A Travellerspoint blog

Cruisin' for a Bruisin'

Sailing the South Pacific

Euphoria is in the air. The faint smell of Red Door and sunscreen lingers. “Nan is that you?”
It was a sunny Queensland day. I am standing on the ship’s deck, music is playing, people are excitedly milling about and waving goodbye to Brisbane as we slowly cruise down the river towards the open sea.
The ship lets off a few toots as we pass under the bridge, people are dead set loving it, I mean a bridge, and we are under it!
I take another sip of my drink as I survey my surroundings, question my choices and watch on as people wave at the bridge.

Suddenly the music gets louder and a group of people congregate right in front of me and start doing a choreographed dance routine much to everyone’s delight.
Oh for the love of god.
I take another sip and let a few expletives fly.
People are cheering, clapping, waving, people are dancing with smiles that would make the Cheshire cat feel inadequate. Are they even blinking?

I gave my friends a panicked look, noted the emergency exits and wondered how easy it is to deploy a life raft. Or do I just grab a piece of driftwood a la Rose and dive in?

Now that I’ve shifted out of my twenties I thought I needed a holiday that provided elevators, buffets and towel animals on my bed, preferably wearing my own sunglasses. So there I was, aboard a cruise ship bound for the South Pacific though I was suddenly feeling a strong pull towards a hostel, bed bugs, food poisoning and wearing the same socks multiple times. A cruise is a different travel experience to anything I’ve done in the past but I do like to collect unique travel stories and it did offer two valuable ingredients I require of any holiday, food (hello buffet) and people watching of epic proportions.

You see, a cruise is the chosen holiday of a lot of people incapable of other means of travel. People too fat, people on mobility walkers incapable I would of thought to leave the house, cashed up bogans, old people, families, your stock standard weirdos and anyone who can really get behind a hotel on the sea, buffets and non-stop entertainment. To epitomise the clientele, there was a middle-aged man with an epic, brown, wavy mullet who after an island stop, came back aboard with it braided into cornrows that Snoop Dogg would have admired.

Cruising is perfect for the over 65. You can eat, nap and sit in busy bars and order nothing. Even the risk of DVT is small. There’s something in the eyes of the old people on board that says ‘this is going to be the vacation of my dreams, don’t you dare ruin it’. They cut loose. They will waltz in the middle of the dance floor to the Black Eyed Peas in an epic display of “what of it?”
They will fill 5 dinner plates for lunch.
“What of it?”
They will tear up a themed night, hitting the buffet in their white sequinned ties, fun white bowler hats and clip in white hair extensions.
“What of it? I went through the depression bitches, now’s my time to shine”.
“Bring me all the jelly squares you have!!!”

They are genuinely impressed by everything a cruise has to offer. Not like us Gen Y dirt bags who hate on everything. Is that your dance routine? Well they butchered that song! What is wrong with his face? Do you put comedian down on your tax form? Stairs! Ahh the view is too bright and scenic! Where’s the hot one? Why do they keep playing the Black Eyed Peas?

There is so much on board entertainment it’s overwhelming. We ignored the frequent cruisers Facebook advice to BYO highlighter to plan your day. There’s shows, games, activities and gambling.
Bingo is like catnip for pensioners. It jackpotted and the prize was $7000 by the last day. The whole ship went to try their luck much like a gold rush boom. Old people with a pick and a pan attached to their walkers as they hiked to the theatre from the buffet. I sat at the back of the room with a packet of chips to watch the spectacular, hoping to see a knifing. I also made up a lot of my own bingo calls, in case my friend got his way and we had to stay aboard and join the entertainment crew. I fancy being the sardonic, bingo caller.
Number 72- duck about to be hit with a crowbar.
Number 80 – two zeros, one wearing a belt.

Obviously being dirt bag Gen Y’s we didn’t speak to many people at all, but we knew everyone by their nicknames. First it was a game of identifying the people who posted on the cruise Facebook wall. 10 points if you spot one. There were groups of young boys, groups of women getting wild as well as random individuals that continually crossed our path all of whom had a nickname. We amused ourselves no end with their backstories and scandalous gossip about their supposed trials and tribulations aboard the ship. We decided if anyone else was as ridiculous as us, they probably called us the sister wives. At least that is what we would have called any other group of one male and three females. Or maybe others actually find out people’s real names?
Doubt it.

Like all who like to over indulge I was worried I would gain 10kgs, fall overboard reaching for a taco and just be ignored by the Captain who would just assume I was a curious dugong.
Thankfully the buffet closed, of which we congratulated ourselves daily for not eating between our three course meals, or if we JUST had a sandwich and because we ALWAYS shared our chips.

My two most questionable efforts were leaving a bar for a toilet break and going to get a sneaky taco from the buffet, stopping by the lolly bar for a quick pick ’n’ mix then returning to the bar.
There was a buffet and a restaurant included on the cruise. On our last night we ate dinner at the buffet but had some time to fill and a post-dinner hankering for chicken wings to satiate. So we went to the restaurant and they seated us with three lovely ladies who went to high school together and were on their annual get together. Hello future.
We chatted and as the three of us ordered an entrée, main and desert between us it seemed necessary to explain, given the “we’re small eaters” thing clearly wouldn’t fly, that we were actually partaking in a favourite pastime of ours, the second dinner. We already ate.
Treat yo’self.

Our general excuse for questionable behaviours in over indulgence was treat yo’self. Second dinner? Treat yo’self. Martinis at 2pm? Treat yo’self. Another drink? Treat yo’self. Dessert? Treat yo’self. Two tacos and a burrito? Treat. Yo. Self!

We went to game shows and trivia competitions and there was a hell of a lot of events that we missed, much to my friend’s chagrin, because we were napping. Like the daily pilates class we were going to, or the ship gym’s opening hours of 9am-8pm. Good thing we packed the runners. Sometimes we were just propped up in the porthole looking for whales and asking each other random questions about the ocean that we will never know the answer to.
“There’s a lego building contest at 2? Family charades? Crafts at sea is quilling! There is a talk on easing foot pain? “
“Hmm, we are going to take a nap, then the taco shop opens at 6... so….”

Each night we filled our time by watching shows, musical theatre, comedy even a magician. Always questioning where our standards went. Or being thankful rather that we have them. We watched karaoke and sat through multiple Michael Buble renditions and repeat offenders that we judged with the forked tongue of Simon Cowell.
Clearly we could never actually participate.

I mean how could we even compete when a lady pelvic thrusted too hard and fell backwards during her rendition of ‘The Time Warp’? In a clear holiday highlight, a not so agile performer took to the stage and as she sang, “it was a peeellllvic thrrruuuusttttt” over she toppled. The music kept playing for a few seconds before people realised she wasn’t getting up. The medics came running, people weirdly continued to sing along and clap to the backing music. The lights were dimmed and several minutes later she was wheel chaired off the stage with her leg propped up, waving to her adoring crowd.

A women pelvic thrusted herself into an injury.
An injury.
With an overzealous pelvic thrust.
She had it strapped up for the rest of the trip.
A karaoke injury.
From a pelvic thrust.
Oh boy!
This whole experience was entirely too much for sarcastic, non-participating gen Y’s to handle.
Hashtag sail away.

Posted by The Tipsy Gipsy 03:01 Archived in Vanuatu Tagged sea cruise vanuatu vila new_caledonia the_tipsy_gipsy school_holidays Comments (0)

Pa-DANG it!

Trying to Avoid Ingesting Parasites


“Here try this”, a lady suggests as she hands me what looks like a rice cake/large cracker while at a food market in Jakarta.
I bite into it slowly, nearly breaking my teeth which amuses the group of onlookers greatly. They watch on as I chew the hard biscuit slowly and cautiously, as they deliberate on the correct translation.

“…calamari," they chirp.

My throat closes up and the saliva dries as I swallow a chunk of dried out, mushed up calamari, pounded into cake form. I smile awkwardly and give them a nod, like “tis’ as good a calamari cake i’ve ever had”. I then hold it awkwardly between my thumb and finger, extended out from my body like an offensive smelling rag. I let it dangle in my hand while I look at some meatball-esque objects, like i’m far too intrigued and far too busy right now to take another bite. I’m going to save that puppy until later.

I have arrived in Indonesia with the hope, nay the expectation, of sampling some of the culinary delights of the Dutch East Indies with the acceptance that, unlike say, an Italian snackcursion, this one could have dire consequences.

As I round the corner and toss the calamari cake into the bin I reevaluate my tactics. Without a doubt a good snackcursion, a food focussed holiday, requires a little curiosity and adventure but also a peppering of pure logic, it’s a delicate balance. It is the acknowledgement that the brain needs to be party to all culinary decisions. To eat or not to eat? Will this make me violently ill? Is it worth it?

Over the course of my travels I have only had food poisoning twice. It is the ultimate act of treachery. The first culprit was a Bosnian cevapi, a local ‘kebab’ type dish with meat and sour cream, in retrospect it sounds a little iffy, but it was delicious. Cut to, me in an Islamic graveyard (1000s of white stick markers swirling around me) stumbling to find a way out to avoid spewing on the grave of a Bosnian war hero.
The second time was in Morocco. My guess is I ingested something horrendous over the course of 3 days in the desert with no toilets, showers and partaking in the local custom of communal eating from one plate. Just a guess. I have vivid recollections of resting my face on the cool bathroom tiles of an Agadir hotel, looking closely at the grime and pubic hairs I was sharing the floor with.

As a result I am a little cautious, wary of what may bring me undone. So naturally I arrived in Jakarta prepared to wash my hands, take tablets, drink water, use hydration salts and be an all round responsible traveller and sanitise, sanitise, sanitise.

Upon arrival, within minutes, I went in search of food. As expected of any Asian city I traipsed down broken footpaths, stepped over giant holes, jumped over mystery piles of goo and danced around the sidewalk edges, entering oncoming traffic to go around street sellers in order to find food. This urban hike was in search of a meal, which was to be undertaken at the first decent looking restaurant — clean, open, lit, other customers, electricity, walls etc.
Eureka, a building. We went in blind to every other aspect and sat down ready to start this exciting, but ever so careful, food adventure.

It turned out to be a Padang Restaurant, the very popular cuisine of the Sumatran city. As we sat at a dirty old plastic table, 12 dishes were immediately placed on the table in front of us, distributed from a pile like frisbees. The spread consisted of an assortment of rice, beef rendang or old shoe leather unsure at this point, chicken pieces in sauce, eggs floating in sauce, prawns and baby eggs floating in sauce, just plain ole bowls of sauce.

* meeep! meeep! meeep! *

The alarm bells start a dull ring in my ears. I would have preferred to have ordered al a carte and maybe avoided anything too rich on the first night. Also there was not one dish that I would have ordered. I really don’t care for things floating in sauce.
Oh boy!
We didn’t want to be rude as we look around and every table is digging in to their bowls of food. A quick glance around tells me that these people clearly are pleased with this offering so maybe we too should embrace it. They seem to love sauce bowls.
I inspect the meal and the surrounds with trepidation. I watch another group of diners sit down and the waiter pile up dishes and dump them on their table…then I realised all the dishes are preprepared and piled up in the corner of the restaurant.

*brrrrrring! brrrrrrring!*

the alarm bells are tolling just a little louder than before.

Cold food. Pre-cooked. Sitting out in the non air-conditioned room.

Oh boy!

We were too far in, we had taken that leap, there was no going back as we sip from our dirty cup of hot tea and tentatively poke the food with a spoon.
Why are these chickens so skinny? What the hells are those balls? Are they bird eggs? Questions float around my mind as I look at the spread in front of me, wondering what I could eat. The people around us are delighted with their plate of skinny chicken bones and suckle at the sinew.

We tentatively dive in, nibble, poke, lick, prod. I tried to swallow the deep feeling of regret and drown out the alarm bells with the cleanest pieces of beef rendang. I cut at the hard piece of meat with my spoon, as they don't believe in the need for knives in these parts. Every swallow felt like another step along the plank. The food was cold and indistinguishable. We poked at things and cut off bits to experiment and analyse.
hmm whats that? A few bones floating in sauce. A boiled egg - why not. Is this chrysanthemum tea? or is it just the taste of hot, reused plastic?

We felt as though we were being unappreciative so we chipped away at the food mustering the courage, or enough curiosity to try something else. As I dished myself up some more plain white rice with a little sauce from around the meat, I watched the waiting staff clear the table next to us. As they cleared the mess into one giant bowl of ebola I realised that the untouched, or rather, still aesthetically acceptable plates were returned to the serving bench in a pile with the rest. The plates with one piece of chicken left were placed onto another plate to create a new one ready to be served again.

Oh boy!

*aoooooga! aoooooga!* Evacuate! Evacuate!

A few new servings of scraps were placed over the side where our dishes were served from. Yep, they reuse food.
We called it quits, the alarm bells were drowning out the sounds of the streets of Jakarta.
This was not a great start. This was against everything I had planned to do. Within an hour of landing i’d broken all the golden rules of the snackcursion.

It was a hot day, with a bit of luck I might sweat out the toxins… I thought as I pushed the rest of the food into the middle and stood up.

We went to pay and the whole meal of junk cost us $20 — quite a lot by Indonesian standards. As it turns out you pay by what you eat/touch which for us was practically everything as we were trying to be polite and look as though we gave it all a nudge and it was wonderful. We had left no item unprodded. There was no way were going to eat the prawns having seen the rivers, but there was also no way we weren't going to poke the balls floating in the same sauce and cut them open to see what was inside (pigeon eggs is my guess)... boom, $3.80.

I think they made their months profit it one evening.

I wandered back to the hotel with a heavy feeling of regret in the pit of my stomach or did I already have typhoid?
I returned to my room, took a probiotic and sat and waited for the apocalypse, the inevitable wave of bubonic cholera dysentery that I was sure would come and ruin my trip/kill me at any moment.

… either way Padang food. Check.
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger right?

>>>Adventures in Indonesia 2014

Posted by The Tipsy Gipsy 03:58 Archived in Indonesia Tagged food indonesia travel asia the_tipsy_gipsy snackcursion Comments (0)


A Mere Fijian Sojourn

“You would look good with cornrows”, the lady says as she draws a line with her finger on my head where she would do it.
"It would keep it out of your face. Just a few on top so your hair stays nice to go home".

Well obviously pleased someone finally acknowledged my ability to pull off cornrows, I was also very aware, due to the regular dinner conversations over the past few days that getting your hair braided on summer vacation gets significantly less cute with age. After much discussion the consensus cut off is around 8 years old.

We were sitting in a little hair salon slash massage parlour slash tour office in Sigatoka talking to the owner. I was torn between the possibility that I could return to work in two days time, with corn rows and be like, ‘what of it?’ and just your stock-standard need for dignity.
Resist. The. Urge. For. Cheap. Laughs.
Alas, I decided against the plaits, for many reasons, including the way it draws attention to your scalp and also because I would never, ever get them out of my long, curly, knotty locks. Instead I had one braid put in which was decorated with some red string which immediately knotted beyond your wildest imagination, and convinced my friend that she needed to return to work the next day with a henna tattoo. I was already sporting a large one on my hand that I was looking forward to matching to my work uniform.

My friend and I had taken a sojourn to Fiji. It wasn’t a holiday. She had just got back from a holiday in Central America and had been back at work a week and I was technically in the middle of full-time study and not technically in any ways able to holiday.

So in order to justify our adventure, it was a mere sojourn. A mini-break if you will, hell I’d even go as far as to say a long weekender.
Obviously catch two travellers with permanently itchy feet in times of study and work overload and it doesn’t really take much before a weekend trip to Brisbane suddenly turns into a quick nick to Fiji. It was only 5 hours away, soooo convenient. And we got a bargain so why not?
We assume we got a bargain because we decided to go to Fiji Sunday night around 9pm and had booked by 9:30pm. That’s also how we ended up in a hotel two hours from the airport, who knew Fiji had two hours to spare? not us!
Impromptu holiday!
Should we Google this?

The sojourn was just a mini getaway for some sun and rest. It had been a while between adventures and I was feeling very confined to the realities of life. We booked into a resort, something I had never done. It was fancy and I felt undeserving.
“Bula! How long are you in Fiji for? “ they would ask
“Oh just a long weekend!”
“Hmm, only 5 days?” they would say with some confusion, thinking … she must be rich… but she doesn’t dress well and has been making vodka lemonade in mugs in her room... and eating packets of chips for lunch…. “
The people are so nice and friendly I just felt plain uncomfortable. When I tried to carry my own bag I think I gave the impression I didn’t trust them to take it, but really I was implying “ I’m just a general dirt bag who got a deal, I can carry my bag please don’t feel that you need to serve me. Usually I’d be staying in the local flea ridden hostel but you know, when on a mini break”.

It was a beautiful place, a lovely idyllic paradise. I laid on a lounge chair and read for three days. I got up at intervals to move the chair into more sun as it was setting each night.

The water was blue and there was coral, I assume, the only time I went in the water was on the first day when I saw a bottle bobbing up and down and I went in after it fully clothed to fish it, and the secret message out (this is Castaway country) Obviously it was deeper than I expected and had to wander back to the hotel, wet from the waist down.
There was no secret message.
It was just an empty Corona bottle filled with sand and water.
Stupid over active imagination.

It wasn’t all sunning and lounging, one afternoon we wandered beyond the resort limits where there is a sign warning us that any business conducted outside the resort is on you, and 5 metres behind it is a bunch of makeshift shacks offering massage, nail art, souvenirs, hair braiding and henna.

I passed on the massage by two Fijian grandmas in favour of a dope henna tattoo, and some disgracefully tacky hibiscus nail art, because if I’m going lay on the beach and read a book, I’m going to need to admire my hands as they hold it up.

The women were sitting around waiting for customers. We browsed the shacks awkwardly while they sat watching.
As I walked by, an older lady spoke to me and a young girl translated,
“She thinks you have a nice body shape”
The old lady smiled as if to say, “yes, gurrrrl, you are nailing it, good for you”.
About time a culture appreciated a girl whose body says “yes, I do enjoy a complimentary breakfast buffet”.
I thanked her, and briefly considered moving there where my beauty is appreciated. Thinking how I too could do henna and nail art on the beach and wear a sarong all day. I would be good at that... Then remembered I sandwiched a mini break to Fiji between a million assignments that I was suitably ignoring and I had to go back to work.

Fiji is a beautiful country, such lovely people, I drank so much Kava just to be polite. To get us back to our roots, and knock us back to reality after a couple of days in a resort feeling fancy, we stopped in Sigatoka and Nadi on the way back to the airport. We chatted to some locals, considered cornrows, dined on some delicious but 100% questionable curry in a 100% questionable venue then got back on a plane (thankful for a 5 hour journey ahead in case the curry wasn’t as good a pre-flight idea as we thought). Soon we were back in chilly Melbourne walking through the airport, inappropriately dressed for the weather, a bit of a summer glow and a few hair braids and henna tattoos to tell the car park bus driver, yes, we have just got back from a lush vacay.

Oh its cold here and no one did my essay while I was gone…
It’s like the holiday never happened.
And it didn’t
It was a mere mini break.

Posted by The Tipsy Gipsy 17:12 Archived in Fiji Tagged beach fiji 2014 minibreak thetipsygipsy Comments (0)

Rolling with My Homies

Commuting* with the Los Angeles Elite**

* Taking the bus
** Maids, shift workers, hobos, weirdos, tourists, clowns

Before long it seemed things were coming to an end like all great things do. I was back in Los Angeles, the city that was the bookends of my North American adventure. The setting was so LA, it was a typically gorgeous, sunny Californian day. I had spent the morning strolling along Venice Beach enjoying the glorious dichotomy; a beach full of beautiful people here, a peppering of hippy surfers there, add a helping of sunburned, overwhelmed tourists with a delightful smattering of stoners and hobos.

I was waiting for a bus in Marina Del Ray to do some last minute economy stimulation in Culver City.
There I was sitting in a dusty garden bed under a palm tree, finishing my Starbucks grande iced latte with the sun beating down on me waiting for the public bus to hopefully roll by and take me where I wanted to go.

This I surmised was the epitome of my experience in LA. Palm trees, sunshine and waiting for transport. The long, waits for transport it seems were just as LA as fish tacos and juice cleanses.

Finally, the bus I wanted approaches. I get on, pay my fare and it goes a block then parks and takes a 15-minute scheduled break.
I had waited almost an hour for the bus.
Ahhhhh LA you useless, rat-faced son of a bitch.
Deep breath. Try again.

Thankfully this wasn’t the first time I’d been bitch-slapped by LA transit and thankfully it wasn’t imperative I get to Target in the next 30 minutes to buy three tubs of Carmex at the America’s low-low prices.

I knew LA was renown for it’s terrible bumper-to-bumper traffic but I didn’t realise that it was because everyone has a car. LA is a driving city. They love their cars and quite frankly, only losers choose to not conquer the city's horrendous traffic daily. There are even carpool lanes on freeways to try and entice drivers with a faster moving lane but still, not only does nearly everyone seem to drive, most cars have only the driver in them. And I'm not taking about someone driving a Barina or even a small Golf if you are wealthy, I'm talking about an empty bar-the-driver Range Rover, Escalade or Jeep road monster.
Because of this love of fast cars and life in the fast lane bullshit, there is little love for public transport. The rest of us schmucks who are visiting and don’t have a car have to take the bus with the city’s other plebs, people too crazy or, heaven forbid, too poor, to own a car.

The bus comes when it comes, there is no timetable and I guess you can’t know its late that way. Then it goes like a bullet down the boulevards, screeching to a halt at an intersection throwing everyone violently forward before throwing everyone back again to repeat the process. If you get high enough in the Hollywood hills you can see why getting around LA is such a nightmare. It is a massive, expansive city. I suspect the cross-town LA bus takes roughly 12-13 days. The other problem with it being a car city is that no one knows anything about the bus, I dare say some have never noticed their existence yet alone know how to get anywhere. The only person you can get helpful bus stop advice from is a homeless person. In San Francisco we couldn't find the bus stop until a man took time out of his day sitting on a corner to point out that the bus stops at a splash of paint on the curb. I mean really, us idiots could have spent all day looking for a signpost like complete fools.

Tourist information workers know that, yes you can get a bus to Santa Monica from Downtown; it's bus 708 it leaves from Bay 6. What they don’t know is only a bloody fool would take the bus because as we soon found out it takes two hours, two hours across the city, two hours getting your senses assaulted, two hours plummeting down a highway to something mere centimetres away from Union Station on the map. By the time we got off the sweaty stinkhole bus we had lost most of our will to live and a corn dog on the pier could scarcely return our joie de vivre.

"A big megacity like LA must have a subway system", you ask, well yes, there is a token train system. It goes every 10 minutes (nice) and links Hollywood Boulevard with the main train station. It's really quite handy the first, and only time, you need to go to Hollywood Blvd. The rest of the city however is completely abandoned. And I suppose if I had a beautiful Spanish-style villa in Beverly Hills I sure as hell wouldn't want a carriage load of bottom dwellers anywhere near my investment.
The suburban service is equally distressing. The Metrolink connects the city with the ‘burbs so you can live the high life in Laguna Beach or the O.C and flit in to the city to Rodeo Drive.
No, no, those people would have cars.
I mean, you can live in Compton and clean houses in Beverly Hills. In the morning they leave hourly until 9am, yes 9am. The last one goes back from LA at 6:30pm. This is designed for people who have no desire to go to Los Angeles at all or their working day takes them to within walking distance of Union Station before the scurry back into the suburbs.

So much of our time in LA was spent waiting for transport. We waited and waited, and got on buses and waited and then ran for connections and waited, and we missed trains and events. We had tickets to the baseball to see the Angels vs Yankees. We missed the train to the stadium on game day. The game started at 12:30. We miss the train by 10 minutes. The next train would arrive at 2:40pm. There is absolutely no other way to Anaheim short of taking a $100 cab fare, which doesn't quite stack up against our $20 tickets. So we wait, sitting in Union Station, deflated, defeated, we had left Hollywood 1.5 hours before and been royally screwed over by every bus and connection. We were going to miss the game, one of the only things I had tickets for in advance (the other a show at UCB theatre which we only made in time after abandoning the bus and jumping in a taxi).

So we trudged onto the 2pm train cursing the beautiful people of LA and their decision to not run more trains on game day. The good thing is baseball can go for 2-3 hours, there was a chance we could catch some, at least take a photo inside, ideally with a hotdog. We arrived 2 hours 10 minutes after the start and expected to see a flood of people walk towards us as the game ended. We walked briskly around the massive arena to our gate then up what felt like 100 flights of stairs hoping the game had a few more minutes. We got to our seats with two innings to go, whatever that means. We took our photos and pretended to know what we were watching, not risking going out for a ballpark hotdog in case it ended. The amazing thing is as we were rushing towards the arena through a car park the size of a city, weaving in and out the cars, evidently the way the other 30,000 people had arrived, we met two Australian girls who were doing the same thing.

“I just figured there’d be a train on game day at least”, the Australian girl said as they power walked beside us.

We had all assumed. And you know what they say what happens when you assume.

Why hadn't we learned our lesson? Just leave three hours before any event, train departure, meeting and just in general to avoid any disappointment.
A few days later we did the same journey from Hollywood to Union Station, lesson learnt, we left earlier and got to Union Station in 40 minutes, less than half the time.
LA just won’t let us win.

Back on the stationary bus, while the driver read the newspaper I looked back across the intersection behind me and Marina Del Ray, lamenting how in the several hours since I began my day, how truly little I had achieved. I finally got to Culver City and spent some quality time in Target. I found my way back to the bus stop and attempted the return trip. I ran for the bus sitting there thinking I’d really done well, look who is as good as a local, I get on, things are finally lining up for this…
...and I’m promptly told I am on the wrong bus.
Ain't nothing gonna breaka my stride. I jump off and get on the next bus, chuffed to have manoeuvred a semi-successful bus journey I sit down with a grin, half expecting a round of applause.

Then I realise seated behind me is a sleeping clown.
A clown, riding the bus, with a trolley full of life possessions, catching some much needed shuteye.

Ah yes, yes, THIS is definitely LA.
Sunny and beautiful but bat shit crazy with truly terrible public transport.
It is a crazy but amazing city. Despite its terrible transport, when you do get on a hellhole cross-town bus rather than drive a black SUV with tinted windows down Sunset, you get to see a slice of real LA life, and real LA is less Kardashian and more sleeping homeless clown.

Posted by The Tipsy Gipsy 20:04 Archived in USA Tagged los_angeles la usa transport hollywood the_tipsy_gipsy Comments (1)

Motorcycle Gangs, Punk Bands and the Pacific Northwest

“Hey do you have a motorcycle?”, says a homeless guy hanging out around the bus stop.

He was admiring the red motorcycle helmet hanging from my backpack.

I think about it.

“...Yes” I said.

“Cool” he says.

I give him a nod and smile that says “don’t you know it”, if I had a cigarette I would have flicked it and put it out like rebel Sandy in Grease.

It wasn't 100% true but I enjoyed looking like a badass biker chick, by badass I mean glamorous 50s movie star on a vespa in Rome, and by that I mean, idiot on a hired motor scooter.

The homeless guy was right, I did technically have a motorcycle, and I was waiting for the bus like a schmuck. After a days adventure I had decided it was a smarter idea to leave it parked in the city with the others and take the bus back to where I was staying, across the water on the other side of the city. The bike would be safe and so would I, but I could see my lonely, parked bike from the bus stop and I could not see the bus. The reason, I found out the next night when I was waiting for it again thanks to some gangsters loitering nearby, was that “girl it don’t come along here, yo’ need to take the 40 or the 27 or the 32 from 3rd street”
Inner city parking was the safest idea but it was also proving to be the most inconvenient. So I left the bus stop, got back on my scooter, revved it up and after a slow start turning immediately onto the wrong side of the street because there was no traffic or American members of my gang to follow, I zipped off on my own, screaming down an inner city road on a motorscooter on a dark Saturday night.

You know those times when you are travelling and you kind of take a minute to realise where you are and how crazy that is. So there I was, alone, on the other side of the world and the other side of the road with zero skills in riding bikes, hurtling down a main city road, in the dark, on a motorscooter. It was clearly a risky move and I couldn't help but think as I was going along that I really didn't want to come off this thing and have to explain to the insurance company, or worse, my mum, that I was scooting alone at 11pm at night along a major road in Seattle. I had no idea where I was going, I was following my nose compass, it’s Washington law to wear goggles when riding so I had my sunglasses on, but had to keep pulling them down on my nose like a librarian because I couldn't see through them in the dark. I didn't even have a jacket on but I was going full throttle down the road along the water’s edge and out of the city. I had taken the bus that morning so knew the vague direction and have a lot of unwarranted confidence in my natural sense of direction. After a few wrong turns, a few illegal turns, I zipped out of Seattle over the bridge toward my hostel. I managed, somehow, to find my way and arrived unscathed. I pull up, struggled with my kickstand as I had all day which, I'm not gonna lie, took a little sheen off the cool, edgy look I was going for, and walked in to my hostel, helmet under my arms in the same manner that impressed the homeless guy. I felt very Grease 2, ‘who’s that guy, where did he come from?’ No one gave me a second look.

I was making my way up the west coast of the USA to Canada, through the lovely Portland to Seattle. It was in Seattle, the home of Starbucks and Nirvana that all this came about. It is because while I was in Seattle I joined The Screamin’ Eagles, Seattle’s fiercest motorcycle crew. We took on the mean city streets on two wheels, stealing from the rich, giving to the poor. Live fast. Die young. Badassmutherfuckers.

It was also, less that and more three people who hired scooters and went sightseeing and pretended to be in a biker gang.
I wasn't confident to hire a car and drive on the other side of the road but I took no convincing to do the same thing on two wheels with less metal around me. So we hired scooters.

“Have you ridden a bike before” the owner asks as I sit on the bike.

“Ah… yeah, like a bicycle”

For some reason that was decent enough experience, and he rattled off a lot instructions. gas. brake. honk. gas. gas. gas.

“You think you got it”? he asked.

I did a few turns around the alley way and was obviously fully qualified to take it on the roads of one of America’s biggest cities.

With unwarranted confidence, I started it up and we took off, cruising through the city, along the water’s edge, dodging tourists around the market towards our first stop, the city’s meanest biker bar, and by biker bar I obviously mean Target. We parked our three scooters next to each other in the underground car park and went looking at dresses in Target. Baaaaaaadassss.

Our gang was fierce. We gave ourselves new gang names, rode in an eagle formation and kicked out our feet as wings.
My gang members were two girls from Wisconsin who I had met in Portland a few days before. It's not every day that you meet great people at a hostel, but when Porkchop took a fall and ripped the knee out of her jeans (and was renamed Bloody Porkchop) and returned from Walgreens with a green bandana tied around her knee in the ultimate commitment to the sport of gang make-believe, I knew I had met some great people and perfect fellow gang members for an imaginary motorcycle gang.

We took in Seattle’s famous Pike Place Market where people throw fish. We stopped for lunch at a craft brewery, because Washington loves craft breweries and sampled a local cherry cider. Back on the bikes, I’d forgotten most everything that I had listened to, but nevertheless, took off through the city again and slowly out of town over a massive bridge. My bike was only 49cc so at full-throttle up a bridge I put putt-putted so slowly cars were going around me. We got out of the city into the wilderness, parked the bikes and embarked on a hike through a nature reserve to the sea and admired Washington's famous natural beauty. City sights, check. Nature sights, check. We zipped back in to the city and across town, riding in our gang until the sun set and we could barely see any more.

Our gang returned our rentals the next day, we had ridden 50 miles and put $1.30 of petrol in to return it, I over filled mine because I didn't listen the day before regarding the filling instructions. I also couldn't use the gas pump because when it asked for my zip code I obviously just put in 90210 which seemed like a foolproof option.
We hung up our helmets and shut off the ignition on our biker careers and continued on foot, a gang on street patrol. It was only a natural progression that The Screamin’ Eagles would then evolve into an all-girl punk band. After some music history and technical training on the interactive floor of the very cool EMP Museum in Seattle (singing into a voice filter, mixing records, learning the intro to The Kinks on keyboard) The Bleeding Porkchops (in honour of our injured gang member Porkchop) were formed and I became the lead guitarist as we recorded a video clip to Joan Jett’s I Love Rock and Roll. We clearly did not need to ever hear the audio or see the video again which was available for purchase, but I got a ticket stub and a guitar pick to remember the glory days of The Bleeding Pork Chops as we were forced to disband a day later when my journey continued north to Canada, and my lead singer and drummer returned back east.

The Pacific Northwest is full of beautiful natural wonders; wilderness, mountains and an epic coastline. It has great, energetic cities with eco-friendly, music loving, foodie, coffee drinking, craft brewing hipsters who go hiking or cycling for fun. It's a great part of America to travel, once you take out the fierce bike gangs and punk bands who threaten the serenity.

Bleed green. The Screamin’ Eagles 4eva.

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Posted by The Tipsy Gipsy 01:05 Archived in USA Tagged usa seattle motorcycles 2013 the_tipsy_gipsy pacific_northwest Comments (1)

A Hunk, A Hunk O' Burning Love

A rhinestone encrusted Elvis stop.

I wouldn't say I'm an Elvis fan, I didn't even think I knew many songs until I got to Memphis and our Graceland campground where Elvis FM was pumped throughout the speaker system and they got ingrained in my brain. I had arrived in Memphis, Tennessee eager to see some great music and historical sites and the first stop was of course the greatest pop culture home in history, the home of the King, Graceland.

Despite the time lapse and new generations of music icons, Graceland is evidently as popular as ever. We arrived ten minutes after opening time and got on the 7th tour already for the morning. I joined the large line that had already formed and went through the obligatory pre-entry photo stop. For only $45 you can pick up the print of that delightful snap of you looking like an idiot in front of a badly painted mural of the gates of Graceland. Hey Elvis fans, do you know what would be a better souvenir photo? A photo outside the actual gates!

Then I stood in the shuttle bus line and waited to be taken to Graceland itself. I was only in Elvis purgatory - the land of souvenir shops and 50s diners. Now I'm not exactly a fan, it was more a bucket list thing and I was far more interested in getting into Memphis itself, so I watched the clock tick by as I waited in line. I searched the queue for Elvis fans, hoping to see a look-alike or at least someone wearing an Elvis hat to entertain me while Graceland stole precious vacation minutes from me.
The line was slow moving as small mini buses came by at intervals to take away only 15 or so passengers each time. I was getting impatient. As I neared the front of the line I realised the road was just in front of us and there was a large property obscured by trees just opposite.

Elvis lived across the road from where we were standing.

His gates were some 25 metres away.

We were lining up to get a bus to take us what was possibly 50 metres, at a stretch. Across the road, in the gates and up a drive way.

Well, this is America.

Maybe it’s a long driveway I thought?… nope, the shuttle took 15 seconds. With no chance of getting any of those 45 minutes of queuing up life-minutes back I will just say, they could probably divert some of the funds from the high entrance fees to the construction of a walkway over the road and save everyone the hassle. They could add some pictures and perhaps a chronological timeline of events to jazz it up.

Within sheer seconds I was standing outside a modest, but large white home with a pillared front. Maybe something a wealthy businessman or family would own, certainly not a patch on what today’s superstars have, whole city blocks and a wing of the house for their dogs.
It is entirely as it stood when Elvis lived there, but with the addition of 100 slow-walking idiots wearing head sets milling about his personal belongings. It’s very 70s and more like a time warp of 70s design than anything grand and expensive; sleek lines, shag pile rugs, Venetian glass and white leather. Lots of orange and brown and yellow with a dash of cobalt blue every now and then.

While 20 slow moving, vacationing couples from Florida crowded the lobby trying to work their audio guides I pushed my way through the house.

The front room was where the business was conducted, a few family portraits, a piano, a couch and some odd retro furnishings.

His parents room has a bed in it to be expected and that was all there is to say on that.

Not being a super fan worked in my favour, I had no real desire to really scrutinise where he sat and where he kept his teacups. I was making good time, the audio guide couldn't keep up with me. I went back through the lobby, back passed the same vacationing couples who were speaking to each other over their headsets wondering how to skip it back to the start because they've missed a bit.

The main staircase was roped off. You cannot go upstairs at all, so you don’t even get to see where Elvis lived, you get to see where he hung out and watched TV. It is blocked off for privacy. That must be in the fine print. Really though, if you are going let people walk everywhere else, why leave a room private? Out of everything I would actually be curious what was on his bedside table and to look in his underwear drawer or see what kind of shampoo he used, instead it's, "this is where he probably talked on the phone".

I went through another lounge room and in to the kitchen. It was like a regular 70s house. I was waiting for more tacky splashes of grandeur and there wasn't any. I was speeding along the one way trail through the house waiting to see something that made this house different to half the old people’s houses I deliver medication to in my day job. I was waiting to have to look through some old bowling medals or newspaper cut outs like the oldies show me. The most extravagant and it seems the crowd favourite was the jungle room, it had green shag carpet and ceilings and all the furniture was made from tree-like unshapen wood. It was hideously cool. I will give him that.

Downstairs, along a mirror lined staircase (a bit of the flashiness I was expecting) was a TV room with three screens which is probably what I would have spent my money on too. Decorated in yellow and blue it appears it was cutting edge design at the time. His personal logo emblazoned on the wall, TCB, Taking Care of Business. Off to the other side of the stairs is a pool room that is one large curtain that everything blends in to, a camouflage of 70s colours and patterns. Like someone ate the 70s and regurgitated it on a wall; splashes of orange, brown, paisley, tassels, velvet, a matching carpet and couch.

Then it was back upstairs and out the back door.

Nothing flash at all. Where is his gold plated toilet seat? Or indoor bowling lane or room full of segways? This guy did not know how to waste his fortunes.

And to make it worse, there was also a severe lack of Elvis nuts around. My only satisfaction was a Elvis t-shirt clad lady on a mobility scooter zipping through the entrance foyer then doing a 12-point turn outside Elvis’ parents room while screeching about upstairs still being closed off.
"I agree, total bullshit", I wanted to say and hope she gave me a high five.

The rest of the Graceland property is add-ons, mostly rooms of trophies, gold records, posters and costumes etc. He did have his own racquet ball room which was pretty bad ass at the time I'm sure. Racquetball has lost a lot of its badass finesse now. He had a pool, just the size of a standard backyard pool but with a small diving board. A few horses down the back. The place certainly lacked the tacky expenditure of today, perhaps a stable and some ponies was super extravagant at the time? His memorial is in a small garden near the pool. The gravestones of his mother, father, grandmother and himself and a plaque honouring his brother.

Elvis came from a poor background, made a lot of money and although young was really quite disappointingly responsible with his fortune. He looked after his parents. He liked motorcycles and cool cars, like his ace pink Cadillac, and had a plane or two but I guess in our day and age we are used to seeing celebrity ridiculous tenfold. People probably thought he was one crazy cat but a room with three TVs now is like 'meh', where is your crack den Elvis? Where is your pool full of drunk bikini-clad whores? Where is your champagne fountain? Though I'm sure he spent a significant amount of money on rhinestones and glitter which is probably the equivalent today of some pimpin’ bling.

I did discover he had a fleet of golf carts and all his mates would cruise around on them and even take them out on the road so that gave him a little more street cred.

Given I live in a time when pop stars shave their heads, are twerking with foam fingers, wearing dresses made of meat to awards shows and are generally being all but committed by 20 years old, it all seems petty tame. Elvis thought a rhinestone jumpsuit was a bit off the hook. So by 21st century standards everything about Elvis and Graceland was all very normal and tasteful with a funky 70s flair. Maybe all the cool junk is upstairs hiding? Didn't he die on the toilet, they need to highlight that more.
Scandal is the only way to sell tickets these days.

There was no one doing their annual Elvis pilgrimage that I could tell, no impersonators, no one weeping opening at his grave or trying to steal his underwear, it was mostly white middle-aged couples paying their respects to a legend. He is still incredibly well loved and clearly hundreds of people see his home every day and all the other exhibits on his film and music career, eat in the nostalgia retro 50s diners and buy rhinestone encrusted pink Elvis t-shirts from the gift shops. His music plays everywhere, like its on a loop throughout the entire region, and videos play in every room.
I do wonder if we will ever have someone of his magnitude again, someone that people will genuinely care about many, many years after they have died. We hate our popstars within a few years, many of them will die in relative obscurity or tragically from an overdose or will retire and sell used cars and talk of the yesteryear. Even the ones who were never even that famous are suddenly on YouTube drunkenly eating a hamburger and still claiming to have single handedly torn town the Berlin Wall. They are all batshit crazy. In 50 years will we be wandering through Lady Gaga’s house and saying, “hmmm, not an overly glamorous mansion” or “a dress made of meat? Please that is so lame” oh and "look, how dumb she has her own McDonalds (that may have been Richie Rich)”

Elvis Presley did die young and tragically like a true pop star but there was only one mention of his passing at 42 from heart problems. I can only assume it’s because to most of these people off the highway outside Memphis, Tennessee, Elvis still lives.


Posted by The Tipsy Gipsy 03:22 Archived in USA Tagged usa tennessee elvis pilgrimage graceland memphis 2013 the_tipsy_gipsy Comments (0)

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