ve spent on alcohol and lots of time not having to line up for the dunny. The difference between Bonnaroo and the other festivals I’ve been to across the world, is the amount of talk about it. Every second conversation was about how much acid someone brought or the rating out of ten for their weed. I’d be very interested to know how many of these people regularly get on it or just feeling like being awesome at a festival. It did give me a little satisfaction to hear the annoying festival virgin who had previously declared, “God bless America and Bonnaroo” (no, she wasn’t being ironic) complain about the bands she missed from her bad trip. I can be spiteful sometimes.

Backstage in a cart. Yew!

9. Musos just want to get laid

Volunteering is a pretty cool way to see a festival. You get to go for free and see behind the scenes. I got to work in the artist hospitality tent, first as door bitch rejecting all the free-loaders trying to sneak into the food tent, then serving food to the artists. After five nights sweating it out in a tent and six days in the sun bringing out my galaxy of freckles, the number of ‘How you doin’?’s was astounding. Sure, I thought I was rocking the boots/skirt combo, but I had more pickups in five hours than I’d had in five years. Musos!

10. I’m too old to do cartwheels

It’s always a good idea at the time. Vodka smuggled in and added to freshly squeezed lemonade is also a good encouragement. I can’t remember the last time I did a cartwheel but gee I did a good job (Must be all the yoga I have to do for my bad back). So I kept on doing them. I wasn't sore the next day; I felt it all the following week. So I still don't know why I attempted another in Milwaukee a few days later.. It’s all worth it though for the experience of cartwheeling to Bjork in Tennessee.

-EA

What I Learnt at Bonnaroo Part 1

June 23, 2013

It's a week later than all the other Bonnaroovians*, but I've finally had my 12 hour post-festival sleep. After 3500km and two weeks on the road, my crawl into bed was luxuriated by the air-conditioning kindly installed by the landlords during our absence.

What’s the best way to write about a four-day festival (turned into a marathonic seven days by volunteering)? I had a long time to think about it on the drive home and decided it was by sharing what I learnt (thereby creating a convenient segway into my recently published article A Monkey Could Do It: Lessons Learnt as a Temp).

Things aren't as they feel...

1. Tennessee in June is HOT

Der! Obvious, I know. And yes, you’d think growing up in Australia would be good preparation. But arriving on a farm and pitching a tent two days before a festival starts, with no shade or amusement is bloody hot. Before leaving Toronto, I learnt about a fantastic combined measure of heat and humidity (why doesn’t Australia have this?!). Humidex (a reverse of windchill factor) tells you how hot it feels, serving to qualify your moaning about the weather.


On the Wednesday before the music began, we laid in the pitiful shade of a golf umbrella and the car, heads practically under the exhaust in feels like 47C (116F). In a desperate effort to beat boredom and sunstroke, we hiked into town, stumbling upon the oasis of an air-conditioned O’Charleys restaurant and would you believe it, on Free Pie Wednesday (a dessert, not a meat pie). “Yay, the hippies have come to town!” our server said excitedly. It sure made me feel better about sitting unshowered in a restaurant with bed hair and dirty clothes.

Sun safe whilst advertising Peta Panned
on some questionable graffiti- did you see it?

2. Only the Australian sun must give you skin cancer

So much exposed skin at Bonnaroo! I wasn’t exactly wearing the collared long sleeve shirt the old man would approve of but I was definitely adhering to the rest of the Slip, Slop, Slap routine ingrained in us as kids. Perhaps it’s the ozone hole over Australia/New Zealand or those unlucky twenty-somethings dying of melanoma. Maybe I just know how crap a sunburn is at a festival. I’ll admit though that the tan I got even after regimental sunscreening is quite nice. It’s so good I was a little disappointed no-one commented on it on my return to the office today.

3. Americans and/or Bonnaroovians are extremely patient... unless it’s to charge an iPhone.
Bonnaroo: Welcome to the Line Ride. There was a line for everything: the cinema tent, the comedy tent, the water station. It took two hours to even get into the festival on the first day. It might just be that they squished 80 000 people into an area that would comfortably hold half that. But everyone cheered along the way, high-fiving as we snaked along the fencing like cattle. Amazingly, the only places that didn’t have lines were the bars. Perhaps selling the same beer for $4 in the campgrounds and $7 in the festival just rubs people the wrong way.

Yes, Bonnaroovians were patient- the crowd happily hung around for Empire of the Sun, forty minutes late and starting close to 3am. They were patient, unless it involved an iPhone. Call me old school, but I tried to charge my camera battery in the staff shower trailer (where the sulphur in the well water had it smelling as if a hundred people simultaneously farted). When I returned, it was unplugged with a sheepish and rather strong stomached iPhone user concentrating on his facebook profile. I considered explaining that I didn’t even have phone service but it seriously reeked in there.

4. Even a blood clot on the brain isn’t a good enough excuse to pull out.

FUCK MUMFORD. I wish I’d taken a photo of the spray paint across the Portaloos (just can’t make myself say Portapotty...). The rumours had been spreading around the grounds and it was eventually confirmed on Twitter (camping festivals in the modern age!). Mumford and Sons had to pull out because the bassist hadn’t recovered from emergency brain surgery to remove a blood clot. What a slacker. Lucky Jack Johnson was already hanging around the festival to cover. Also lucky that I am part of the 2% of the population that does not like their music (that’s putting it mildly). Since when were banjos cool?

(1/2) We were informed yesterday that Mumford & Sons have to cancel their #Bonnaroo appearance due to bassist Ted Dwane’s medical condition
— Bonnaroo (@Bonnaroo) June 14, 2013

TO BE CONTINUED...

* Bonnaroovian = a special term to describe attendees of Bonnaroo, making you feel part of one big inclusive group at the expense of excluding those who did not attend.

Bonnaroo Odyssey Starts Now!

June 9, 2013

Finally, some travel to be done- a two week road trip to Tennessee to work at Bonnaroo festival. Watch this space!

This monkey got published

June 5, 2013

I'm fairly excited to share my piece just published in The Hilt Magazine.

Click here to view A Monkey Could Do It.

And for my lovely followers who have signed up for email notifications, I'd really appreciate you clicking on the link to read it on the blog. It's formatted better and I miss out on your 'pageview'. They say it's quality not quantity but I say stuff 'em.

E.A.

From the Supermarket Aisles to the 25th Floor

View from the Boardroom (as I tidy the chairs)

June 1, 2013

The impeccable-timing fairy has finally worked in my favour, landing me a well-paid reception job. It's a three week assignment taking me right up to the day before our Bonnaroo festival road trip (yipee!)

There's a lot to like about working on the 25th floor. It could be the whole hour to have lunch (as opposed to a quick 10 minute bite en route to playground duty). Or maybe I just enjoy being part of something very ordinary- the 9-5 work day (well, 8:30-5 but let's not split hairs). In not-so-impeccable timing, the full time work coincides with my major assignments for the two courses I've been studying via correspondence from Sydney.

But hey, I'm a pretty good multi-tasker. Is sorting the dirty laundry whilst on the toilet taking things too far? What about moving a load from the washer to the dryer? It really is a conveniently placed toilet.

The 25th floor is a long way from the supermarket shelves I was supposed to be stocking. As it turned out, quitting that job was as cumbersome as starting. I'll admit that I dogged it and rang outside of business hours so I didn't have to talk directly to my manager. But being heard on the phone quitting your shelf-packing job doesn't really fit the image of commercial real estate.

As soon as I met my manager, I knew I was going to break her heart.I'm not sure how to describe someone as taking their job too seriously without sounding condescending or devaluing the job. But when you take a very strict training scheme to even more explicit heights, then it's probably a fair call. On an extensive store tour that included the door that I had quite obviously already been through and introductions to colleagues who sized me up as not being able to do the job as well as them, my manager and I had the following conversation:

'Do you smoke?'
'No.'
'I'll show you where to smoke anyway.'
'I may decide to take it up.'

I learnt early that jokes not only demean the training process, but my manager personally.

With six training shifts, I was essentially thrown in the shallow end. It was fortunate I suppose

Set your face for disappointment

May 28, 2013

I had one of those nights last week when everything is left by the wayside (including dinner) because I was sucked into a movie. I’m not a huge movie fan- there’s something about sitting down for two or so hours (unless it’s with a book) that feels like time wasting.

But it was Ghostbusters 2, a childhood favourite that I watched countless times at my grandparents’ house (a VCR was a luxury not afforded to us).

It was fun yelling “We’ve been there!” at the landmarks but it also served to remind us of one of the most underwhelming experiences: New Year’s Eve in Times Square.

The old Times Square ball.

A timeline of NYEs

January 1st, 2011 12 am: drunk in a Paris park watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle no differently to every other hour of the night. “Imagine being in Times Square,” I said. “Let’s do it!” Almost at the end of a UK working holiday, we had vague notions of doing it again in Canada.

January 1^st, 2012 12 am: tipsy on a grassy hill in Marion Bay, Tasmania, watching the Kooks wrap up their set at the Falls Festival. “I wonder where we’ll be next New Year’s Eve,” I said. “Times Square?” Having paid off Europe-laden credit cards, we were beginning to squirrel away again with a less vague notion of Canada.

January 1^st, 2013 12 am: stone cold sober in Times Square watching the confetti sprinkle down six blocks away.

We weren’t going to attempt it. I’d done some research and discovered the fun police rules for a Spartan NYE. You weren’t allowed bags or drinks. But why would you drink when there aren’t any toilets?

The arrogance is quite endearing ­– ‘we know you’re going to come anyway so why should we bother?’

Our other option was to go to a New York ‘party’ at a pub with an open bar and free party favors. Party favors seemed to be the clincher on each ad. What the hell is a party favor?

Can you see? Me neither

On the off chance you didn’t want to hover awkwardly behind people sitting at the bar, tickets for these parties averaged around a couple of hundred dollars. Reminiscent of being a skinny kid at an all-you-can-eat, an open bar is kind of wasted on me. I could picture myself trying to get my money’s worth of grog and the elegant image of singing Auld Lang Syne into the toilet bowl. I’m sure the acoustics are great in the dunny though.

In the end we were sold on the idea of Times Square by the rather kooky guesthouse owner’s fairly logical advice: You’re here, you may as well. A lot of strategic planning went into the night. Following our trip to the laundromat (I was out of clean undies and didn’t want to bring in 2013 wearing swimmers), we cooked a spaghetti bolognaise for linner around 4pm, deliberately dehydrated ourselves and

Come where we treat you with respect

May 23, 2013

It’s a bit like when somebody explains, “I’m a nice person.” 

Having to tell you something that ought to be a given should set off alarm bells. Unless you’re me and stupidly optimistic about the wrong things (and doubtful of the right things).

The job title was “Servers, come where we treat you with respect”. To make my optimism even less credible, it was advertised on Craigslist (creepier version of Gumtree). But hey, the admin work wasn’t as fruitful as I’d hoped (more here) and what great flexibility to fit around my studies. All you had to do was email your availability for the week and get offered waitressing jobs at catering events. And I was going to make a whopping $15/hr to boot (for the lack of tips at weddings?).

I smashed the job interview; singing my praises in a banquet room with the other suckers watching on. I didn’t get invited to the owner’s house as I later read about on a red flag website but I did get invited back for training an hour later. What’s a girl to do for an hour on Dufferin Street? What else is there to do? My only option was Dairy Queen where I tried not to laugh as the cashier unenthusiastically turned my ice-cream upside-down. Supposedly you get it for free if it fails. I’d pay double.

A new party trick

I was a little suspicious on the ‘training’ that I rightly figured to be unpaid. But it was only for an hour and I’d gone all that way on the bus. Two hours later I was on my way home with a throbbing wrist and very late for dinner. In reality, waitressing is probably not the best career move for someone with a dodgy wrist (a self-diagnosed ganglion was recently upgraded to carpal tunnel– thanks Dr Internet). 



I mulled over my uniform requirements: a buttoned long sleeve white shirt, buttoned long sleeve black shirt, black pants with black belt, black tie and a black button up vest, and wondered how many hours I’d have to work to make back the money, especially now the ‘contract’ we signed before we were let out specified $10.25/hr. My old friend, minimum wage! Obviously

A Real Space Oddity

May 18, 2013

You might not know who this guy is if you haven’t been close to a Canadian TV lately or aren’t one of his one million followers on twitter. No, he’s not a new recruit for “Guess Who?”. He’s Canada’s biggest celebrity.

I wasn’t overly interested in Chris Hadfield’s journey to begin with, although he was in the news more regularly than the prime minister (deliberate omission of name to highlight un-newsworthiness) or embattled Toronto mayor, Rob Ford (I’ve always wanted to use that adjective). It wasn’t until Cmdr Hadfield was nearing the end of his five months in space that I sat up and took notice. The Chris Hadfield highlight reels went on high rotation and given his prolific tweeting, singing and all round good-guyness, there was a lot to recap. From shaving in space to a good old fashioned sing along with Canadian schoolkids, there was nothing he didn’t do.

If you watch the sing along song he co-wrote with the dude from Barenaked Ladies, you might wonder if Canada is just a big country town. I don’t know but when I switched news channels because I’d seen his simulated space exit too many times, they were doing birthday shout-outs... for adults.

ISS- Is Somebody Singing? 

Warning: listeners may experience uplifted spirits and an earworm for a few days.

There’s so much to like about the guy– he genuinely wanted to bring the world with him to the ISS by sharing his experiences. But there’s a lot to make you feel very, very awkward.

On his last days in space, he filmed his own rendition of Bowie’s Space Oddity. It’s tumultuous viewing– fantastically produced by his son and sung so earnestly I had to bite my hand. 

The Chris Hadfield Drinking Game

Have a shot every time:

~ He looks wistfully out the window. Make it a double if it matches the lyrics.

~ A guitar is spun in zero gravity (what’s the carry-on baggage limits for space travel anyway?).

Play it soon though, David Bowie’s only given permission for one year of viewing.

The whole mission may appear to be

2 weeks worth of thanks

May 16, 2013

A quick note to thank everyone for making the last two weeks of scribbling notes like a nutter worthwhile. I dread the post "Blogging killed my relationship"... So thank you all my followers from Canada, USA, Australia, Russia and Germany. Keep reading and feel free to tell your friends!



Sending you a virtual box of Roses chocolates courtesy of this 1994 ad.
(I thought you weren't meant to hear accents when you sing!)

E.A.