LOWBROW HOO-HA

Dear 7 readers, just a little note to let you know that I've moved to -

http://lowbrowhoo-ha.blogspot.com

So if ever you're bored and want to read up on my unsolicited rants please pop by.

Electro is Dead but Gumboots are Back... PARKLIFE '09

I'm not going to lie. I jumped on the electro bandwagon in about 2007. I rode that fluoro wave with pride, because I am a sheep and I follow the crowd. The last Parklife I went to was two years ago and looking back at the photos I almost have to wear sunnies because it is just a fluoro overload. So this year when the murky grey sky decided to try and steal Parklife’s thunder there was a definite shift in festival gear. Gone were the typical Supre singlets, hello ponchos, tights and gumboots. The ultimate fashion crime of the day (apart from the overload of Southern Cross tattoos and shirtless flabby bodies even though it was 16 degrees) were the heinous heeled gumboots we spotted on the dance floor. So shocked we were that it almost triggered a simultaneous group heart attack of disgust.

As all festival goers know the only way to start the day is with a hot breakfast washed down with a coffee and champagne. Or if you’re Daniel Brazel, a beer. The traditional pre drinks were held at my place and the running theme seemed to be making friends with the statues Maggie the magpie and the sexy nude lady at my front door. After we had guzzled our morning bevvies we hopped on the train and battled our way there on the free bus from Central station.

We got the whole getting-each-other-lost thing out of the way early on. It seemed the second we walked in we had managed to split in half and phone reception was already so shocking that our reunion wasn’t for another fifteen minutes. But it was all for a good reason. Ingrid and penny had bumped into some Parklife VIP’s and had to have a photo shoot with Demelza and Jordon from Australia’s Next Top Model, fair enough.

Who says an overcast day can’t be fun? I almost cried with happiness during the Yacht Club DJs set. Pretty sure I had my hand on my heart the whole time because I was so in love with their amazing music. They are absolute geniuses. They mix songs you wouldn’t match together in a hundred years yet somehow make it sound phenomenal. So many daggy classics are remixed and have the whole crowd in heaven. I wish I had their set on CD, I would bust out to it every night. We had many “this is the highlight of the day” moments during their performance, but the ultimate highlight of the day was One More Time, Daft Punk, vs. Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, Diana Ross. We then proceeded to dance ourselves silly to Kaskade, Empire of the Sun and La Roux.

I got home at an ungodly hour Monday morning after an impressive kick on but it was an outstanding day and well worth the muddy trench foot.

- BELLA

A CROP FREE HOLIDAY!

"Can you imagine actually being able to enjoy the photos of this trip and not have to crop out bulbous nosed ex boyfriends?" My sister excitedly said to me last Sunday after we paid our air fare to Thailand.

"I won't have to burn the album or rip up photos in rage either," I replied.

Both Edwina and I have a history of travelling with (now ex) boyfriends. And while there is nothing wrong with that it's just when the inevitable happens your pictures become snide little reminders of memories past and looking at them is like rubbing a whole ocean of salt into raw, raw wounds. "Hey look at me with my boyfriend in front of the Eiffel Tower." Yep my happiness makes me sick, I want to punch the smug girl I used to be. The worst thing is all the stunning photos that go to waste. Most of my Europe photos are still too much of a soft spot and are sitting in my draw collecting dust.

If only there was some sort of company that professionally edits out exes or can super impose Scott Dooley's head on top of his. Maybe I should just brush up on my Adobe skills, until then there is always scissors or the trusty "crop" tool on Paint.

Hoorah for Thailand-oh-nine-land!

- BELLA

Vodka for Breakfast, Chocolate for Lunch

When we did the groceries we were only after the bare essentials – grog, grog, grog and maybe some chips and chocolate to have with the grog if we began to feel a bit spewy. And so it set the tone to our 2009 Splendour adventure.

At 5am on Friday morning the four of us squeezed into the overflowing car and headed off. Because Ingrid and I are new drivers we were excluded from the tedious duties, many thanks to the responsible drivers for getting us there in one piece. So it was ten hours of snuggling and sleeping ahead of us. The most important ingredient to a successful road trip is good music. My lovely friend Penny spent weeks compiling The Ultimate Road Trip Mega Mix, incorporating everybody’s’ music tastes. We had a no skipping the song rule, which lasted for about two seconds.

The most exciting pit stop on the way up was the Big Banana, which I have never seen. That lustrous, yellow fruit was everything I could of hoped for and more. We BYO’ed our own bananas and did the mandatory dorky poses in front of the gigantic specimen. Which seemed oh so hilarious at the time until you run into someone you know from Sydney.

Our first night was spent in a cosy tent as the cabins were booked up. Luckily we had practiced putting it up earlier in the week to prevent any embarrassing, amateur mistakes. Of course the one night we camp it rains. Mother nature has a wicked sense of humour, the cheeky bitch. The rain did not deter us and we out smarted her by purchasing some waterproof tarps at “Wayne’s World Discount Store” (I actually don’t think this was the name of the shop but If I had a shop I would call it this, it has a nice ring to it don’t you think?)

Our campsite was right by the beach and tucked away in the rainforest at Broken Head. Pesky bush turkeys gobbled about every crevice, scavenging for food. Not a good equation when you combine drunken, rowdy Splendour punters and sadly I witnessed many Turkeys being attacked by flying objects. We started drinking at an un Godly hour in the morning but there is something so fun about drinking before 10am. Probably because you know it’s seedy but going to a festival is the one excuse that warrants it.

I don’t usually get too excited over Aussie hip-hop but it’s amazing the power of a good performance and how it can change your opinion. Triple J Unearthed winners Low Budged kicked off day 1 and blew me away. I didn’t know any of their songs but found my self dancing like a crazy lady, arms flailing, legs kicking Elaine Bennis style, wanting more! The highlight of their gig was when they held up gigantic, saggy, old people undies with the words in shitty black texta “Low Budget” drawn on them and threw it into the crowd, mayhem ensued and some lucky bugger managed to score themselves a free pair of granny panties.

Courtesy of a sneaky vodka hip flask tucked down the side of my pantaloons I cannot really distinguish between day 1 or day 2. But the definite euphoric atmosphere of a festival was present both days. I loved wandering around and bumping into fun friends and going on adventures, especially since you have a 1 in 17000 chance of finding them. I loved the fact it was winter but felt like summer. I loved the lush green grass and the mud holes to frolic in. I loved the hippy parents dragging their unassuming babies along and still having a good time. A strange dichotomy I’ve always noticed about festivals is the extreme contrast of love and hate that you can experience. You can make best friends with the girl behind you in the loo line or people can be complete tossers (i.e. sit up on the fence during MGMT and block everyone’s view) but that ‘team spirit’ mentality solved the problem anyway as we all rallied together and screamed till she finally got down. We even formed a club with some new friends called “I hate Southern Cross tattoos” that plans to meet weekly so we can vent our disgust.

MGMT, Bloc Party and Friendly Fires had to be my favourites – musically speaking and eye candy wise. Gosh balls the lead singer of MGMT is gorgeous. He first grabbed my attention in one of his film clips while he was wearing a hot pink loin cloth and it’s been love ever since. Bloc Party was mayhem but I adore their music. It’s quite scary being a short lass in the heaving crowd, luckily I had a tall friend to protect me but I think the closing acts are best enjoyed out of the hectic main tent and from a distance on grassy hill patch where you even have room to dance! Inside the main tent it’s just a tangle of sweaty bodies and stray limbs and I always worry I’ll get trampled to death. The Friendly Fires have so many great songs to dance to and I reckon they are going to be massive this year. The best time of the day is dusk, just before it gets dark and becomes “change over time” i.e. when you begin to feel like the scum of the earth. For some reason as soon as the sun goes down the crazies come out to play and everything just feels a bit grotty.

So what have I learnt from this weekend of squalor and fun? I would happily marry any lead singer from any band, there is just something so God damn sexy about lead singers. I am a ridiculous sucker for boys in skinny leg jeans and cardigans. The skinner the jean the better in fact. Splendour was full of uber Indy boys and I almost had to use a bib for my drooling. If you need to go to the loo you should refer to this act as “I really need to Bob Evans”, if waiting for a shuttle bus to get home a fun way to pass the time is with a very moral and dignified game called “Pineapples and Nellys” whereby you rate the pedestrians as hot or not using the appropriate code words pineapple (positive) and nelly (negative), to ensure a smooth road trip put all necessities in an accessible bag at the passengers foot, you may only refer to this as the accessible bag for the entire journey and should weave the phrase into as many sentences as possible for the rest of the holiday, a fun social experiment when a random asks you for a cigarette is to reply “I’ll only give you the cigarette if you hang out with me for the rest of the day,” they usually run before you can even touch the packet, Woolworth’s “light” chips are not chips at all, they are air wafers and taste like poop and should never be purchased ever again.

The best way to recover from two days of debauchery is a swim at the beach. I’ve always believed taking a dip has magical healing powers. Thanks to all those involved for making my Splendour so much fun I can’t wait to do it all again next year. I suffered a severe case of Post Splendour Withdrawals upon return and even had to throw my shoes in the bin, which is always a sign of a good time!

UPDATE: Turns out ice cream is the best way to combat jealous thoughts of topless women and Island hopping oh, and being asked to dance by the lead singer of Friendly Fires! *

* Not 100% sure if this is the actual lead singer but he still is an absolute hottie so I am claiming it.

- BELLA

Travel Envy...

The fact that the most exciting thing in my life right now is being able to have the luxury to flick between Triple J and FBI while I'm driving in the car (I have an ancient stereo in my room that doesn't have presets and takes a hundred years to swap between stations) really screams LOSER DO SOMETHING EXCITING WITH YOURSELF!

It seems everywhere I look (ok, not everywhere just Facebook) I am being accosted with images of people having The Times of Their Lives as they frolic in the European sunshine. I know this isn't helped with the current Post Break-Up Syndrome (a general distaste towards pretty much everything) I have contracted or the fact that Heartbreak Scorsese* (that is what we shall be referring to him as from now on) is currently on a spontaneous trip to an exotic, seaside, European country that will no doubt be polluted with millions of large breasted, nude women. So please understand that my bitterness is at an all time high and I need to vent. I think I should change my diagnosis from "no-one-in-the-world-is-allowed-to-be-happy-while-i-wallow-syndrome" to "how-dare-anyone-have-any-kind-of-fun-especially-overseas-while-I-wallow-syndrome." Jess you are exempt from my scorn, I hope you're having a ball. See, I'm not that bitter.

I really should shut my whinge hole and be getting excited that it's only FOUR SLEEPS TILL BYRON and thus FIVE SLEEPS TILL SPLENDOUR IN THE GRASS. I am planning to dance my Cons to oblivion! If one thing all these beautiful Facebook photos of friends travelling has taught me is that I think my next, non-existent trip will most definitely have to be in a hot climate. Nothing is easier than packing cute bikinis and summer frocks and it’s always a bonus to come home with a fresh, sun kissed face and a new set of freckles for the collection – hello melanoma!

Unfortunately there is no instant cure for Travel Envy. Maybe I should just gauge my eyes out and stop torturing myself by browsing through others' happy snaps. Or maybe, just maybe I should jump on a plane and have my very own adventure at an exotic, seaside, European location and cavort about with gorgeous, muscley, yet strangely similar looking to Scott Dooley type foreigners.

*Snob Scrilla – Heartbreak Scorsese: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VtnMoAyaHTE

( Photo: BFF's Dools and Bella share a cuddle)

Daily Drool...

I find this photo absolutely stunning. It's one of those fluke shots that look like a post card for which I can take no credit for, it is simply the spectacular surroundings making love to the lens. It was taken roughly last October standing on the Charles Bridge in Prague. It is such a silent, still moment. Unfortunately the same cannot be said for the hoards of human traffic you have to battle through on the Charles Bridge. It is so hard to even get a picture of yourself without accidentally being in someone else's so I resorted to taking photos looking out from the bridge and this is the result. I love it so much that it lives in a frame in my room.

- BELLA

The Two Sisters Try and Meet The Three Sisters.

When I think of the Blue Mountains spewy, romantic weekends away usually spring to mind. Suffocating couples everywhere you look, lovey dovey weekend retreats. Can you tell I am a tad bitter? Yes, I call this state ‘post-break-up-no-one-in-the-world-is-allowed-to-be-happy-while-i-wallow-syndrome’. A bit of a mouthful so maybe we’ll just stick to broken hearted.

So it was a calculated risk doing a day trip to the Blue Mountains, worried all the love and starry-eyed couples may cause me to combust with rage. Luckily I had my sister by my side and off we headed with our packed chicken sambos and bananas (currently pinching pennies for impending trips to the Hunter and Byron) to see if I could potter around the Blue Mountains without getting an aching heart.

The all important first stop was in the main drag of Katoomba at the Paragon. The Paragon is an old school, saloon style restaurant. You can snuggle up with an overpriced hot chocolate, $6 to be precise, in the coffee coloured oak booths as you gaze at the faded, autographed photos of Aussie ‘celebrities’ from yesteryear. We did succumb and fork out $4 for a latte, nothing special but it’s nice to cuddle up to a warm drink and absorb the atmosphere of the place. Now, you cannot go to the Paragon without trying their hand made chocolates. It’s hard to ignore the huge glass window displaying all the treats. I always opt for the hazelnut shells. Two of these bad boys will set you back another $4 but they are something special and well worth splurging on.

We then swung by the Carrington Hotel for a sneaky sticky beak. This would be an ideal place to have the quintessential Blue Mountains tea and scones but I was still recovering from scoffing down two huge chocolates in the space of one minute. The Carrington reminds me of a grand, old federation palace. It’s like stepping back in time. There are elaborate chandeliers, a ballroom, a billiard room and large, open fires around every corner. It’s the kind of place you want to whisk your Grandmother away to as you know she’ll be in heaven.

After squeezing Katoomba for all it was worth it was time to move on to the next destination - Mount White aka The Pink Town. The name is self explanatory as literally every building is painted a cute shade of baby pink. By this stage I was more than ready to tackle some jam and scones. We found a cosy little café (yes, it was pink!) and parked ourselves next to the open fire. The reading material was quite dire but I managed to find an interesting feature in Notebook magazine (my idea of hell). It was written by various female Australian writers about their age and what it means to them. The most interesting was Germaine Greer’s piece, it showed a more light hearted side to her and was quite funny. She said now that she is 70 she is on her last set of dogs, after these ones pass away she won’t be getting anymore. It’s funny to measure things by dogs. So an apology is owed to Notebook you’re not so boring after all. The travesty of the day was the huge amount of jam and cream that was left over, I contemplated getting a spoon and eating it but resisted the urge. What a sad waste.

No trip to The Mountains is complete without paying your respects to the Three Sisters. Echo Point was awash with tourists and fog so we couldn’t exactly see the three mighty sisters, which was not such a loss considering the other twenty million times I’ve seen them over the years on family holidays and school excursions. I quite liked the foggy blanket that covered the valley and even though you couldn’t see the main attraction it was still beautiful.

The scenic drive home timed in with the Triple J Hottest 100 of All Time countdown, hosted by Scott Dooley – could you ask for anything better? So, you really don’t need romance to enjoy the Blue Mountains, just good company, good chicken sandwiches and Dools’ dreamy, husky voice.

- BELLA

A Very Depressing Thought…

As today is the 3rd of July it officially means I have been home in Aus. for FIVE MONTHS, how did that happen? I feel like just yesterday I was OS. It is sad because it means I have been here in boring reality for the same length of time that my trip was. So what have I managed to achieve? A whole lot of nothing remotely interesting worth mentioning really. I think I will use this post to make it official – I NEED TO GO TRAVELLING AGAIN. Watch this space…

- BELLA

A Sydney Saturday.

Having finally got my licence last week after years of pretending I would, I find myself wanting to drive everywhere. I know this initial novelty will soon run out, especially after my experience last night of trying to get to St Leonards and ending up down the bloody Cahill Expressway in North Sydney (many thanks to my sister and Sarah for coming to the rescue and sincere apologies for crying hysterically on the phone to my brother and best friend). Shaken but not broken, it has dented the cocky P plate driver I was for a few days. I do want to make sure everyone takes advantage of this honeymoon phase though, as I am literally thousands of kilometres in debt to family and friends. Last Saturday my sister kindly let me drive us over the Harbour Bridge for an Oxford Street expedition.

An experience in itself is a visit to the Palm Beach Shoe shop - 370 Oxford St. This tiny store is overflowing with gorgeous shoes and grumpy customers. The novelty of this shop is navigating around the hoards of people, picking a shoe you like, trying to find an assistant then trying it on while avoiding stepping on someone’s toes or knocking over the shoe displays. I enjoy a challenge and managed to walk away with a divine pair of black ankle boots for $75. People in the store are very entertaining to observe. As it is the size of a matchbox they tend to be on edge, it is a true test of your strength and many troops simply give up, abandon their shoe and escape outside for some much needed oxygen. I do feel quite sorry for the lovely people who work there, unfortunately manners seem to go out the window when crowds are involved.

The next stop was Fringe Bar, which is transformed every Saturday into indoor markets. The club atmosphere is still present as you can sip on champagne while the DJ pumps out awesome music. Every time I go to these markets I make a mental note to dress much trendier next time but end up forgetting / do not possess that effortlessly stylish gene and always find myself drooling in envy at my fellow, hip shoppers. The stalls are a mixture of vintage, up and coming designers and regular brands. http://www.thefringe.com.au/

Across the road at the Paddington markets you can find cute little nick knacks, clothes and scrumptious, cheap lunches. I fell in love with a stunning top for a reasonably priced $45. It is one of those pieces that is almost too pretty to wear, no outing is worthy of its beauty but I know I will cave and whip it out soon. For the time being it is hanging in my wardrobe like a work of art as I continually gush at its splendour. http://www.paddingtonmarkets.com.au/

After all this intense shopping a caffeine and banana bread hit is essential. We stopped at an adorable café and florist called Lilifields. It is like walking into a secret garden. Another bonus is the great supply of trashy mags to accompany your meal. It is a quiet refuge from the chaos of Oxford Street and the tranquil pitter-patter of the fountain could trick you into thinking you are in an exotic, far away forest. They were also very generous with their honey and ricotta servings, which always leaves a good impression in my books. http://www.lilifields.com/

Now I obviously needed to take my new shoes out for a spin. It would be cruel leaving them locked up on a Saturday night. Where is the best place to take your cute new shoes out for a shameless jig you ask? 77 on William Street is a crazy cesspool of brilliance. There are so many reasons why I adore this club. Where else in the world could a man in a sparkly, red sequined dress and beard not only be let into the club but fast-tracked to the front of the queue? Where else could Kylie Minogue be played one minute then Bag Raiders the next? I love the fact they turn away people who are dressed ‘too sensibly’. It is the opposite to all those wanky, pretentious Sydney clubs. Collared shirts die, costumes, freaks and cross-dressing thrives. It was their first birthday on the weekend and the club, which reminds me of a trashy, dingy basement, was turned into a colourful circus tent. The male door bitches were dressed as ringmasters in g-string leotards and the star DJ of the joint, Hookie, was decked out in equally outrageous attire. The place is a circus every weekend but its true potential was really brought to life on Saturday night.

I live for these Sydney Saturdays. The thought of a day spent like this gets me through the week and although it’s not an overseas adventure it is still an exciting affair between myself and my lover, Sydney.

- BELLA

The Jobs We Do To Get Out of Here!

You may have noticed that I have been a little slack with uploading blogs over the last few weeks. Between filing murder cases at the Supreme Court, babysitting and setting up parties I have had little time to sit down in front of the the computer, let alone clean my bomb of a room. 

According to my sister I become 'extremely selfish' and turn into a 'mega-tightass' in the months leading up to my departure date. My bedroom is located very close to hers and apparently the smell of my room 'affects (her) time in the house.' Pretty disgusting hey! 

So what exactly am I doing that is keeping me from  going out on Saturday nights and preventing me from sleeping on clean sheets? - Whoops, I can't remember when I last washed them. 

Last Friday and Saturday, I worked all day setting up a Jewish wedding in the wealthy suburb of Toorak. My job was to decorate the chuppah, a marriage canopy, where the couple exchange their vowels. As the family had paid a lot of money, our company had to make sure the house looked more than fantastic and 'better than any other wedding' that we had done before!

Right, time to work. For two days I tied fishing wire around the tops of jam jars, popped in a tea-light candle then shakily stood on a ladder and with more fishing wire, tied the jars the to roof of the chuppah. I drew blood a couple of times from stabbing myself with the wire and I think the muscles in my arms buffed up from reaching up and tieing the hundreds of jars.

After two days under the chuppah, it was then time to rush off the babysitting for three little boys. By this stage of the weekend, my eyes were losing their sense of soul but at least the three terrors I was babysiting were undeniably adorable. 

I watched Scooby-Doo with them then searched around the house for an more age-appropriate DVD for after they had totted off to bed - Don't get me wrong though, I do love a bit of Scoobs but I definitely appreciated Heath Ledger in Two Hands more, I am actually in love! 

I have two weeks until I leave and some of my jobs are drying up a bit, so I am on the search for more files to file, more babies to sit on and more chuppahs to decorate! 

With Love,

Jess

The Cape, Clams & Columbus.

‘Live Free or Die’ – it doesn’t seem like a normal slogan to represent a state on a licence plate. Here at home, we’re used to more conservative state licence plates like ‘Garden State’ or ‘Nation’s Capital’ so you can only imagine why I felt in photo-worthy when I discovered New Hampshire’s state plate telling me to Live Free...Or Die.But that’s just the sort of attitude you’ll encounter all over America. And yes, it gets tiresome. Especially if you’re visiting D.C. and wish for a cultural exploration of the Holocaust Museum, but instead are bombarded with unrelenting American bias about their involvement in World War II. Maybe you should expect it in D.C. though, what with the Bill of Rights and Declaration of Independence on display in the National Archives, The White House and Capitol Building – these monuments symbolise American liberty and freedom; and those around them won’t be afraid to tell you.

I was surprised though to see such an ‘Americanism’ on the licence plate of New Hampshire. Tucked neatly away in the heart of New England on the East Coast, this part of American is revered as more conservative than other parts of the country. Known mostly for their old money and lavish families and estates, the New England area, including of Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Connecticut, is a far cry from the rednecks and plastics we often associate Americans with. I can’t boast that I’m an expert on the whole area, but I do fancy myself quite a Massachusetts buff. In fact, I’d go even as far as to say I’m ‘half local’.

I’ve learnt over the years that for a lot of people, travelling and site seeing is about ticking off a list – a certain list that over a period of time becomes known as the things that one “has to do”. And I’m not saying I haven’t found myself going over that list. Only last month I was in Chicago and walked into the Field Museum, only to be highly disappointed and felt I had to stay a look at everything because it’s something everyone says you “have-to-do”. And so following this trend, when most people venture to the East Coast, they fall back on that same sort of list.

I plan to revise the list. So for all those thinking of America and going East, listen up. Do New York, do D.C. Do whatever. I don’t care, as long as you go New England (New Yorkers will try to tell you they are part of New England – don’t listen to them). I’m not telling you that you must buy all Red Sox and Patriots paraphernalia or that you must eat clam chowder morning, noon and night, but if you do, you won’t be disappointed.

Boston is a must. There’s no two ways about it. Walk along the Charles and spend an afternoon on the wooden pontoons that jut into the river. Go for July 4th and walk the Freedom Trail and finish off with spectacular fireworks over the Charles. Walk over Harvard Bridge and through Cambridge to Harvard Square and watch the tan pants/navy blazer lemmings walk between classes. Visit Arnold Arboretum and sit beneath the trees; you’ll think you’re in Central Park. Go shopping along Newbury Street. Walk down Commonwealth Ave and Marlborough St and look at the old brownstones before sitting in the Public Garden studying the spring flowers (just don’t get a ride on the swan boats). Go in winter and skate on the frog pond in Boston Common. Head to North End and eat at Pizzeria Regina (16 inch and root beer is a must). Take a day to explore the MFA and Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum and a walk back through the Fens. Take the night off from wining and dining and head to Fenway Park for beer and hot dogs to watch a Sox game (or at least do a tour). Eat tapas and sangria at Tapeo, amazing Mayan at Casa Romero, the best burgers at Bukowski’s and fabulous Japanese at Duzo. A drink at The Top of the Hub is a must overlooking Boston. For a great morning run, go along the Charles, over the Longfellow Bridge through Cambridge and back over Harvard Bridge.Don’t forget Penny Candy Store lollies and Salt Water Taffy, Boston Chowder with oyster crackers and Paradise Bakery chippers.

If you feel like renting a car, hit the road and head out of Boston. Salem is a bit of fun to learn about witch trials and burning people at the stake. There’s also a huge chuck of history on cod fishing in New England and it’s also just a nice seaside town. Cape Cod and Provincetown. Think Hamptons, only better. If it was good enough for JFK it’s good enough for us.Head to Plymouth as well. Here you can buy Plymouth Rock Candy (oh so good) but it’s also where Columbus landed in 1620. In fact, the actual Plymouth Rock is still there for you to take a photo of (I did any way...). Here you can also visit a replica Pilgrim village. A little kitsch but kinda of fun.

And a final personal recommendation. It’s totally off the map and probably not something that will ever make it onto the list, but maybe that’s a good thing. My travels havens thus remain untouched. But you haven’t seen Massachusetts beauty until you’ve been to Duxbury. Lush green gardens and wide quiet roads. Huge America weatherboard homes. There’s also a great cranberry bog. Most importantly there is a long beautiful beach and on the other side is mud. And you know what that means? Quahoging, mucking, clamming. Whatever you want to call it, collect your own clams and go home and cook your own, fresh clam chowder. Now how New England is that?

- Georgia Middleton, guest writer, http://georgialoveblog.blogspot.com/

Must See Before You Die: The Church of Spilled Blood, St. Petersburg, Russia.

Words cannot even begin to give this church justice. This magnificent creation is a blessing to the eyes. A lolly shop on steroids, architectural overachievement, Hansel and Gretel’s idea of heaven, other worldly. No matter how you look at it, it is a joy. The first time I ever saw it I stood gob smacked in awe with excited butterflies in my tummy. This feeling never faded and I continued to be overcome with emotion every time I walked passed during my week in St. Petersburg.

I am a sucker for onion domes. Any kind of church with onion domes makes my heart skip a beat and luckily Russia is the King of the dome but the mother of all domes, to me, is the Church of Spilled Blood. I know this is not a fair judgement to make without having seen St. Basil’s but I wasn’t fortunate enough to make it to Moscow so have consequently put that on my wish list for next time. But sorry St. Basil’s, The Church of Spilled Blood already has cemented a special place in my heart. If the outside gets you giddy you can only begin to image the pure beauty of the intricate mosaic tiling inside.

The peculiar name of the church serves as a tribute to the assassination of Tsar Alexander the II, who was the Emperor of the Russia from 1855-1881. The location of the church is where he was killed and construction began two years later, under the reign of Alexander the III as a dedication to his late father. It is also known as “The Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood” and “Cathedral of the Resurrection of Christ”. It took an astounding twenty four years to complete. Sadly, during the Russian Revolution the church was badly damaged and after the war it was even used as a vegetable warehouse and the cheeky nickname “Saviour of Potatoes” was coined. In 1970 restoration began to take place and finally twenty-seven years later in 1997 it re-opened.

It’s odd to think that something aesthetic can have such an overwhelming, emotional affect but it does and it is an amazing feeling, as if time is standing still, to just stand gazing at this wonder.

- BELLA

I Wheelie Beg You to Take a Backpack!

The wheelie vs. backpack debate is an issue close to my heart so please forgive my ranting tone. There are many reasons why a backpack easily trumps the impractical wheelie bag. Sure, in theory a wheelie bag sounds like a dream to take away but I have witnessed the harsh (yet hilarious) reality of those poor souls trudging along cobble stone paths and battling up and down stairs with their bag.

I must confess it took me a while to learn this, I used to be a non-believer. My first trip away was only for one month and I loathed my backpack. I was tempted to throw it in the bin and buy a wheelie. I used to whisper in my friends ears, bribing them to give up and jump in a taxi with me, to please ‘come to the dark side because I just can’t carry this anymore!’ I now know this was my fault for packing 25kg of unnecessary junk (various pairs of heels I never wore, pretty frocks, useless accessories and the like). On my second trip, my backpack never exceeded 15kg and I took the bare essentials (ok, and some pretty frocks too). When I felt it getting heavier (courtesy of habitual trips to H&M, Topshop and Zara) I just sent packages home, which is cheaper than you think in many Eastern European countries. You have to accept that appearance comes second and comfort comes first.

The wheelie bag is great for a world that is flat and full of smooth, cement roads but that doesn’t exist, especially not in Europe. The only thing you will get from trying to be a ‘backpacker’ with a wheelie is a very sore arm, a lot of anger and embarrassment as you slowly drag yourself and the bothersome bag from A to B, and if you’re very lucky a few missed trains or planes a long the way.

A backpack, although intimidating at first, will eventually become your best friend. This love affair is always spurred on by the people you see having domestics on the street with their wheelies. I am on the much lower side of 5 ft and let’s just say I even battle carrying cordial jugs, so if I can do it anyone can. A backpack is far more secure on your person than a wheelie as well. Anyone can run up and pinch a wheelie from your hands where as a backpack is literally strapped onto you.

I once helped a pair of ladies getting to the station with their wheelies and it was a nightmare. We pulled it through unidentified crap on the streets of Krakow and one strap was even broken from past journeys, when I did the same route the next day with my trusty old backpack it was more than twice as quick.

Of course wheelies are appropriate in the right context like a resort holiday or a trip that doesn’t involve much moving about, or in Holland where there truly are no hills. If you want to have the real backpacking experience, don’t cheat yourself - use a backpack. Not only for the obvious practicality reasons but please honour the golden rule: to be a legit backpacker you must have a bloody backpack in the first place!

- BELLA

Mr Plastic Bag Man & The Characters You Meet in Hostels.

"What a perfect idea! I'll wrap all my individual belongings in hundreds of plastic bags! Yes, this method will be so considerate to my sleeping room mates at 6am while I rummage through every single bag, meticulously packing and unpacking everything then doing it all over again just for shits and gigs."

I kid you not this has happened to me and I am sure everyone can recall their own versions of Mr Plastic Bag Man. Being woken to the rustling noise of plastic is like a knife in the ear, nothing is more infuriating and unless you are very ballsy most people will just lie there in a fit of rage. I take the huff and puff approach where I loudly toss and sigh and roll my eyes in the hopes the idiot will get the message. I always say to myself that next time I'll yell at the bastard and put them in their place. I have no doubt that somewhere down the track Mr P-B-M got his comeuppance and hopefully it came in the form of a black eye.

The characters you meet in hostels are an integral element to travelling. It is like a big lucky dip. You never know what people you will encounter. The beauty of it is a new friend could be just around the corner and you don't even know it yet. The downside is you may get stuck with an insufferable twit. My theory is you serve your time with the twit you will be rewarded with someone fun in the next hostel.

The most baffling character I ever met was a curious bloke called Ron. He was a Brit in his late 40's, had been living in hostels for almost three years and hung around everyone like a bad smell. He was overtly friendly and you could get stuck with his eccentric ramblings for literally hours. He had a penchant for hitting the 'discotheques' hardcore and picking up 'the babezzz'. I had no idea how he could afford this lifestyle and as I continued to bump into him around the Czech Republic I began to form many different theories. He was a mysterious guy who didn't give out too much personal information. He said he was quite ill and that was obvious in is off green complexion, bold head, hoarse cough and fragile frame. My conclusion was that he was living out the last leg of his life with his savings the way he wanted to - by travelling. But I'll never know the answer.

The loveliest people I ever met were two Canadian boys on our very first night in Europe. We were 18, had just done the twenty something hour commute and arrived in Prague with our hearts in our throat with nerves, excitement and no clue. As the three of us Aussie girls wandered curiously around the hostel pub we began having a friendly chat and drink with them and the rest is history. We instantly clicked and the next three days in Prague felt like three weeks as we explored the amazing city together. We remarked at how quickly we got to know each other in such a short time span and spent the next month of our trips tweaking our plans so that our paths could cross again (in some very beautiful locations too I might add - Vienna, Florence and Rome). The five of us were the best of friends and some of the happiest times of my life were spent with them.

It is these people that shape your experience. The Ron's, the Mr Plastic Bag Men and the life long friends. The magical environment of meeting people in hostels and the intoxicating effect of foreign cities means you get to know someone so much quicker and that special bond you can't quite put your finger on is timeless.

- BELLA

Tarnishing the Rrrromantic French Language - Preparing to Sail (Part 1)

I opened up my Facebook inbox a couple of months ago to an offer that threw me onto the middle of the fence - Ouch! To go to the South of France and sail around on a 50 foot yacht or stay in Melbourne for winter? Umm, argh. No, seriously, I really did umm and argh over this decision for over a month as my head and heart battled it out to come to what I think is the right decision: to go or aller en francais.

Now for the planning of a fabulous trip, as good times don't just happen from sitting around moving only your index finger for the Foxtel control. The yacht sleeps 8 people and my Parisian friend,Gregoire, is happy for me to have 6 (girl)friends on the lurve boat. Who am I to argue with such a request?

Step 1: I organise a Facebook group to discuss anything and everything from destinations to pull up, the party crew and we can even do a 360 virtual tour of the P-Diddy like ride, thanks to G-homme (Gregoire) posting a video from the yacht's website.

It's here that we arrive at our first hurdle - teaching a perfectly tailored Frenchie ourAussie slang. Excitement and banter is escalating on the Facebook group now and proper Jane Austin-esque english is forgotton.

Gregoire was left puzzled with our following statements:

"Gregoire u must be stoked but not as stoked as i am!!!"

"Right... I need to start smashing the gym"

"Folebags" (I don't expect anyone to understand this one as it is a nick-name).

Gregoire did take the initiative to look up the meanings of words like 'stoked' but his best lesson in Aussie slang will be hanging out with us for 3 weeks on the Mediterrean Sea. My worry is that we will tarnish his dreamy vocubarly and pronounication that I do so appreciate very much while chatting on the phone about all the important plans for the trip e.g. drinking mojitos at exclusive beach clubs in St Tropez...

I think it is only fair that we try to speak a little of the language

While on French soil and sea

Tip number One:

Oui Oui is pronounced 'weh weh' not 'wee wee.'

Good Wine Hunting (Part 1)

Sick of all the lame “I got stimulated by K-Rudd” puns and actually want to spend your moola on something fun? Enjoy eating and drinking copious amounts of wine and cheese? Then jump in the car and head up to the Hunter Valley, it’s only about a two hour road trip from Sydney. We did for the infamous Lovedale Long Lunch weekend and liked it so much that we have planned part deux for July.

The first important pit stop was obviously at Maccas drive through where we ate our celebratory weekend away Happy Meals. It was a great start to a salt filled weekend. We even acquired unexpected mascots in the adorable Hello Kitty watches that came free with our meal. Half the charm of these watches were that they in fact ran on their very own time system i.e.

ME: What’s the time?

SISTER: According to my Hello Kitty watch it is 1P, what about you?

ME: A-ha, according to mine it is 13A. Take your pick!

Most people favoured 1P and thus that was the time for the entire weekend. The Lovedale Long Lunch is a hedonistic, vineyard hopping two day drink and eat extravaganza. Regular shuttle buses ($45 for an all day transport pass) cruise around seven different vineyards and you may hop on and off as you please. Some people like to set up camp at one specific location, others try to sample every flavour (mind you this gets a tad hard after your hundredth glass of wine). Once you purchase your wine glass for a reasonable $5 you are entitled to free wine tasting, or as I like to call it swigging. The highlight of the weekend for us scavengers was that you get to keep your glass. Many people poo-pooed this idea and thanks to them I have a matching set! Alternatively you can cough up $95 for transport, a glass, two food vouchers, one dessert / cheese voucher and apparently save $9 but I think that is sneaky advertising and you end up spending more but each to their own.

Every location has a live band, consistent crowds, endless choices of wine to taste and buy and amazing gourmet food (the stand out for me were the heavenly profiteroles I had for dessert, I was tempted to smuggle some home in my handbag). A big group of us stayed at a gorgeous little cottage, which was quite central to everything called Blackthorn Hill Retreat. It had three bedrooms and could sleep around eight people – http://www.bhretreat.com/index.htm

A word of warning for cab trips into the local pubs – if you happen to jump in a taxi with a masculine looking lady and hairy moles she will rip you off! Don’t pay anymore than $40. Although the Love Dale only comes around once a year it is easy to organise your own “do it yourself” trip without the crowds. Stay posted for Part 2! Oh, and I am still wearing my Hello Kitty watch as I type.

TIP: Keep your eyes peeled while driving home to Sydney for cheap street side pups! We almost crashed the car with excitement when we saw a sign “Labrador puppies $500”. Although we didn’t buy any we were allowed cuddles!

- BELLA

Taking the Bite Out of the Big Apple

At every turn, we are being bombarded with talk of the GFC, credit crunch and unfortunately many sad tales of redundancy. In my mind, there is no better time than now to really channel escapism from the doom and gloom and go (or dream about going) travelling.

Two of my friends have taken advantage of the cheap flights available and are heading off to New York, the Big Bloody Apple! Can you smell my jealousy? Rrrr.... I can't really complain because I was there over New Years of this year for around 3 whole weeks - Thank you Jane for putting me up in your Upper East Side apartment!

So I partied like Carrie Bradshaw on New Years Eve, had a 23rd birthday that a girl simply couldn't forget and even got into a little happy clapping with the African-Americans in Harlem.

This bustling, fashion-forward city is not for the shy! You need to grab it by the b@lls, block out the sound of honking yellow cabs and soak up the diversity it has to offer! Although the media (ahem, Sex and the City) convinces us that we can only traipse the streets in 6 inch Manolos, my advice is to wack on some funky runners and complete the following:

Buy a $25 Metcard that allows unlimited subway rides for seven days.

Look through the long list of Broadway shows on offer and see one on, you guessed it, Broadway, Manhattan.

Eat the best slice in New York at Ray's Pizza - 27 Prince St. Simply wander further down Prince St to number 17 and get your Mexican on at Cafe Habana. Not only is the flavoursome corn on a cob to die for BUT Lennny Kravitz filmed his song, Again, here. Have a squizz (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4dGfwa6FKA) - although the video doesn't capture the full extent of the exciting vibe of the cafe, the man is looking dam fine in this clip!

Visit the West Village, where the streets are quieter but the shops and cafes are ultra cool. You will notice on sandwich boards everywhere in NYC that are deals for bruch with all-you-drink bellinis and the best place 'to do' brunch is at Extra Virgin - 259 West 4th St.

"Celebrities?" Listen up! While in the West Village head to the Spotted Pig - 314 West 11th at Greenwich St. There's no time like the present to take off those runners and squish your manicured toes into heels. This could be your shot at Josh Hartnett, JT or Susan Boyle.

SATC lovers get on board the HBO On Location bus tour, which includes to-die-for Magnolia cupcakes and a discounted cosmo at Steve and Aiden's bar. If you don't know what SATC stands for, skip to the next tip, if you do, you MUST book your butt on a seat by looking up www.screentours.com.

Walk hand-in-hand with a hottie around the romantic paths of Central Park. I went in January so my toes nearly snapped off but the white snow softly sailing down onto the grass was a sight for love sick eyes. At this time of year (June), it should be quite warm. If you have the coin, do as Carrie and Big do and take a horse and cart.

Find all the latest in iPods and Macs at the innovative and interactive Apple store, 767 5thAve and 58th St. It is open around the clock, proving that this city truly never sleeps! I also heard a rumour that in summer, there is a DJ pumping out beats and the crazy New Yorkers get jiggy wit-it. I say, do as the locals do and get involved.

To be a tradional tourist, you gotta get your mug in a shot with the Statue of Liberty. Take the 1 or 9 subway to South Ferry, Lower Manhattan, then catch a courtesy ferry to Staten Island where the fair lady stands strong.

The tips above are only half my secrets to the city, I will post the other half over the weekend. The installment will focus on Speak Easy bars, which are places only accessible by passwords, secret doors and underground caves. I'm serious, half of the happening places to hang are actually underground! Eeeek! Stay tuned...

With Love,

Jess

The Nervous Bather.

Hamam Baths, Istanbul, Turkey.

As my friend and I wander through the colourful side stalls and mayhem of the Sultan Ahmet district and dodge the eager merchants trying to plug their goods we stumble across an empty side alley tucked away between the hundredth rug store and yet another baklava shop. As we walk further down the cobble stone path we find a pristine, bleached white building with deep, sea blue shutters and the sign “Hamam, Turkish Bath”. How can we resist?

We are escorted into change rooms where we must don tiny, stripy orange towels with, shock horror, nothing underneath. The lack of undergarments is quite an unnerving thought for me, so for that extra piece of mind I secure my little boob tube towel dress with my hair tie as tight as I can possibly tie it. I can just imagine it coming undone as I walk past the staff. We are guided into an amazing room made entirely out of marble, the ceilings reach up to the heavens and ornate, mosaic windows enable natural lighting. The sun filters through the translucent windows as we are instructed to lie on the warm marble floor, which is more like a tolerable sauna or steam room. We lie curiously and sweaty on the moist floor for fifteen minutes wondering what will happen next.

The Turkish Baths are similar to the Middle Eastern Steam Bath. They served as an integral part in Middle Eastern cultures for socialising, leisure and ritual based relaxation. They have been around since the Medieval times but the tradition was most popular during the Ottoman Empire. These days the majority of visitors are tourists.

A robust man in a tight loin cloth with his beer belly cascading over it finally comes in and points at my friend saying “you, boy.” I am lucky enough be allowed to stay as he is led up to a marble slab where all the magic happens. He asks my friend if he “like the hard massage?” Which luckily he does. He then proceeds to crack, scrub, exfoliate and massage him to a pulp, a very relaxed pulp at that. The masseuse uses a contraption that looks like a simple cloth but then, with one swift jerk, it inflates into an air pocket and releases millions of soapy suds.

Just as I am keeling over in hysterics at my friend being turned into one giant bubble a very trim woman in a red string bikini summons me over to the ladies massage room. My friendly masseuse is originally from St. Petersburg, Russia and assures me that this will be a very enjoyable experience. I am instructed to take off my towel and lay down, what was the point of my pathetic efforts to secure my towel? I should of just cut to the chase and paraded around naked from the beginning. My friend got to leave his modesty towel on, this is just not fair! I have been backpacking for almost 5 months and have acquired a lot of excess pudge along the way, as you do, and can’t remember the last time I ate a piece of fruit so getting naked in front of a gorgeous, fit Russian lady is not exactly my ideal situation. The nakedness soon doesn’t faze me as my body is covered in head to toe by “security suds” (I created this word in my mind at the time to reassure myself that of course the lady cannot actually see my naked body and I also told myself that the majority of her clientele would most definitely be above 80 and wrinkly). I am in absolute heaven, every crevice of my body is melting. My hair is even shampooed and conditioned, who knew something so banal like being washed could be so relaxing.

A bucket of cold water is tossed over me and I am brought back to earth. I am given a dry towel and fluffy slippers like the ones you get from pish posh hotels. I am reunited with my friend in front of a toasty fire and we are given warm apple tea. As I sip on my tea half comatosed I could do it all over again, without my towel!

- BELLA

Things I’ve Learnt While Travelling.

This is an excerpt from a list I kept at the back of my travel diary of all the silly and sometimes helpful things you learn as you go. Welcome to the secret world of backpacking! Love Bella.

• It becomes normal to wash your clothes in the shower
• Wearing the same outfit 3 - 4 + days in a row (with an undergarment change of course) is OK!
• Food that doesn't come out of a packet / tin / microwace is a luxury.
• Earplugs are a magical and ingenious invention and only fools travel without them.
• Carrying around a backpack that is bigger than you probably means you have packed too much.
• Always say yes.
• Take the scenic route.
• You can have the most interesting conversations with fellow travellers in hostels, learn so much about them yet never exchange names.
• Paprika flavoured chips taste as bad as they sound.
• If a 14 hour bus ride on horrendous roads is the cheapest option, take it!
• There should be seperate dorms for snorers and non snorers.
• A beany hides any bad hair day (and 5cm of roots).
• ALWAYS keep your hands in your pockets around Sacre Cure otherwise you will end up with a 'good jiggy jiggy bracelet' from a pesky Jamacian scammer for 2 euro.
• Getting matted dreadlocks in your hair that you have to cut out is a good sign it's time to brush your hair.
• Having a choclate croissant every morning for breaky is totally acceptable if you are in Paris.
• If you don't have butter to cook with beer is a suitable replacement.
• You will become a defualt vego only because you cannot read what meat it is at the supermarket and the one time you took the risk with a Polish sausage that you were suppose to boil but instead fried you spent the whole night hoping not to be sick.
• Deoderant becomes a thing of the past and your layers will hide the backpacker pong.
• An early train /plane/bus to catch justifies Maccas breakfast.
• Bed bugs favourite dish is the face and neck - they always devour the most visible parts.
• Shampoo works just as well as soap.
• Snow can make a porta loo look pretty.
• Try to think in Pounds and Euro, converting back to the Aussie $ will only give you an instant rage attack.
• Months of un-shaved leg hairs = extra insulation and warmth.
• Dutch stairs are a broken leg waiting to happen.
• Inevitably the first people you meet when you walk into a hostel will be Aussie.
• A pastry based diet with little to no fruit for 5 months results in constant, huge purple bags under your eyes so big you could carry the shopping with them.
• Never underestimate the kindness of strangers. Meeting generous, friendly locals restores your faith in humainty.
• Arriving at every new city even after 5 months of being on the go still gives you a rush of excitement and curiosity.

Getting Off The Ground

It has been freezing in the south-east state of Victoria over the past couple of days. I've stepped out of the house with good intentions to exercise only to be rained on and forced to head home for warmth and TV. Some are depressed with the thought of having to deal with 6pm darkness, full-time jobs and a dwindling party scene while other friends are getting excited to fly to Europe to live it up in the Greek Islands and for me, the South of France.

My impromtu decision to book a $2,300 flight (thank you credit card) has surprised a few people as I only returned from my previous trip in February of this year. I will definitely have a few debts to tie up after my month of fun but I am making sacrifices at the moment so that I can keep them to a minimum.

Hello 15 euro vodka sodas in St Tropez ($30.00 AUD)! I'll make sure I pack my hip flask and some duct tape...

So the point of Today's blog is that many Aussies are setting off on big and small trips (many chasing the sun in Europe) and are in the midst of packing, organising accommodation, obtaining credit cards and studying maps of the world. I want to help YOU get off the ground.

Below is a list of ways to get your booty organised for travelling overseas. These tips were compiled with Georgie, my friend whom I travelled with on my last 9 month trip. We have detailed and helpful tips for popular destinations in Europe and America that will be disclosed on demand or as I feel motivated! Stay tuned travellers and read below:

Photocopy passport, driver's licence and credit cards.

Go to DFO outlets to get backpacks and cheapo clothes - $5.00 ballet flats anyone?

Make sure you have internet banking and tell the bank you are going overseas.

Exchange some AUD for Euro (or the appropriate currency) in Australia for initial taxis, buses and food for when you first arrive in a foreign place.

Book at least the first night's accommodation.

Take a folder in your hand luggage with all your flight and accommodation information, gum, chocolate, lollies (on the off chance your plane food is average) plus lip balm and moisturisers.

Take appropriate adapters for overseas power points and chargers.

Expect delays and detours with planes. Don't stress, take it step by step, as Whitney Housten does.

Allow international roaming for your mobile phone but remember that to both send AND receive messages it costs a bomb!

GET PUMPED! Take an iPod an play songs like Miss Independant by Kelly Clarkson and Holiday by Madonna to get you through the long flight.

With Love,

Jess

Welcome, Welkom, Aloha, Bienvenue to a travel site with a bit of bite!

My name is Jess and this blog has been created by myself and my new-found friend, Bella. I met Bella, who is doing an internship for a mag in Sydney, when I flew up from Melbourne for work experience for the same publication.

As the workie (work experience gal), I was at the bottom of the office food chain and Bella was just above, sitting a little more comfortably in her internship position. So as you can imagine, jobs such as photocopying and coffee runs, required little brain strain and a lot of time for talk.

Travelling was our common ground having both recently returned from epic European and American backpacking adventures. While discussing sauve European men and bed bugs from hostels, our joint assignment for the magazine was to trawl through loads of blogs and find interesting and successful pages created by women.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Lightbulbs! Fireworks! A blog begins for past and future adventures to be shared by two aspiring writers, Bella and Jess.

Expect to read about the daily ritual of devouring croissants in Paris, bars to hang out in Melbourne, roadtrips from Sydney to Byron and in July, I'll be heading to the South of France to sail the Mediterrean Sea with a crew of Parisian men! Sounds dreamy ey? Well FOLLOW THE PLACES WE GO!

With Love,
Bella and Jess