On the Farm

Chiddes

Burgundy, France

Je suis ici.

I'm hanging out (and doing a bit of help around the place) on a Farm in France – not far from Switzerland. I arrived yesterday afternoon and was greeted at the station by Gilles and Zena, my hosts. They're brilliant. They've got a small business which they run on site restoring (and making) stained glass windows. It's beautiful. There's chickens, dogs, cats, strawberries, beans carrots, radishes, lettuce, flowers and a real live pumpkin patch. The horses died. Some time before I got here, I assume.

My boudoir for the next few weeks is an open barn - more or less under the stars - and I love it. There's no hot tap; showering entails boiling some water, standing on a shipping pallet and pouring water over oneself with an old cooking pot. The place is undergoing a bit of rennovation at the moment, so not everything is hooked up to the main water line. Flushing the toilet involves a trip across the garden to fill up a bucket to pour into the bowl. Fortunately, the lavatory is connected to the sewerline. I think.

And all this French is giving me headspins. But I'm sure it's good for me.

Oh, Think Twice, It's Just Another Day for You and Me in Paradise

Paris

Ile-de-France, France

This post is dedicated to Oscar

This story begins in a supermarket in Monmatre, Paris. Our Hero, escaping the drizzle outside, stands patiently in line at the QuickEat counter. Oh, the choices. What to eat? Une Baguette? Une Croissant? Un Croque Monsieur...?

"J'ai faim, monsieur."

The timid voice comes from a young, inward man of around twenty-five years. He's hungry. But there's a problem. So is Our Hero.

"Mais non, désolé."

But he's not the only one to turn down this Hungry Soul. Will no one stop to give him some spare change? It seems not.

Une Croque Madame? Un... Finally, Our Hero decides upon Pizza-Baguette. Valiantly, he asks for it to be cut in two, and offers one half to the Hungry Soul.

"Non merci. I don't eat crap."

Apparently, beggars can be choosers.

What's the Buzz? Tell Me What's Happening

London

England, UK

Once again, I've outdone myself in the don't-post-for-months-at-a-time stakes. So let's get up to date.

Edinburgh ¦ Scotland, UK

I spent a few weeks in Edinburgh, where the highlight (nay, pretty much everything I did) was the Edinburgh Festival. Now, they call it the Festival - singular - but it's actually a whole collection of festivals crammed into August. There's the original International Festival (think Sydney Festival and Carnivalé). Then, there's also the EFF - the film festival, the EIBF - the book festival, the Mela - a festival of cultures and the Edinburgh Tattoo - a spectacular military to-do of marching bands, horses, dancers, motorcycles and anything else that might look impressive on the forecourt of Edinburgh Castle.

And then there's the grand-daddy of them all, the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. 'Fringe' is a misnomer. This has grown into the main event. It's drama, it's comedy theatre, it's stand-up, it's music, it's experimental, it's impressive. This year there were 2,050 shows to choose from, some of them running every night of the festival (30 nights). Incredible. Of course, with that many shows on, there's going to be some rubbish - it's unavoidable. But there was some brilliant stuff too. Of all the shows I saw, two stand-outs were Chaplin, a one-man show about later-life Charles Chaplin's struggle with his alter-ego Charlie; and Something Blue an all-female clowning show (and we're talking the full-gamut of clowning - comedy, tragedy, physical theatre, mime).

Oh, and if you ever get a chance to go to the Tattoo, do it.

Aberdeen ¦ Scotland, UK

Lake District, Newcastle, Leeds, York, Cambridge, Surrey, Birmingham, Stratford-upon-Avon ¦ England, UK

London ¦ England, UK

I'm back in London now, sitting in a £0.50/hour Internet cafe on Tottenham Court Road. The woman next to me just screamed and jumped up onto her chair. Most likely because of the rat that's running around in here somewhere. I guess you get what you pay for.

It's Summertime But I Still Miss Your Skies So Clear

Edinburgh, Scotland

UK

This, from page 11 of today's Edinburgh Metro:

Scotland was the hottest spot in Britain yesterday – almost eclipsing the country's warmest day of the year. […] Renfrewshire saw the mercury soar with a temperature of 25.4C recorded at 4pm.

Never have I witnessed such frivolous misuse of the word "soar".

I Am Everyday People

Ballintoy, Northern Ireland

UK

I've noticed something about travelling in Ireland. You don't meet any Irish people. Correction: you don't meet any young Irish people. You do, however, meet some real characters amongst the older generations...

---

Brendan ¦ Galway, County Galway

My German friend, Marlene, was making a video of her trip. A video diary of sorts. I was interviewing Brendan for the video, just talking to him about life, Guinness, Ireland, the price of Teletubbies DVDs in Dubai - just the usual stuff. As we wrapped up, Marlene asked, "Finally, do you have anything to say to Germany before we go?"

"Well," he began. "I think Germany has a LOT to answer for".

Always a good way to begin a 10-minute diatribe.

---

Billy ¦ Anascaul, County Kerry

I met Billy in a pub. He threatened to punch me in the face. Why? He said I was being a smartarse. I was. But honestly, I didn't think he could understand a word I said (I could barely understand him). I later found him asleep in a bar. I think I'm safe.

---

Des ¦ Ballintoy, County Antrim

Myself and my new Israeli friend, Guy, travelled to a small town by the name of Ballintoy.

Sitting in a pub one night, we got talking to a thickly-accented Northern Irish bloke named Desmond. He was softly spoken, and difficult to understand, but we had a drink with him. Later, he took Guy for a tour of the town (which included a visit to the world's smallest church and a visit to Des's house for a drink with his wife and kids).

Back at the pub, Des decided to share a little secret with us.

"Don't tell anyone, but, I'm a taxi driver and I'm supposed to be on a job right now, ha ha ha. But I'm drunk."

Ah, the Irish.

Next day, I consulted with Seamus, our hostellier, as to how to get to the train station to make our 9.20am train from Colraine back to Belfast. The problem was that the Irish transport system is so well integrated that the only bus running that morning got us to Colraine at 9.28am.

"Leave it to me," said Seamus. "I know a guy who's kind of an unofficial taxi driver round these parts."

What's his name? Not Des is it?

"Yeah, Des. Ah you can't stay two minutes in this town without meeting Dezzy."

Grrrreat. Anyhow, aside from the fact that he arrived 12 hours early ("Oh, 7.15 in the morning?"), the ride went smoothly, and we made it to Belfast in time for our ferry to Scotland.

When I Close My Eyes, You're Everywhere

Belfast, Northern Ireland

UK

Now, since I've been travelling, I've learnt to sleep through just about anything. Trains, loud music, too-short beds, noisy beds, people eating breakfast, people stepping on me and, of course, snoring.

I'll admit that, from time to time, I snore myself. I'm sure it can't be all that pleasant for those around me, but at the same time if I can have a fairly restful night despite the 10 people snoring (and talking and grinding teeth and whatever else) in a 15-bed dorm, then so can you.

But there comes a point when you just should not sleep in share accommodation, and should also probably seek medical and social help. And possibly a personal bodyguard.

Enter Exhibit A. A small (perhaps a little portly), softly spoken Englishman, asleep on the bed above mine. Almost immediately after everyone (six of us) have gone to bed, this guy begins to rumble, it's fairly soft and a little rhythmic even. Gently does it. Not a problem thinks I, who can sleep through anything.

And then it stops, as quickly as it started. Nice. I start to drift off.

HOLY SHIT WHAT WAS THAT? I'm disoriented as I sit bolt-upright in bed. Did a wall of the hostel collapse? Was a missile launched at the nearby police station? Did I explode?

Alas, all seems fine, so I lie back in bed. That's when I notice that the gentleman above me seems to be struggling to take a breath. When he finally does, the entire bed trembles.

This is honestly the worst snoring I have ever, ever experienced. It was inconsistent, it started and stopped. He struggled and then would all of a sudden let out a giant gasp and an enormous drum-roll of a snort. It was thunderous. It sounded like the guy was dying up there. And no amount of poking or prodding would wake him up. In fact the only thing that disturbed him seemed to he once or twice when his own snoring actually seemed to frighten him.

In the morning, after I'd had maybe three hours discontinuous sleep, he was gone.

What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor?

Anascaul and Killarney, County Kerry

Republic of Ireland

Captain's Log
Stardate: 31.07.2007

Our party happened upon a town in between Galway and Killarney, known by locals and visitors alike as Anascaul. Now, Anascaul is famous for two things. Actually, to say that Anascaul is famous for anything is a bit of a stretch. But if it were famous, it would be famous for the fact that, in a region of only 600 people, the main (and only) street of Anascaul boasts six pubs. It might also be famous for its bright green pub, The Randy Leprechaun.

Having dropped in - all the way from Australia, mind - at local boy Paul's 21st to wish him a happy birthday, our 6-pub voyage continued up the road. Here, I met Billy - a fisherman from Belfast. Billy was drunk; this was immediately apparent. He had travelled to the South, so far as I could tell, to see how shite it was.

"See, the South is pretty much a Third World country, like. It's just shit. I love Australia though - it's great. Southern Ireland is just a joke."

I was curious. Why, then, was he here?

"Likeforexample," he slurred. "They don't even have air conditioning."

My house doesn't have aircon. Is my house a Third World country?

"No-but, they're just backwards is all. It's shit. It's honestly shit. They just settle for whatever."

I wasn't in the mood to argue with an incoherent man, and honestly I really wanted him to walk away so I could go back to my conversation. So I changed the subject and told him that my dad invented Vegemite Pop-Tarts. He thought this was great at first, but then he rounded on me.

"Mate. Don'be a wise-arse. That won' wash here, mate. Keep that up and I'll crack you in the face. I mean it. Serioushly, d'yawanme to punch your face in?"

"Go away," I thought.

But again, in no mood to mess with a large, drunk, Northern Irish man with a chip on his shoulder, I apologised, made my excuses, and left the pub.

I later saw Billy sitting alone in another watering-hole. He looked lonely, and I almost wanted to go and say hi. But that would have been stupid, so I didn't. Later, I saw him slumped, asleep, over the bar.

Let's Clean It Up

London, England

UK

07.07.07
Live Earth, accross 5 continents. My location: London. After my initial disappointment of missing out on Live Earth tix for London, in the late round I was allocated tickets. So, having changed my NY-London flight to the 6th (it was supposed to be two weeks earlier, but I loved the States so I wanted more time there), I arrived in the country less than 24 hours before the concert.

It was 8pm on the 6th when I arrived at Heathrow, expecting the worst from immigration. I'd heard horror stories of suspicious-looking characters such as myself being detained and questioned for up to half an hour before (sometimes) being let into the country. Expecting the worst, I presented my passport:

"What's the purpose of your visit?"
"Travel."
"When are you leaving?"
"September."
"In you go then."

It's times like those when I regret not buying a "THAT WAS EASY" button from Staples while I was in the US.

So, off to bed (thanks Oli and Kaisa) and up again next day for Live Earth. Our seats were good, but I wanted more. I wanted to be down amongst it in general admission. So I hatched a cunning plan to deceive the field marshalls, involving costume changes, hiding in tunnels and general double-crossing. I executed my plan down to a tee, twice.

Later in the day, Oli just strolled in, without any such shennanigans. I maintain that it was worthwhile.

So, on the field, and we're soaking up a bit of Bloc Party, some Chilli Peppers, some Damien Rice, all of the Pussycat Dolls, and of course Madonna. Standing beside us (us, by now, refers to our expanded party of four, with the addition of Nads and Eleni) are a lovely Mexican couple. Now, I'm all for sharing the love, and by all means go for a bit of the old PDA. They did. Good on them. But things started to get a bit hot and heavy, and, I'll be honest, to the point of being uncomfortable for the unsuspecting bystander. But I kept quiet.

Nads did not. She'd noticed that there was a little bit more than heavy petting going on, and it was time to step in. Which she did. When MexicanMan approached to 'calm' her. Ew.

It's time to go: Mexicans. They didn't.

The rest of the concert was good fun all the same. The whole thing was a little disjointed - although a definite highlight was a video which consisted mostly of a shopkeeper and an elderly woman slapping one another.

Excuse me now while I save the planet.

I hear it's nice in the Summer, some snow would be nice...

Boston, MA

USA

Here's what you've missed:

• Seattle, WA


• Vancouver, BC


• Chicago, IL


• Toronto, ON


• Montreal, QC


• New York, NY Updated! See below.

So, er, sorry about that... I've got some half-written postings for some of those locations which I may publish at a later date.

But I'm in Boston now (or Bah-ston as many a t-shirt, bumper sticker and novelty condom proclaim. They're very proud of the Boston accent) and staying with Lauren and her family of roommates in their splendiferous apartment just across the road from Harvard. It's oppressively hot.

Last night, we went to dinner at a lovely Family-owned pizza joint in town. (Note the capitalisation of the "F" in "Family"; it is not incidental.) Lauren and I arrived a little late (she on crutches, but that's another story) and were greeted by the customary sausages which are an essential (and curious) prelude to any meal at this place. Later, our three pizzas were delivered to the table by an older gentleman. Estimates placed his age at somewhere between 70 and 110 years old. Tall with greying hair and a slightly hunched back, he had the classic thick Italian-Boston accent and the charming Boston-Italian who-gives-a-flying-fuck attitude.

The pizzas were delivered stacked one atop the other, layer cake style: Tray/Pizza/Tray/Pizza/Tray/Pizza. They were very tasty. Once we had had our fill, there was still a considerable portion of pizza remaining, so one of our company asked aging waiter if we could "get it boxed" (doggy bags are the norm in this country). He remained hunched, then grunted or snorted (I'm not sure which) and walked away. Did he hear us? Was that acknowlegement?

About ten minutes later, he reappeared, and reached for the remaining tray of pizza.
"Oh," said Kristen. "We wanted to take th..."
"AH HEARD YA," he drawled.

Oh.

Pizza is returned, boxed, and bill is delivered. The only thing we can make out on the little scrap of paper is the price, so we each went to put in some cash.

"Do yah need change?" offered Aging Italian, gruffly.
"Yeah if we could, like, get a ten and two fives from this?"
"HAVE FOUR FAHVS"
Me: "Oh, and I need some fives too."
"GET EM FROM HER," referring to the earlier recipient of the four fives.
Aging waiter turns to walk away.
"WHADDOEYE LOOK LIKE, AH BANK?"

We pay, and hand over the bill along with the cash.
"AH DONNEED THAT!" he spat, throwing the bill on the table.

Add to the friendly service the suspicious doorway at the back marked

This is NOT an exit.
Staff only.

and the numerous men in blood-stained white aprons who entered said room carrying bundles of large spikes. What can I say?

The place has character.

When you're a boy, Some days are tough

New York, NY

USA

New York City - the city that never sleeps. It's true. More so than Vegas (which was decidedly sleepy at 6am), mid-town Manhattan runs 24/7. At least, it runs til 2am when all the bars close and I assume that it then continues to buzz but I never saw it.

I did, however, see some pretty cool things.

I saw Amy, which was brilliant (of course) and even got to sleep atop her in her swanky downtown dormitory for three nights (and no more). Can you use the words "swanky" and "dormitory" in the same sentence? The bunks had kind of a synthetic covered mattress which made some interesting sounds and led to some awkward misunderstandings - but the apartment was cool.

I saw the sun set over Central Park, The Empire State Building and the rest of the city from the top of the Rockefeller Center.

I saw a man running on a treadmill, non-stop, for 24 consecutive hours.

I saw a ferris wheel inside a toy shop (although I was too tall to ride :( ) and a McDonalds inside a Macy's.

I saw the Statue, the Park, the MoMA, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Bayonne Bridge and they all lived up to expectations. Although the statue wasn't as big as expected, and someone called NYPD to stop me taking photos of the Bayonne Bridge.

I saw a Cat Man Dude. That's a man who's had his face surgically altered and tatooed to look like a cat. Seriously.

I saw two Broadway shows: Spring Awakening which has its share of confronting moments, but exceeded expectations to the point that I would grant it "brilliant" status; and Chicago which exceeded no expectations and only barely lived up to them but was enjoyable all the same.

I saw David Hasselhoff.

I've seen it all.

Out the door, Just in Time, Head Down the 405

Los Angeles, CA

USA

OK, so brace yourselves Scrubs fans...

Monday, after four good days in Hollywoodland (Disneyland, the Boulevarde, the Sign), Glenn, Harry and I decided it was time to make the pilgrimage to North Hollywood University Medical Center (aka Sacred Heart Hospital aka JD's workplace).

Step 1 Look up address on Wikipedia.
Step 2 Make 50-minute bus pilgrimage.
Step 3 Never trust Wikipedia again.

We arrived at what should have been 11699 Riverside Drive. It didn't exist. 11645 existed, as did 11701. Just nothing in between. So a couple of calls to a friend (thanks Kellie) and it transpired that we had the wrong address (how could Wiki be so wrong?) and a quick check of Google Earth confirmed the correct location.

So we hit it up: Jumped on a bus to take us further down the road, and jumped off with squeals of delight which probably ruined any chance we had of talking our way past security.

It turns out that what is the "front" of the hospital in the show is actually the back of the real hospital. And behind that is a causeway (like a massive open stormwater drain). So to see the set, we had to jump the fence from a service station into a big closed-off empty lot across the other side of the causeway. The now-slightly-suspicious security guard was by this stage tracking our every move (he even called for backup!) From our vantage point we spotted Coffeebucks, the main entrance to Sacred Heart (didn't have any time for any illicit white-boy dancing...) and of course Roofs A and B.

Next, we approached Mr Security to see if we could find out what was being filmed at the time - we did see a few Coffeebucks employees - but before we said anything at all, he replied "No". Fair enough.

So, pretty satisfied with a successful day, we headed further up Riverside Drive to grab a bus home. On the way, I noticed a sign on what appeared to be a very small nursing home that read "Gate D". It looked a lot like the ones on the hospital so we headed inside, and around the corner.

"Oh," I remarked. "That looks like maybe where they film the scenes in the par... OH GOD. OH MY GOD. OH SHIT. HOLY FRICK. DOUBLE FRICK."

Around yet another corner, there it was it in all its glory. JD's deck. That's right. We were standing on the quarter-acre. It was looking pretty dilapidated, and we worked out that the same area was used to film JD's house, the park(s) and various other outdoor scenes. There was no sign of the neighbours' houses (they must be filmed elsewhere) and the grass was astroturf.

I have stood on the very same deck from which Mandy Moore toppled, where Keith got Bacon-backed, and where on seeing an older gay gentleman drinking an Appletini JD pondered, "Since when do gay guys drink straight guy drinks".

My life is complete.

Photos (and maybe video) to follow... Check out the locations on my map.

And All That Jazz

San Diego, CA

USA

After joining the boys for the final episode of the Aussie Hour, it was finally time to get out of Sac. I jumped in a cab (with a cabby who couldn't get insurance because he has a hit and run on his record - don't ask how that came up). With only one night of accommodation booked for SD, I boarded the 13-hour Greyhound at 3am (yes, 3am) which wasn't so bad as it could have been.

On arrival in SD, I checked into the hostel (in the Gaslamp Quarter)and checked again if there was any accommodation available for thefollowing nights. There was not (I learned it was a long weekend which may have had something to do with it). So I hit the streets searching for somewhere to stay next night.

Nothing.

Anywhere.

I was starting to stress a bit, but I figured if worse came to worst, I'd hang out in the first hostel til late and then just sneakily crash on the couch. Cos I'm shifty like that. It was that busy that even the couch I had planned to sleep on had been let out for the night. So I decided to be stubborn and refused to leave. I figured they'd have pity on me eventually. Finally, a bed became available when someone had to go home to visit a dying relative. Awesome.

So the luck continued next day when i discovered that the street had been closed off for a Jazz and Blues festival. A big one. $50 bucks a ticket all day. But because the hostel was in the street - free passes! It was great. Awesome lineup. Dancing in the street, sitting in the window of the hostel watching from above, free drinks, t-shirts. Great fun. And then as a bonus, the manager of the hostel knew a guy who knew a guy and I got free tickets to an unrelated concert that night. So for my
$20 a night hostel fee, I got close to $100 value... Not bad really. Some unexpected fun, from what started out as a pretty stressful, depressing time.

If you ever do San Diego, walk out to the cliffs at Ocean Beach, have a burger at Hodad's, visit the zoo, and stay at USA Hostels on the Memorial Day long weekend.

99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall

Sacramento, CA

USA

So, I'm in Sacramento now, living in the dorms at Sac State, and so far the highlight (and it's Sacramento, so highlights are few and far between) was heading to Brewfest with Glenn and Harry. The deal was this: $30, 5 hours, all the beer you can drink. Now that was fun, but the best was yet to come. Thanks to our ingenious plan to take two complementary beer mugs each (to reduce queuing time and increase drinking time), we discovered on the walk down the long road to the taxis that our chalices made rather effective percussion instruments. We commenced riffing.

When we came to the corner where we had agreed to meet our chauffeur, Dino, and he was nowhere in sight, we stopped, but the wicked beer-mug beats continued. I dropped my hat to the dusty road, Harry did the same. Almost immediately we earned our first dollar. The crowds continued to pass: Some on foot, others by car, slowing and then moving on. Some gave money. Some stopped to dance. Still others threw corn chips from the window of their SUV.

After 20 minutes, we'd earned the grand total of $4.70. That's more than the minimum wage (although admittedly it was split between 3 people).

So, $30 entry × 3 = $90, less $4.70 = the solution to this country's poverty problem.

A thought

Sacramento, CA

USA

I don't understand this place. The toilets overfill, people drive around in small tanks, and yet we have the hole in the ozone layer.

Where My Head's At (and the rest of me)

I've made a map with markers at some of the places I've been.
My Google Map
Don't know how religious I'll be about updating it, but we'll give it a go.

Whatever happened to predictability? The milk man, the paper boy, evening TV?

San Francisco, CA

USA

San Fran turned out to be a great week. Among other touristy things, I visited Alcatraz (it was pretty frightening to imagine what it would have been like to be in confinement there, able to hear the parties across the bay, and no way to get everything you want even though it's so close) and biked the Golden Gate Bridge with Paul - a highlight. I ate some of the best Mexican food I've ever eaten at The Mission, and the best sourdough bread I've ever tasted at the Boudin Bakery (it's at Fisherman's Wharf if you're there - try it, seriously). I went to numerous museums (the SF Museum of Modern Art was a definite highlight), rode the cable car and shared the buses with some pretty interesting people. The public transport here is great - there's almost no traffic in SF.

San Fran definitely grew on me over the week.

Of course, it wouldn't be right if I hadn't been ripped off at some stage. During the week, I purchased a US power adaptor which turned out to be faulty. I took it back to the somewhat shady-looking Mexican salesman, who was quick to point out the "no refunds" policy of the establishment. When I was forced to make some noise, he pulled out a screwdriver and went to work on it.

"I'm not comfortable with this. You're not an electrician," said I.
"I've be in this business 25 years," he shot back.
"That doesn't make you an electrician. Are you an electrician?" I asked.
He didn't even skip a beat: "Yes."
"You're an electrician?"
"I've be in this business 25 years."
"That makes you a fully qualified electrician?"
"Yes."

So now I have a US adaptor minus one prong. Useful.

Be Sure to Wear Some Flowers in Your Hair

San Francisco, CA

USA

My first impression of San Francisco is that it's nothing like Sydney. I mean, people say it's like home, but it's not. The people are lovely (although there's always that uncertainty: Are they being nice when they talk to you, or are they just crazy? Or both?) I've gotta learn to not always be so nice back - it gets expensive. I must give off a backpacker vibe (maybe it's the backpack I'm wearing) because I've already been offered more unsolicited assistance in the street than... well, I have no simile to offer. Just lots of assistance.
In my room at the hostel, I can climb out the window onto a balcony of sorts. It's one of those external fire escape staircases. Just like in the movies. Everything here is just like the movies. But it's also got a realness about it. And it just feels comfortable.