Madness and Beauty

The Hangover...

2010-03-02T16:34:00.000-08:00

Thank god I had waterproof mascara after bawling when we won the game!
Watching the closing ceremonies with my mum at Germany Haus. Amazing, amazing day.

...all of Vancouver's got one.

Despite my initial hesitation, the Olympics.....were awesome! What an amazing time in my amazing city. This week I will be posting different musings about what went on, but for now have a look at these articles:

In which we likes ta drink and in which we get recognized for our quirkiness and politeness (duh).

See you soon
xoxo
Violet Dear

A Glorious Lack of Depth: Ten Reasons I Love LA

2010-02-12T11:18:00.000-08:00

Indeed! Save it!

I often get asked why I love LA, and I can never answer them with a proper, well-constructed sentence that makes much sense. But - deep breath - I'll try.

In cities like New York, Berlin and Paris culture and change is happening all around you, everywhere you look you can actually see ideas and art and magic swirling up and down the streets of the Lower East Side, Kreuzberg and Montparnasse. In LA there is no equivalent - it's almost as if you can sense that things are going on amongst the empty streets and convoluted neighbourhoods but.... you're not invited to them.

I, as you may have guessed, am back in LA. Just for a short visit before the Olympics (more on those in the next few days) to save S from the boredom and loneliness that three weeks in the City of Angels can inflict on a person who works 14 hours a day and knows few people. I am always happy to head back here for the following reasons:

The Vista - one of the grand old movie theatres in LA.

The Frolic and Pantages - some of my favourite neon in the city.

1) Neon lights!

Never in the history of man has a city been festooned with as many interesting and unique flashing neon lights. The history of this tumultuous city can be traced through the glitz and glamour of its signs - everything from historic movie theatres, fast food joints and even the Denny's have ornate and wacky signage that scream of the 1950's.

Meet George Jetson...

2) Mid-century modern architecture

Driving through LA one catches glimpses of the city as it was in the 1930's and 1940's when the art deco of the day was slowly switching into something more futuristic and modern and kind of kidney shaped pool-ish. Otherwise unassuming busineses have original 1950's signage and design that has disappeared in other cities and I am absolutely smitten with the sight of it. S's office is located right near the iconic Capitol Records building at Hollywood and Vine and I never tire of seeing it poke out behind the W Hotel and the Pantages Theatre - it makes me feel like I should pop over to the Brown Derby or Musso and Frank's for a whiskey sour or some other equally old-timey sounding drink.

Looks like a family restaurant on the outside, is actually a scary dive bar on the inside.

3) Dive Bars

Has there ever been a sweeter sounding combination of 2 words?

LA is the penultimate home of the dive bar - all kinds, in fact. I don't wanna go too far into the different types I have identified because one day I will want to dedicate a whole post, but I will break it down:
The RocknRoll Dive Bar - Rainbow Bar and Grille (where all those Guns and Roses videos were filmed) the Cat Club (a metal bar where Ron Jeremy hangs out) and the Whiskey a Go-Go (every famous musical act of the sixties played here - most notably the Doors)
The Strip Club Dive Bar- No, not typical strip club where pathetic men come to sadly drool over unattainable women. LA is home to nudie bars that sell sex in a tattooed, punk rock sort of way. Head to Jumbo's Clown Room, where Courtney Love famously stripped (and you can see amputees whirling around the poles) or to Cheetah's where hipsters go to stare lazily at girls that look like them.
The Airport Lounge/Seventies Feel Dive Bar - The ultimate win in this category is the Dresden on Vermont, where you can watch the legendary Marty and Elayne, who have been described as "either tone deaf or brilliant, depending on your taste" by the LA Times. The duo have perfectly coiffed black hair, are in their sixties or seventies and sing the best lounge music in the city. And she plays the flute. Heaven. The Frolic Room on Hollywood is a contender here as well...
The Actual Dirty Dive Bar - We live right near two - Ye Rustic Inn and The Drawing Room. Apparently these used to be a bit rougher, but hipsters have moved in and things are getting pretty ironic inside.

Speechless with cheese.

4) Mexican food

Oh. Oh man. Just give me some fucking enchiladas covered in cheese and guacamole and I am, like, so happy I could die. There is something different about Mexicali food from Tex Mex, authentic Mexican or the crap that we get here in Canada - I am not sure exactly what it is, but it makes me squirm with happiness as I actually moan the sound "mmmmmmmm" with each hot, gooey, molten messy mouthful. My most favouritest place in LA for Mexican is called El Chavo (on Sunset) - it is a complete ode to kitsch, complete with a huge signed photo of Dolly Parton. They also make the stiffest, saltiest lime margaritas (shaken, never blended) and the spiciest salsa and everything else is like heaven. Oh Dios Mio!

My idea of a perfect night out: Tiki Ti, El Chavo and back to the Tiki Ti.
You put the lime in the coconut and I don't care what else as long as there is melted cheese involved.

(It's also right next to the Tiki Ti - the first Tiki bar outside of Hawaii and one of my other favourite places!)

Lowbrow art at Wacko, a bizarre emporium of trash found in the bible...

5) LA Bizarro

Feel like visiting LA's largest celebrity cemetary? Hearing a Thai Elvis serenade you while you eat Tom Yum Soup? Going to see the world's first anal bleaching salon? Fashion taxidermy? Mexican wrestler burlesque show? Dodgy psychics, Korean bathhouses and more Hollywood suicide/muder sites than you can shake a stick at? It's all in the bible - I mean, LA Bizarro. I love this book so much that I wish more than anything that I had had a hand in writing it. And researching it. Well, except the anal bleaching. Yikes.

We spent a lovely day near the sign up at the Griffith Observatory.

6) The Sign

Before there was Hollywood, there was Hollywoodland. The sign was first erected in 1923 as an ad for a housing development, but soon became beacon of hope and glitter for all of the actors and actresses arriving in town with stars in their eyes. But, slowly throughout the next fifty years it fell to disrepair until 1978 when, amidst talk that the sign would be pulled down a consortium of celebrities led by Hugh Hefner (!) raised the money to save the historic symbol. There are days that I am just wandering around West Hollywood, and when I randomly look up and see the towering white letters staring down at me from Cahuenga Peak and my life suddenly feels very surreal.

The sign is facing new a new controversy, as it is currently covered up with a new message to "Save The Peak" (see the first picture, above.) Apparently some assholes want to but the 130 acres that the sign sits on and turn it into six (yes, you heard me - SIX) mega giant houses (the kind that assholes like to live in.) The group is collecting money to buy the land and conserve it permanently. Shouldn't the city be doing this? The National Historical Landmark Society? Hefner? Someone search the grotto, where's Hef!?

Laura Dern is the best living American actress.

7) FILM

The fact that I am a film junkie is probably the main reason that I want to move to Los Angeles. To be surrounded everyday by film history and work in the industry is kind of my idea of heaven. While I love foreign and arthouse cinema, the glitz and glamour of Tinseltown still appeals to me in an Old Hollywood way.

As for the present, I feel that there are two modern directors who truly understand LA - David Lynch and Quentin Tarantino.

It is in LA that I feel like I have been plunged into the bizarre celulloid dreams of Mister Lynch and I start to see The City of Angels with his skewed, hallucinogenic eye. From Laura Dern collapsing all covered in blood on Hollywood Boulevard in Inland Empire to Naomi Watts frantic evening at Club Silencio in Mulholland Drive, Lynch understands something convoluted and sadistic about Hell Lay that he conveys in his puzzle-like films.

2006 - first visit to Roscoe's. Hungover & shaking, I ate waffles and fried chicken all covered in syrup & I wore mah pearls just for Roscoe.

Tarantino, on the other hand, understands something completely different about the city. His LA is somehow suspended in an ideal, highly stylized late seventies/early eighties era and is filled with wise-cracking retro archetypes. When I watch Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown I can practically smell the mix of Banana Boat tanning oil, Camel cigarettes, cognac and strawberry incense that I know these locations must just reek of. The first time I went to Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles in West Hollywood I looked around at the wood-paneled walls and exclaimed "it's like Jackie Brown!" There are so many dim airport lounge/red velvet walled steakhouse-like bars around LA that I pretty much always have at least one night each visit where I feel like I'm out with Ordell....

Me and Harry Perry on Venice Beach. I first saw him in the film "The Gift" and it was a dream to meet him. He sang to me and made uncomfortable eye contact.

8) Weirdos

Nowhere - nowhere - that I have ever been has a better array of weirdos, freaks and misfits than LA. Especially in Hollywood and Venice. Harry Perry, Lemmy, Angelyne - what would the world be without strange creatures? Oh. It would be Ohio. Have I said I love big cities?

Like the Philippines, its just filled with American fast food restaurants...

9) The Ethnic Neighbourhoods

Sure, Vancouver has a big Chinatown (the second largest in North America, in fact) and a huge Little India and even a Koreatown - but that is about it. Little Italy got swallowed by the hippies, Greektown became a Kitsilano yuppie breeding ground and Robsonstrasse said goodbye to the Germans and hello to Vuitton and Coach. For a city that is so ethnically diverse, our neighbourhoods are a bit bland in this regard.

Not so much in LA. Little Armenia. Historic Filipinotown. Thai Town. Little Russia. I drove past a clutch of Kazakhstani restaurants the other day! Lao areas, African enclaves and a whole lotta Mexicans - they say America is a melting pot and Canada a multicultural society, but I am sorry: LA is so much more interestingly diverse than Vancouver. By far. And this week I am finally going to go and try some Belorussian food. They have an entire area here!

The famous and historic Roosevelt on Hollywood Blvd. More celebrities have stayed here than you can even imagine.

10) Pop Culture

So, if cities were people, New York (America's centre for high culture) would be a tall, emaciated European woman with impeccably groomed eyebrows and a beret. LA, America's trashy cocaine-addled heart, would be a towering trannie on acid. Who would you rather hang out with?

I get in this argument all the time when people find out that I am an unabashed pop culture whore. There are always humourless people who want to call me out and attempt to look down their noses at me for daring to pull my eyes away from Tolstoy for long enough to log onto Perez Hilton, but I am always ready for them. I was once at a party, telling some anecdote that involved Lindsay Lohan. A studious looking girl stared up at me and solemnly claimed "Oh, I don't actually know who Lindsay Lohan is." I paused for a moment and, regarding her with utter contempt, replied "Well, either you're the most boring person I have ever met, or you're a liar. It's a mix of high culture and low culture that makes someone interesting to talk to." I stand by that wholeheartedly.

The history here is fascinating and rich and in a lot of ways it's the history of our culture, because Hollywood holds a mirror up to our society and reflects what it sees. Anyone who dismisses that and claims to be somehow above it is probably a pill. That's not to say Hollywood isn't shallow - but what a glorious lack of depth!

And so I love to read my celebrity news in the mornings and recognize bars, restaurants and shops that are literally down the street. I love knowing that I will run into someone famous at least once a day. I love the maddeningly spread out neighbourhoods and the feeling that I am transported back to the forties when I turn certain corners. And I love LA. I just really do.

Loving Liberace, loving life, loving LA. 2006

"My Flaws" Or "How Violet Dear Could Have Lost the Job Before she Even Got It."

2010-01-30T23:47:00.000-08:00

Kevin and Trixie better watch out.

I was in a job interview on Tuesday, and I got the dreaded question: "What are two of your flaws?"

I made up some inspiring, secretly manipulative 'negatives that are actually a positive to you, potential boss' and went with those, but can you imagine if I'd been honest?

I do not think I would have gotten the job. Have a look.

*I am possessive of my ideas and hate it when people copy me - I know it's supposed to be flattering but it makes me batshit crazy.

*My bra and panties NEVER match. For instance – today? Red underwear patterned with nigiri sushi and an olive green bra with lace. It's like sad, unsexy Christmas, ladies and gentlemen.

*I build up my expectations that things will be exactly the way I envision them to be, and when they are not I am fixated on trying to swing them back to where I want them to be. I have been told that this is annoying.

*I don't work well with others.

*My voice carries. I'm like 'Til Tuesdays biggest nightmare up in here. I mortify X in restaurants all the time.

*As a little girl, I used to dress up my cats and dogs in doll clothes and strap them into a baby carriage. I still catch myself looking at Kevin and Trixie (my cats) and wondering....

*I call bullshit on casual friends and strangers a little too aggressively. I dated a compulsive liar for a brief while and it made me suspect everybody of telling tall tales.

*I probably should not be left alone with your baby because I might get all Liz Lemon and accidentally steal it.

*While you are talking I am writing in my head. No offense, I am sure you are interesting. It's just that I am more interesting and I sure like spending time with the poet I keep chained to the bed in my brain.

*Don't know how to whistle. Oh really? You think you can teach me? Why, you are simply the FIRST person EVER who has tried! Can't whistle. It's not affecting my quality of life. Get over it.

*I am missing important vaccinations because I actually cry whenever I get a needle. Right now I am about to get like, 3 and my breath is already starting to get hitch-y and my eyes are darting around looking for an escape route. I used to go and smoke in Junior High whenever we were supposed to get jabbed, so who knows what measles and rubella I am carrying..

*I'm kind of sarcastic. Kind of.

*Sometimes I have a drink so that I then can have a cigarette – that way I can keep up up the ruse that “I only smoke when I drink.”

*I have probably told Heppy or Xstina everything you have ever told me in confidence.

*I once knocked a sanitary napkin box off of the wall in the ladies washroom at the Lotus - with my head. X saw me laying on the floor and assumed I was vomiting, but then I reeled out of the stall and slurred “I hit my head on that thing.”
Stillettoes + Vodka =

*I'm a hotheaded loudmouth. At fifteen and while playing baseball, another team shouted “you suck!” at my team. I responded, in front of all of my teammate's mums and dads - “Yeah, well at least we don't swallow!” I wasn't sure what that meant. Apparently, it was something very offensive.

*I don't wash dishes very well. They are usually still kind of greasy – and here is the thing: I don't care.

*I am a firm believer in “what I don't know can't hurt me.” Therefore, I walk around the house nekkid with the blinds open, I eat food that has fallen on the ground and I don't care if you talk about me behind my back (and of course you do – I am a terror) – as long as I don't find out about it.

*Ever think “oh, I have no black socks clean, so I'll just pop these white ones on with my black shoes and no one will notice? (or other similar awful thing)” Oh yes. I will notice. And judge you.

*I let my cats do whatever they want. Like, Kevin sits on the counter while I cook supper, and sometimes I have to battle him to prevent him from stealing the ingredients. Trixie walks on my face every morning. I complain about these things – and then do precisely nothing to stop them.

*I dip my poutine in curried mayo. That's pretty wrong for a lot of reasons.

* I am a master – the best ever – at coming up with excuses to get myself and my friends out of doing things they don't wanna do. Long, beautifully crafted and completely plausible lies, ladies and gentlemen.

*I am a skilled rhetorician. This sounds like a good thing, but it basically means that I am going to win any argument we get in.

*I judge you on your grammar and spelling.

*I don't know how to drive. It's not just that I don't have my license – I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO MAKE CAR WORK.

*I have what I refer to as “spatial retardation” - I have problems with maps and left and right (and wrong) and I still tie my shoes using the 'two bunny ears method' and even then sometimes I have to start again. I didn't learn until I was 7. You know those 3D puzzles? Hot tears.

*I once ran over my cousin Matthew with a tricycle when he was learning how to walk. I was 4.

*I spend too much time writing lists. Clearly.

xox
Violet Dear

Olympic Brouha....ha?

2010-01-19T01:25:00.000-08:00

So, I'll admit it. Seven years ago I marched down to the local polling station and voted in the Vancouver plebiscite to decide whether we wanted to host the 2010 Winter Olympics. And I voted No.

Not that it ended up mattering, mind you - but I felt very strongly at the time that my city - my wonderful, weird city - was not ready to host such a huge event. Not with our endemic poverty, our sub-Saharan Africa rates of HIV and tuberculosis and the slashing of our social programs in order to pay for this thing. I still kind of do.

Basically, for Expo 86 Vancouver's the poor of Vancouver's Downtown Eastside were marginalized further and crammed into a smaller area than ever before, making this historical neighbourhood the Western world's most impoverished postal code.

Visitors always ask me why we have so many intravenous drug users and homeless folks to begin with and there are a lot of reasons, but I think that the main one is that we are the only city in Canada where it is kind of warm enough all year round to spend large chunks of time outside. You can't exactly sleep on the street in Winnipeg in February - a lot of people from across Canada who have drug addictions and mental disorders - and often both (the dual diagnosis) make their way here, a bustling port town on the Pacific Rim with a sordid opiate trade history and lenient policies (even safe injection sites.)

What myself and the other left leaning people of Vancouver were worried about in hosting the Olympics was that Expo 86 would repeat itself and we'd have an even larger problem in the city. And in a way that has happened - millions upon millions of dollars have been spent on infrastructure while the most vulnerable people in my city languish on the cold, wet streets - unable to get into a treatment bed even if they want to.

The homeless are not the only ones affected- even social programs like books for the blind have been cut (how evil and heartless does that seem to you?). Festivals and events are being cancelled due to lack of funding. My provincial government no longer gives grants to students. This isn't even mentioning the destruction of stolen Native land to build roads (and commodification of Native images used to sell mascots and products.) The list is endless and appalling.

It's clear who is going to benefit - the foreign companies such as Coca-Cola, McDonalds (you try eating that crap and being athletic - not gonna happen) and Samsung will all rake in millions while we locals spend 2 hours - yes, you heard me, 2 hours to get transit to get to work.

BUT - and here it is - it's happening. Whether I am saddened and scared for the state my city will be in when it is over, it is happening whether I think it's moral or not and I am actually really excited. People will be here from all over the globe! Estonians! Argentinians! Belorussians! South Africans! So many more!

It truly is a once in a lifetime event, and I will be telling my grandchildren (oh lord - someone who will be raised by someone who will be raised by me.... may god have mercy on their souls) about this in 50 years. I only wish that my Grandpa, a huge Olympics fan, was here to see his city host them.

And while transit will be terrible and traffic horrendous, despite my political angst I cannot wait to put some wine in a travel mug, bundle up and walk downtown on February twelfth to just soak up the energy and the craziness during the Opening Ceremonies. Violet Dear does love a party...

I am deeply ashamed of the poverty left unchecked in Vancouver and I think that we should focus on fixing our problems before inviting the world in to see them - but I am also proud of my outrageously beautiful city. Like, extremely proud. It's a pretty great place to be from(and as a born and raised local I am as rare as a unicorn.)

So gang, tune in in the coming weeks. I'll let you know how it's going. And it just might be a travel mug full o' wine doing the talking.....

Shelved - Part 1 of 2

2010-01-12T12:57:00.000-08:00

Tchotchke heaven.

I am the knick-knack queen. I have 2 shelves like this in my new apartment, between the kitchen and the living room and when I saw them I rubbed my hands together with glee and thought "yes. YES!" I have resisted the urge to load them with the contents of my boxes and boxes of random pop culture memorabilia and have instead left them - mostly - to things I have collected during my travels. Each odd and end tells its own story and together they are basically a time capsule so I thought y'all might like to hear about them.

I am always sad I am not a cute Japanese girl.

1) Blythe Stewardess Doll – Toronto

Little known fact: S moved to Vancouver for me. He was here on a few month business trip, visiting from Toronto, when he and met through my roommate at the time, Amy – who happens to be his BFF. The months came to an end and S realized that he simply could not leave Vancouver – so he trundled back to Toronto to sort and collect his belongings and the selfish brat I am – I was like "bring me a present! No, something besides moving here and disrupting your life and career goals!"

Knowing my penchant for weird stuff that only young Asian girls like, S was familiar with my creepy obsession with Blythe – the strange and wonderful doll made for just one year by Kenner in the 70's. In the 90's they became a hot collector's item and crafty ladies started taking photos of their Blythes in costumes and posting them online, creating a huge trend in Japan. Millions clamoured for the dolls but with so few ever manufactured there were not enough to satisfy the demand, and so in stepped myriad Japanese companies to start producing new ones. Originals can fetch thousands of dollars, and even the reproductions are really dear, with literally hundreds to choose from.

I love them. Until a few years ago, my wallet was Blythe. I have a Blythe beach bag. A t shirt. Earrings, address book, figurines. And at long last, S completed my collection with this: my Stewardess Blythe. At the time I was a travel agent, and this little gem sat on my desk for folks to admire. Makes me want a desk job again. But actually not.

Oh, that Gandhi.

2)Little Round Box – Male, The Maldives

The Maldives' small population does not sit around handcrafting lovely souvenirs for their wealthy European tourists to take home. Nope, everything we could find in the shops of Male was made in China – that generic ethnic-y Asian-y stuff that I have literally seen in shops from Nepal to Bali and even in Mexico and Fiji. Faux woodcarvings that buffet-fattened assholes can bring home, gaze at and wax poetic about the resort they didn't leave and how the people are "so friendly" without having any clue whatsoever about the culture of the land they visted. ( Geez, bitter much, Dear?) This was the only thing that we could find that seemed in some way special and not from a huge belching factory in Shenyang.

3)"Brother From Another" – Gift from Brandon Muir

My regular readers will recognize Brandy – that tow-headed imp who traveled throughout Borneo and Indonesia with S and I. Really astute readers will know that he is an accomplished mixed media artist and musician as well as just being an awesome friend. This photo of Gandhi playing baseball with Johnny Five caused quite a stir on Brandon's website – but in reality it's all about love. And robots. Isn't everything?

4)Tiny church – Oaxaca, Mexico

It is a wee little church, and inside is a rosary. See, I was raised atheist but I have a long standing fascination with Catholocism and it's archaic symbols and iconography and I love nothing more than Mexican religious icons – my favourite kind. Right in front of this shelf on the windowsill are a bunch of those big Mexican rolly-eyed Jesus candles - you know the kind, where his sacred heart is especially gruesome and Mary is looking all pious and virgin-y? Maybe it's the lingering ghosts of all of the Mayan human sacrifices, but Mexicans like their religion bloody and macabre. I do too.

Viewing the kitty from the side, my Grandma thought it was a camel with a big, ermm, member waving at her.

5)My Grandfather's pipe

My grandpa passed away 14 years ago, and this still smells a bit like his tabaccy. I would love to be that girl who sits and lights a pipe while drinking tea and reading with a monocle in one eye – I really would.

6)Waving Kitty – Seoul, South Korea

I have been through Incheon Airport 7 freakin' times in the last 5 years. The last time I said "Eff this" and bought myself the damn good luck cat. (If you put batteries in him, he waves!)

Screw the DSM-IV . This bunny is all you need.

7)Little Wind-Up Bunny Toy

My Grandma loved to give gifts on occasions like Valentine's Day and Easter – even as an adult she bought me little trinkets for like, St Patrick's Day. I think that she gave me this bunny when I was a teenager and the look on his wittle bunny face still melts my heart. If it doesn't melt yours you are probably a psychopath.

A friend once wrote this haiku: Violet from the block/born in the year of the cock/but where are the rocks?

8) Small Chinese Astrological Balls – Singapore

The first time I visted Singapore it was after a week in magical Vietnam – a week that my colleagues and I did NOT want to end. We were NOT impressed with Singapore – I had reverse culture shock. Everything was clean! Bright! Shiny! Expensive! Soul-less!

I finally felt a bit more at home when we discovered the winding roads and chaos of Chinatown – it was there that I found these neat little good luck charms. Perched on a ball of golden marble (or maybe it's some kind of jade?) are tiny little gold figures of the Chinese Horoscope. Mine is the rooster and S' is the pig, and while it strikes me as strange that everyone in the entire year is though to have the same characteristics, I got the cock so I am not complaining.

It's really a shame. He bought a cake and everything.

9) "Nobody ever comes to Ice T's theme parties" – Gift from Brandon Muir

Yep – that's Ice T by himself at his militant Power Rangers birthday party.

10)Small Ganesha – Gift from Mum

I wish I could say that this was from a small, smoke filled merchant's shop in a market near the caves of Ellora, but my Mum put this in my stocking like, this year. That does not diminish Ganesha's greatness – this god is the son of Shiva, has survived decapitation and re-capitation (with an elephant's head) and wrote the epic Maharabhata with his broken tusk. And he rides a rat. To quote Charlie in "It's Always Sunny"- "That is baaaaadassssss"

Oh come all ye faithful - to the nearest Mahayana Buddhist temple!

11) Small silver Jesus – found in my house

As I said earlier – I have quite the collection of Catholic iconography, but I think that someone must brought this over to my house and left it behind at a party or something because otherwise I have no idea where it came from. Maybe it magically appeared, like some really lame Lourdes-style miracle? Hang on, my palms are itching......

12) Marble Buddha – China Beach, Vietnam

This guy comes from the legendary Marble Mountain near Da Nang in Vietnam. The fact that he is raising his dish above his head signifies wealth and prosperity and I really like the fact that he is made of the tackiest marble ever and that he is so heavy you could kill someone with him.

Who wears short shorts? Oh. My Mum.

13)Photo of Mum – Florence, Italy

My Mum had me really young – teenager young – and as a result she missed out on a lot of experiences other young women get to have. But not when it came to traveling – when an opportunity came up for my Mum to tour Europe for a month with her then boyfriend my Grandparents insisted she leave 4 year old me behind with them and take off. This is a photo of her eating gelato in front of the Duomo in Florence - I love her perm (she insists it was stylish at the time) and just how ridiculously short her short shorts are.When she came home from this trip I would thumb eagerly through her photo albums and I think it gave me a sense of the wonder and mystery of travel and a fascination with Europe (and all of those statues and their big copper genitalia!) Viva Italia.

14) Small copper Sacred Heart – Los Angeles

S bought this for me this year for Christmas and I think I'm gonna loop a chain through it and wear it as a necklace.

Sit and Spin, Buddhist style.

15) Tibetan Prayer Wheel – Pokhara, Nepal

So, I have some pretty strong opinons on Tibet. And China. And China and Tibet. Which is why I was excited to visit a Tibetan Refugee Camp in Nepal and spend some Rupees there. I chose the goshdurned prettiest prayer wheel that I could find, handmade by the resident monks. In case you are unfamiliar with them, a prayer wheel is an ornately decorated spindle filled with a scroll inscribed with Buddhist prayers. It sits atop a handle, and when you shake it the motion propels a chained weight that keeps the wheel gently spinning around and around. The idea is that you are doubling up your prayers this way - sneaky.

Luh dese guys.

16) Papier Mache Owls – Rangoon, Burma

Oh Burma – just thinking about you makes me smile. Burmese people practice Buddhism, erm, differently... to say the least. Alongside Buddha they worship 32 "nats" – human/animal hybrids that are a remnant of pre-Buddhist animist traditions. These owl nats are a good luck symbol seen everywhere in the country – I had a few more different types but they broke, which is probably really bad luck. *adjusts collar*

17) Black Clay Pot – Huatulco, Mexico

Oaxaca state is known for its black volcanic clay – this pot is not glazed or painted – it is black through and through. Like your heart is if you don't like the wind-up bunny.

18)Sake Set – Gift from Mum

I wish wholeheartedly that this was from Japan, but it is from that neat dish store in Metrotown. Every time I can't think of something neat for a gift game or Secret Santa thing I trundle over to this shop and always find neat things. I let my Mum in on the secret a few years ago so that she would buy me these neat things. Now I have 6 sake sets and I probably need to put some back in storage. And do you wanna hear the bizarre part (although, aren't they all, Dear?)

Despite my devotion and near fanatic love for sushi and all of its accoutrements I have never tried sake, with the exception of a sake bomb from the Eatery here and there. It smells like nail polish remover to me, and I occasionally try a sip of X's plum wine (which I know is a whole different animal) and I hate that, so...yeah. I promise to try it. Maybe served in one of my 6 sets....

If one more person says "tatties," "tatts" or "inked" to me I will stab them with this.

19)Burmese Tattoo Kit – Mingun, Burma

I love tattoos. I mean, obvs. But I am decidedly NOT one of those people who wants to travel to Borneo or Fiji or Tonga and get poked and pounded with sticks and mud to create a traditional 'tribal' tattoo. There are a few reasons for this: I am still trying to remove and/or cover some of my own ill-advised "sick tribe" that I got done when I was a teenager; it actually does offend some of the locals who use those ritual tattoo processes for spiritual purposes (and haven't we co-opted enough "Native" culture around the world?) and I think it looks disastrously ugly.

That said, I really love this little kit. It consists of a looooong 2 piece needle with a Buddha head topper, a little ink well and a leather bound book that contains 22 traditional Buddhist/animist (they always mix in Burma) designs.

And though Burma and Thailand are like apples and oranges I am reminded of a cute story. When I was visiting Chatuchak floating market with my Thai friend Sam, one of the small shop's proprietors looked at my tattoos (humongous for Asia, and very uncommon on women) and said "Do you speak Thai?" When I shook my head no, he looked at my friend and spoke animatedly in Thai for a few moments, laughing. When I asked Sam what the man had said, he responded "In Thailand, we use tattoos to protect us and make us powerful. This man, he said that you must be VERY strong. No ghosts will come after you!" He was right. They haven't.

It's probably lead based. I am wary of using it on my face. But I could decorate the hell out of a cow with it!

20) Tikka powders – Varanasi, India

Oh, India. In a class on mass media I am studying the concept of 'pester power' – a term for the pleading, begging behaviour children exhibit in grocery stores and shopping malls after they have been bombarded with flashy commercials aimed at selling products to them. The whole time I have been reading and thinking about this phrase, I just keep thinking of an unrelated phenomena: the street vendors in India. In a different way, they have 'pester power' down to a science - even though I wanted one of these sets I ended up buying three – good thing they were only 20 rupees.

The chubby little vials are filled with the brightly coloured tikka powder used to give religious marks on people's third eye (between yo'brows) and also to draw designs on temple and foyer floors.

22) An ugly mask - The Maldives

Yep. Made in China.

Violet on the Block....

2010-01-05T23:10:00.000-08:00

It always amazes me that there are still coffee shops that do not have wifi. I mean, a Timmy Ho's I can understand, I am talking about your socially conscious, free trade organic coffee shop where the baristas have ironic haircuts and berets. Don't they need the internets to download the latest Devendra Banheart album?

I digress. My point is that when you are enjoying a green tea and a piece of icing-heavy carrot cake (yoga will cancel this out – right? RIGHT?) while you wait for yoga to start and you realize that your writer's block may indeed be over you should have access to your blog. I mean, I had more free wifi in Cambodia. The Olympics are coming, Vancouver – and people want their wifi.

What's that bit I just said about writer's block? It's more of a 'blogger's block.' I am churning out fiction and poetry like a Bronte sister on meth, but the moment I stare at the happy orange and blue Blogger interface it all goes to hell. I have a dozen blogs half written – a particularly nice one about Jaisalmer, the top ten reasons I love LA and a piece about Vancouver's opium den history to name a few. Do you think I could finish them? Or, at the very least, stop thinking about finishing them and then beating myself up as I open another folder instead?

I like you guys. I really do. I don't want to lose you. You, ermm, complete me? Had me at hello? Take a piece of my heart? Shine on you crazy diamond (oh wait....)

Another confession – and I make this one with a grimaced face – I am back in school. University. Taking four courses, each with insane work loads. And tut tut tut- before you congratulate me and give me air high five - you do know what that means, right? It means that my every waking moment for the next 4 months will be consumed with reading, writing, panicking, drinking tea, panicking, drinking beer to forget the panic and reading. And more writing. And probably at least two (oh let's be honest – 4) fits of complete Klaus Kinski style hysteria. Will I have the time and the heart to blog for you?

(As an aside, the two week break that I get during the Olympics (yes, even the Universities here in my fair city are closing) is going to be filled up by another amazing opportunity – I am going to be leading the Vancouver Police Museum's "Sins of the City" walking tours, taking tourists through the seedy underbelly of Vancouver's not-too-distant past. Come and visit! Take a tour with me! Apparently the whole world is coming - you should too!)

Part of the problem is that my blog is about - and should continue to be about - my travels (being a tourist in your own city counts) and not just my random thoughts. Random thoughts are easy. That I can do every day or so and let you all know the weird and random pop culture and film crap that is flooding my brain at any given moment – but it's no 'majestic sweeping rice paddy' description. But then what happens to my archives? My hard work at crafting a travel website that I would read goes down the squat toilet and I end up just being another random musings blog. Do y'all like me enough for that?

Do I like me enough for that? Sigh.

So here's the rub – I promise to write about my past travels (and finish the Jaisalmer entry – I started it in the Philippines during a typhoon, for Shiva's sake) and my new travels and like, actual interesting activities but for the sake of my grades and (in)sanity I may also just spew out random thoughts as well. Is that okay? Are we all okay with this?

I hope so. And let's all just hope a girl can get some wifi up in here.

And just to blow all y'alls minds - this is what S and I look like when we are NOT disgusting backpackers.

Stuff I Like - December

2009-12-26T11:45:00.001-08:00

Gangster knuckle tattoo, what?

1) My new tattoo

I know, I know. A hand tattoo. That's a pretty big commitment - but I have a few lovely rings that cover it perfectly for job interviews/high society functions/my own wedding type events. The decision came on the heels of another - I have decided to extend my half sleeves down to what are called "sushi sleeves" (3/4 length - names for the fact that sushi chefs usually are fully tattooed underneath their blouse-things) and I figured that one measly knuckle couldn't hurt. I was in LA last Monday and I just marched down to the nearest tattoo parlour and said "let's do this."

I like it. It makes me feel somehow more gangster despite the fact that I am not even gangster in the slightest - I'm like, the exact polar opposite. Well, despite the knuckle tattoo... Oh! And what does the V stand for? (other than Vodka, Vancouver, Violence and erm....) Violet, of course. You should all get one!

2)CocoRosie

Music starts at the 30 second mark. Watch this.

Let me start of by saying that I should, under any normal circumstances, hate CocoRosie. Freak-folk as a genre sounds like exactly the kind of thing that I would run screaming from whilst shoving my tiny fingers in my even tinier ears, but somehow this sister act snuck under my radar and made me a convert. From the moment that my BFF Xstina dragged me into her office and youtubed me to death with their videos I have been smitten with them, a near-romantic obsession. A strange blend of folk, hip hop, opera and children's musical toys, CocoRosie could easily veer into pretension and cliche, but somehow they manage to stay clear of awful and just make me happy instead. Of course, they live in Paris and are huge in Europe and you can sniff out a hipster by merely mentioning their name - but je vous aime. Le Sigh.

A lifelong dream, fulfilled. "I saw the best minds of my generation...."

3) Poetry

After a nearly 5 year hiatus I have been writing poetry like a teenager (let's just hope that it is better and less angsty than when I was a teenager.... eep!) No longer am I filling notebook after notebook - now it is all on m'little laptop, but it feels the same. Two, even three bouts of inspiration bombard my brain each day and I am just frantically trying to keep up and get it all out. Perhaps it was my November visit to San Francisco and the City Lights bookstore that triggered this renaissance of couplet and haiku, the swirling spectres of Ginsberg and Kerouac and Ferlinghetti rushing through my brain and tweaking and pulling at various synapses and making them crave an alternate form of expression. Or maybe I am just depressed and bored to be home....

The really unfortunate thing is that I happen to hate the word: Poetry. I don't think that there is another word out there that can make you seem so up your own ass, so incredibly pretentious and d-baggy than poetry. Shudder. So please don't ever call me a poet unless you want a beret up your keister. I own some. I am ready.

A different kind of Uke.

4) The Ukelele Orchestra of Great Britain

I don't really feel that I need to say too much here about how great this is. It kind of speaks for itself. Especially when you watch them perform Lou Reed's 'Satellite of Love.' Bing Bang Bong, indeed.

They don't call me Violent Violet for nothin'.

5) Optimum Wound Comics

I'll admit - I'm not and never have been a super big comic-reading lady (with the exception of all of the Tank Girl and Sandman issues I could get my teenaged mitts on.) I'm not one of those girls who finds comfort while safely ensconced in the basking glow of nerd approval and the geek-points that obscure manga can accrue. I do, however, savour a hard boiled crime caper with film noir styling and that is why I love Jason Thibault's baby Optimum Wound (and it's stepchild Blunt Force Beating, for which I write sometimes.) I will admit that this is kind of a shameless plug for a close friend and his endeavours, but I have been psuedo-promised that this year Violet Dear's image may make a surprise appearance in one of his stories, Battles Without Living Witnesses (but probably as alter-ego, Violent Violet) and wouldn't y'all like to see that?

"It was an insignificant bullet" - Brandon's Klaus Kinski tattoo.

6) Werner Herzog

I have mixed feelings about Wernie's latest offering, Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans but that doesn't change the fact that he is a member of my 'trimurti of favourite of living directors' along with "King of Venereal Horror" David Cronenberg (a fellow Canuck!) and the exquisitely surreal David Lynch. Recently, my good friend Brandon got himself a tattoo of Klaus Kinski in Herzog's "Aguirre, the Wrath of God" and I realized that I had never seen it. Once I picked my jaw back up off of the ground, I watched "Fitzcarraldo" and its accompanying documentary "Burden of Dreams." Amazing. I am now hooked. I try to watch a Herzog film (and there are about 100) once a week.

But really, the main reason that Herzog is unbelievably awesome comes from this anecdote here.

exs and ohs
Violet Dear

Violet Dear's Christmas Message to Friends and Readers

2009-12-25T17:16:00.000-08:00

Many Christmas Cracker Hats....ALL AT ONCE! (And my late Grandfather's patented shoulder tea-towel)

This was written for my best friends yesterday - I decided I wanted to share it with you, dear readers...

Christmas Eve means a lot more to me than Christmas Day - it always has. My family celebrated on the Eve and the only Xmassy thing I did on the 25th was open Santa's gifts. For me, today IS Christmas.

I am sitting on my Mum's living room floor, surrounded by gifts and a beautifully decorated tree (thanks, X) with cats weaving their way around as they eat ribbons and claw at the pompoms on my new Mukluks. I'm listening to John Denver's "Rocky Mountain Christmas" and eating Mandarin oranges while I wrap some final presents. Sure, I am not filled with as much frantic Christmas excitement as I would have been 20 years ago, but it still feels good. It feels like a link in a chain of tradition that spans generations in my family.

What a year. What an insane amazing year! I spent 10 and a half months of it scaling mountains and climbing ruins, speaking Hindi and eating bugs - but my heart was always here with youse guys! (gag, I know - but it's Christmas time. C'mon....)

Last Christmas I felt gutted and wrung dry - completely homesick and missing my culture and traditions. As you may have heard me rant - India celebrates Christmas, ermmmm, incorrectly to say the least and I was regularly found drying my tears in front of "Nigella's Christmas Feast" clutching a peppermint latte (from the only Western coffee place nearby) humming "Silver Bells" under my breath. (On Christmas Day itself, I must admit I was not complaining - living on a boat in the Maldives kind of sucks the sadness from anyone....)

Throughout the year I had the chance to witness unparalleled beauty, often coupled with soul-crushing sadness. The smiles of orphanned children, the sweet nature of abused dogs, the collective pride of downtrodden nations. It all made me realize how unbelievably lucky we all are as we sit in our warm houses surrounded by Nat King Cole, Clark Griswold and the Grinch, smells of holiday cookies wafting through the air. We have so few problems comparatively - let's all be thankful and happy!

Of course, my year wasn't all travel - we had a time of unspeakable tragedy as Heppy lost her brother Evan - a pain that will continue for a long time to come - and as usual, in some sort of weird cosmic symmetry a time of happiness and discovery as I met my brother (Hi Tyler!) Both events will continue to shape and change my life forever.

And as anti-climactic and, in ways, depressing coming home from my giant trip can be it is worth everything just to be here and celebrate with my friends, my family and well, Nigella.

So you might feel all Bah-Humbuggy, you might say "Oh, f*%@ Xmas right in it's goatass" but just try to remember that today of all days is about reflection, family, joy and, let's face it - life.

I love alls y'alls - Merry, Happy, Joyous Christmas.

xoxo
Violet Dear

See, Jain, Think

2009-12-17T10:09:00.000-08:00

My favourite quote.

During the Christmas season I know that we are supposed to reflect on family and friends and our good graces - but lately I have been getting a bit more esoteric than shortbread and giftwrap.

See, it was nearly a year ago exactly that I visted a humongous, strangely gawdy/beautiful Jain temple in Mumbai, where I was living at the time, and I am not sure if it is all the yoga I have been doing lately but I can't stop thinking about the quote pictured above.

Jainism is one of India's strangest religion - an offshoot of Hinduism that was first practiced 2600 years ago, around the same time that Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha, to you and I) was walking the countryside and creating his own religion, Buddhism. Jains are a super strict ascetic bunch who are so passionate in their vow of non-violence to ALL creatures that they sweep the ground in front of them as they walk (as to not step on bugs) and wear masks at all times (to avoid inhaling said bugs) - hell, they don't even eat food grown underground (that's the bug's food.) The practice is just common enough throughout India that many coffeeshops and hotels have special Jain menus. It is a fascinating and deeply tradition steeped religion - I am in awe of the Jains I have met.

You can see the weeks old bullet holes in the pillars at Leopold's.

A few days before Christmas (and our weeklong trip to the Maldives) my Mum, S and I toured downtown Mumbai mere weeks after the attacks, stopping to see the damage to the Taj Hotel and even having a drink at the iconic Leopold's (where 11 had been shot dead during the seige.) The Jain temple, one of the biggest in India, was the highlight of my day (even more than the vultures circling the Parsi 'Towers of Silence' - but that is another entry.)

"Every man is the architect of his own fortune." The quote written on the stairs in the temple hit me in the chest with its simplicity and wisdom - I had one of those cliched "A-Ha" moments (no, not one of those - one of these.) We were blessed with sandalwood tikka marks on our third eye and headed to another of Mumbai's sights - but this one was the most important to me.

The bowl filled with the fragrant sandalwood tikka for blessings.

So this Christmas, one year later, I reflect not on Jesus, not on Allah, not on Shiva - but on Jain wisdom and it's simple messages of non-violence and responsibility for oneself. Quit worrying about gifts and gossip and out-doing your neighbours. Worry about yourself, your own state of peace and your own joy. To be a navel gazing yogi - focus on this moment, right now and really live in it - make it perfect. If we all try this the world will be a better place. You are the architect of your own future. Remember that.

....and also remember, I do like gifts too. I'm not that spiritual.

Bless this S.

Before anyone writes me any outraged/patronizing/prosletyzing comments about Jesus please, please try to remember that every single one of the world's religions feels just as passionately as you do that they are the only RIGHT ones. You've made mistakes before, right? Like that time on that school trip? Or that time in Cabo? C'mon.

Autopsy Turvy....

2009-12-08T19:16:00.000-08:00

Violet Dear goes on the strangest fieldtrips.

The Old Morgue is the coldest room in the building that stands at 240 Cordova Street in Vancouver's - hell, Canada's - most notorious neighbourhood: The Downtown Eastside. Here, amongst the tricks and johns and junkies stands the Coroner's Court. This art deco building (1932) houses the Vancouver Police Museum's collection of guns, gore and city-specific crime lore and just happens to be curated by my good friend Joanna.

She is the reason that I find myself here, in the sketchiest part of my fair city on this subzero degree day shivering and cursing the airplane that ever pried me from Fiji. As I am not working (thank you, S) until I start school I find myself with the luxury to volunteer and flit around for a while this December. Because I know that Joanna always needs help down at the Museum I decided to pop in for a few days to research some topics for their blog (and also here, natch.)

As I mentioned last week I am always fascinated by the turning shifts and changes in any city's history, especially mine. I don't know whether it is the traveler or the historian in me but I cannot think of a better spent afternoon than one elbow deep in the seedy underbelly of this Klondike port town turned beacon of livability. The Vancouver Police Museum - whose building also houses the former morgue and CSI lab - is at the navel of this belly (too far?)

Care for a cold one?

On this brisk December morning the old morgue was really, really cold. Perhaps that is why an infamous Vancouver coroner was known to keep one of the big slab drawers reserved exclusively for beer..... The rest of the morgue has been converted into a display showcase for some of the city's most infamous crimes pre 1960 - macabre cases of murder that make people gasp and tarnish our affable reputation. Who's livable now, bitches?

Sir, I am not willing to overlook your, um - warts.

Through the morgue is the autopsy room - famous for one very special visitor, one Mr. Errol Flynn, legendary film actor of Robin Hood and swashbuckling fame. In 1959 a nearly bankrupt Flynn arrived in Vancouver, a 17 year old plaything in tow, to sell a yacht to a wealthy local businessman. After a few days of parties and rich food he retired to his room on Burnaby Street (mere blocks from my old heritage building on Jervis) complaining of a sore back. He was discovered dead hours later by the girl and transported to the City Morgue for his autopsy.

Over the next few days press and gossip rags from around the world descended on Vancouver to dissect the case of Flynn's death. The news of his humdrum heart attack was spiced up by his practically pubescent companion (when approached at the airport as to why he always had such young women with him he replied "because they f*%$ so good!") and the fact that his wife was safe at home in Hollywood, oblivious to teenager's existence.

No mention of any unmentionables in the autopsy report.

But most gossip centred on Flynn's most, ermmm, prodigious feature. Women were said to line up by the hundreds to try and catch a glimpse of his member - but would they have felt the same way if they had known what coroner Glen McDonald had known? Flynn had been afflicted by "huge VD warts," four of which McDonald's partner removed and set in formaldehyde. Upon some consideration of the potential scrutiny their handiwork may face during a second autopsy in Los Angeles the coroners elected to replace the VD warts - with scotch tape. Apparently, no further questions were asked of the duo regarding the subject. It seems they got away scotch free (way too far, yeah? Sorry. It's been a pun-filled day.)

I emerged from the morgue feeling that warm (now there's irony) sense of connection to my city's history and my forebearers lives that can only come from setting your feet (and keister) where those who have come before you have stood. Joanna had many, many more surprises to show me in the Coroners Court building - downstairs and down, downstairs hold many treasures (Tommy guns! Opium pipes! Old crime labs! Mannequin after mannequin!) that I will tell you about very soon.

In the meantime, try not to get Shanghaied as you wait for my post on Vancouver's seedy opium history. You'd best also try to avoid Mr. Flynn's, ermmm, condition as well....

Atmospheric Autopsy Shot to end with.

Stuff I Like - November

2009-12-03T00:43:00.000-08:00

Me and two of my BFFs - Jason and Kevin (not my cat - see below)

1) My friends.

OK, OK - I know it's sappy but man, did I ever miss all of my friends.

I traveled for a long time, met a ton of amazing people (here is one of their awesome blogs) and had a lot of late night beer (and in Australia, wine) fueled conversations, and yet here back in my home city I have the funniest, happiest, most intelligent and let's face it - good looking - group of pals any gal could ever ask for. I just wanna hug the hell out of all of them and never leave again.

(See what I just said there about not leaving ever again? We all know that is a lie, but I can pretend. For now.)

Ms. Beatrix Fruitbat. As someone asked me last night "Well, for miss and mizz what is the difference between the S and the Z?"
I deadpanned "Um, the difference is like Zebra versus Sebra. Um, duh?"

2) My cats.

I realized something recently - I never talk to you guys about my cats. And that's weird - because I pretty much talk about them all the time. I am an official crazy cat lady. I have had Mister Kevin (Kevin for short) and Beatrix Fruitbat (Trixie) for 6 years next month and as irritating as it is to clean their litter box and shove angry clawing cats into carriers for their annual vet check up I am smitten. It's gross. I talk to them all high pitch-y and do that thing pet owners do when we ask our animals a series of questions: "What are you doing? Whatcha doin' Mr Muffin Monkey Pants? I love you! You're a lover, arentcha? Are you a lover?" (This is an actual exchange Kevin and I had this morning.) I'll be the first to admit that cats can be kind of shitty pets (they are not 'aloof' and 'intelligent' they just have small brains) but I am happy with my guys. I'm just waiting for them to finally answer all those questions I keep asking....

3) The Rickshaw Theatre

There is always something about the worst, crackiest neighbourhoods in a city that attracts hipsters and artists. My city has the worst skidrow in North America (no, seriously. Yeah, we have socialized medicine and decriminalized marijuana and are all liberal and shit, but we aren't like, Sweden. We have problems.) and it lies smack dab in the middle of the most historic and special area of the city, spilling over into touristy Chinatown and even touristier Gastown - it's not uncommon to see horrified groups of cruise ship passengers shielding their children's eyes from the sight of junkies shooting up next to jib-dancing sex trade workers. Like, at 11am. The buildings are spectacular, the cobble stone streets are charming and the businesses of what was once Vancouver's healthy, bustling shopping district have closed - yet slowly gentrification is setting in. People who look like me want to go to shows and restaurants and dive bars in the "Downtown Eastside" and some shrewd business people have recognized the humongous money making potential of catering to us.

For years my friends and I have ironically slummed it at hip hop nights at the Columbia and Astoria and slammed pints of beer at the comically named Funky Winkerbeans - but I have never seen such an ambitious restoration as the Rickshaw Theatre (took me a while to get here - to the point - but I did.) Formerly a chopsocky kung fu theatre in the seventies, this theatre has been gutted and beautifully restored into a rocknroll venue - a night club with theatre seating rather than tables. Half of the seats have been removed to all for more milling around room, and the gently sloping floor allows for shorty-pantses like me to actually see the stage. I love it. And I love the fact that sometimes all it takes is one revitalized space in an area to kick off a renaissance. Vive le Jank.

I am actually blushing right now.

4) Neil Diamond

It just is. Lately I can't stop myself from repeatedly pressing play on the sweet sounds of the Jewish Elvis. I actually have seen Neil in concert (as well as Nearly Neil once) and I could hardly keep myself from throwing panties at the stage, although I was with my Grandma at the time, and trust me - I was too busy holding her back to have time to do so...

There is something so amazingly innocuously sexy about seventies Neil -well here, snuggle up with this. You'll be glad you did.

No, seriously. Go see it.

5) Precious

You know how some years there is a movie that everyone is like "Oh, yes - you simply must see and if you don't you are a cretin and I don't even want to know you?"
Well, this time they are right..... I emerged from the theatre after seeing this film feeling raw and gutted, my face red and my eyes puffy. I was afraid to speak words to my friend Alexis for fear that I would do that sputtering thing and just lose it right there in the lobby. Precious doesn't go for obvious tear jerking - it is fresh and original and really, really disturbing.
"I feel like I have been to war" I remarked to my friends when I could finally speak. And I'll put this here on the record: if Mo'Nique does not win the Best Supporting Actress Oscar I will never watch them again. And I like, LOVE the Oscars.... Serious. Go see this movie.

(PS - I am aware that this is being posted in December - won't happen again. Pinkie swear.)

Must be the Weather....

2009-11-26T22:10:00.001-08:00

The forecast for the week in Vancouver as I was leaving San Francisco. Rain rain rain rain rain rain.

I know, I know. I've done the typical thing - arrived home, sat on my ass and haven't posted in a week. I am so overwhelmingly tired (not to mention busy seeing friends and getting, let's face it, tipsy) that the idea of re-sizing photos and writing something witty seems like an insurmountable chore. I'm drained.

The weather probably does not help - Vancouver's patented dark grey skies and mix of rain and waiting-for-rain has been known to sap the creativity and energy out of many a soul. It has been sunny for a total of one hour in the last week - literally.

But this weekend I am going to hunker down and spend a few hours getting re-aquainted with cropping and captioning and witty one liner-ing. It's coming. I promise. Hell, you'd have SAD too....

See you soon -
Violet Dear

A Polynesian Spree

2009-11-13T18:33:00.000-08:00

Colourful village life.

The South Pacific has always held a huge amount of fascination for me, ever since hearing the haunting minor key of “Bali Hai” in grade nine band class (I love musicals – ALL musicals. My close friends call me a gay man in a woman's body and I tend to agree, sister.) Growing up, something about the idea of the sand, coconusts and grass skirts (on women and men – hello again sister!) mixed together in my brain with the scent of Hawaiian Tropic suntan lotion and frangipani and I figured that that must be what Polynesia was like. Turns out I am not too far off the mark.

Eighteen months ago, right before departing on this trip, I attended a big Global Ball/Conference for my company in Honolulu, and even though I was excited I was a little bummed at what I viewed as a slightly more pedestrian destination than, say Dublin where the event was held the year before, or Capetown where it is next year. Nonetheless, when I packed my bags (oh the luxury of being able to pack a full suitcase of clothes, make-up and shoes for six days!) and I landed my old fascination popped back into my brain. It did smell like Hawaiian Tropic, people were eating macadamia nuts and poi and hell, I even learned the hula.

The whole time, though, I knew that I was in a pre-fab, Americanized Hawaii – a faux Polynesia meant for tourists and Americans who want desperately to pretend that Hawaii is actually part of their nation and not just a particularly pretty spoil of nineteenth-century conquest (colonizers? The US? Never!).I managaed to mostly escape the feeling when I ventured to Haliewa on the North Shore of Oahu and ate lunch from the iconic shrimp trucks, followed by a huge cup of Hawaiian shave ice (hours after braving the depths to swim with Reef Sharks...) but the cloying feeling that I wasn't really experiencing Polynesia still remained.

Shake it like a polaroid picture.

After a week in Fiji I can put that feeling to bed for good. Though it was been overcast (the planet knew a Vancouverite was approaching) for half the time, the softly swaying palms, the crooning local music accompanied by a plinking ukelele and the fresh flower smell in the air fulfilled my expectations completely. While Viti Levu (the main island) remains split between ethnically Fijian people and Indo-Fijians, the islands are more traditional with villages existing as they have for centuries.

I ventured to the village on Waya Island a few times last week, the first for Sunday morning church service. Though an atheist myself I wanted to see the local customs in action - people here are overwhelmingly Methodist and at their services mix local tradition with fire-and-brimstone preaching. It was all in Fijian of course, but I think I got the gist (screamy man with bulging eyes pointing and probably telling us how hot hellfire is.) The choir was really the highlight – somewhere between gospel, Boney M and ceremonial Polynesian. I was moved to happy tears listening to the beautiful singing.

Such amazing singing.

A few days later I walked down to the village to attend a local craft market prepared by the women for the resort's tourists. The sand lined lanes and corrugated metal buildings reminded me of small villages in the Maldives – here the main industries are also fishing and resort work. The small clutch of buildings was teeming with small children, the older ones having been sent away to a larger island during the week for school, and these little ones love to ham it up for the camera.

ahh, mild narcotics.

We were treated to a long kava (a slightly narcotic powdered root mixed with water) ceremony with the chief and the mayor. The procedure is simple but must be followed – and if you are offered kava it is unthinkably rude to turn it down. Your host will pass you the small coconut bowl containing a few healthy slurps of the murky water and you clap once and shout “BULA!” (the all purpose greeting of Hello in Fijian.) Everyone else also shouts “Bula” and then claps three times. As you finish your cupful you hand it back and clap three times, and it is on to the next person. This is repeated until the kava is gone, with subsequent rounds following almost the same procedure – the saying of “Bula” is omitted. After each cup your mouth feels filled with novocaine and numbness envelops your lips, tongue and throat. Apparently the locals drink enough that this numb feeling spreads all over their bodies. While it tastes...interesting, to say the least, I found it more and more pleasant with each round. I am brought S a packet home.

Local kids mesmerized by the pale folks.

Music, dancing, tightly knit village groups and staunch Christianity mixed with local beliefs – Fiji is at once similar to Hawaii and completely unique. Every person that I met was genuinely kind and friendly, from the gardeners eager to have a chat about the island plants to the local women who greeted me by name every time I walked by. This is a place that is easy to love, and I can see myself coming back time and time again...

…...and that's not just the kava talking.

Chillaxin, Fiji style.

The Exotic and the Mundane.

2009-11-13T17:47:00.000-08:00

Religious candles? Mundane. Tiny Tim, Lucille Ball, Little Richard and Dali? Exotic.

In one week I have to get a job. And find an apartment. And register for classes. And basically be expected to behave in a way more suited to a grown woman.

Oh my god.

I have lived the last year of my life like a vagabond – no responsibilities, no permanent address, no job – and it has been awesome. In less than one week I will return to Vancouver and head straight back into boring old routine.

In a way I am secretly thrilled at this prospect.

While it may seem boring and mundane, I think that at least for the first three months I will be intoxicated by the blasé, aroused by the most basic household tasks and perfectly content to go to classes, write in my free time and eat, drink and be merry (literally, it will be the Christmas season) with my friends.

Given long enough away, the exotic and the mundane switch places.

Until the itch comes back, that is. Months after returning home I will inevitably start planning my next long trip, as well as a myriad of mini breaks and small get aways. I am addicted to travel.

But for now I am just keen to go home and wash some dishes, pet the cats and cook for S.

Who wants supper?

(Don't worry, dear readers.... though I am going home I have about a billion experiences and a ton of photos I have yet to post, plus all of the experiences I will have in Vancouver (Sushi! Winter Olympics! My Favourite Neighbourhoods! Seedy Nightlife & Dive Bars! Stuff I Cook! Stuff I Eat! S Looking Cute!) See - don't be sad. In the immortal words of Karen Carpenter, "We've....

This is one of two apartment buildings in LA owned by the Carpenter siblings in the seventies and named after their hits. "Close to You" is next door. I bet you wish I was kidding....

The "Eh" in Medicare

2009-11-10T22:26:00.000-08:00

An Aussie and a Canuck react in horror to some pretty rightwing ideas on US Heath care.

The caricature of 'socialized medicine' is used by corporate interests to confuse Americans and maintain their bottom lines instead of patients' health.
-Michael M Rachlis in The LA Times

Courage, my friends; 'tis not too late to build a better world.
- Tommy Douglas

So I'm Canadian. Despite the minor ambiguities of cultural and social identity that arise from my nationality it's a pretty damn good thing to be. Like if I had to choose again - no problem, Canadian all the way, thanks, gimme my unicorn festooned passport and away I'll go.

Being a Canadian around Americans has always been a mix of fun and good humoured irritation. The irritation comes from constantly having to explain that no, we don't like in igloos (although sometimes to fuck with them I will play along and talk about Flossie, my sleddog) and yes, we have large cosmopolitan cities with millions of people and no, I don't say 'eh' (except when around other Canucks who have thick accents - it rubs off) and wow, it is amazing that I sound like I am from the West Coast (because I AM, bozo.)

One point that Americans I've met have always been educated to some degree about is Canada's healthcare - at least enough to know that we have it and they want it. Even if they didn't have any idea that a good chunk of their famous people are, in fact, Canucks (here is a nifty list) they absolutely knew about our free medicine. Yep - we pay more taxes in Canada, yes we are all a bunch of liberal, swingin' sixties pinko commie bleeding hearts and yes it is minus forty Celsius in Winnipeg in the winter (I've been there, crying icy tears on Portage Ave) but we have free universal healthcare that everyone has equal access to. Hallelujah and Amen, brothers and sisters.

But lately something has changed. And I know what it is.

American cable news is pretty effin predictable - and it is the best indicator of the next shifty move of the government. The news is slanted in a way that appeals to the uneducated lowest common denominator by scaring the shit out of them.
"Ma, someone on the teevee says Iran is bad."
"Ma, someone on the teevee done say that Iran hates America and personally hates m'freedoms!"
"Ma, someone on the teevee says that Iran's gonna 9/11 us!"
"Ma, we gots ta go killify Iran!"
And so on.

Network news is simply another arm of the government spin-machine. It serves as a warning bell of the next controversial action the US is gonna take. Therefore, if you hear rumblings on CNN about how 'bad' X is when X used to be 'good' that means that sometime soon X is going to be enemy number one. The subtle process of discrediting what the public should now view as bad starts early, and the rest of the world watches in horror as we see people actually fall for it.

Which brings me to how healthcare is viewed by Americans now. I had the pleasure of meeting dozens of awesome yanks in Fiji and universal medicare was the hot topic. Wasn't it true that I had to wait days for emergency care? Didn't I have access to only the most substandard doctors? Why were so many Canadians coming up to the US for care when in Canada it is free? All evidence that the CNN/Fox News/MSNBC news machine is already hard at work discrediting the Canadian system to prevent Americans from really thinking about universal healthcare as an amazing thing that would benefit everyone. They are being force fed pap about Soviet era bread queues for doctors appointments and poor quality services. As the manager at Sephora on Hollywood Blvd informed me and Lou yesterday "when I wanna go see a doctor I wanna go to mine right away - not like in Canada." We couldn't even correct his misinformation (I go to whatever doctor I want, whenever I want to- and it is free)- it was too frustrating.

I am a Canadian. What the news is telling you about our system? IT'S NOT TRUE.

An infuriating but enlightening conversation took place with two young twenty-somethings from New York. The topics ranged from immigration (they hate those illegals) to schooling (you simply must go to a private school) and of course, the giant pink elephant in the room - healthcare.
"Why should I have to pay for people who smoke and eat KFC?" Said Mr. NY.
"Well, if you think KFC is so bad why doesn't your country make it really expensive, or even illegal?"
"You can't do that! People have a right to eat what they want!"
"What about the right to not die of a heart condition? Or the right to not go millions of dollars in debt because you drew the unlucky straw and got a sick baby?" I countered.
"It doesn't work that way - healthcare is not a right!" He shouted.
"Well, in Canada it is. And I couldn't be happier."
"What prevents your doctors from rushing people through their offices, if they make less money?" I looked at him, baffled.
"It's not about money. It's about helping sick people. Somewhere along the way, the American system has forgotten that."

Listen, you won't be able to get two Canadians who agree on healthcare. Our system has flaws - some bigger than others - and it does need some measure of reform. There are even some people trying to change it into a two tiered plan (which is very un-Canadian and jerky, I say) but the basic point is that ever since Tommy Douglas (the 'the father of medicare' - a few years ago we voted him as our 'Greatest Canadian') empowered us with the notion that our lives are worth more than medical bills and exorbitant fees it has changed the social consciousness. We are worth it. We deserve it. It is a right.

On the other side of the border, those with insurance in America seem to view visits with umpteen specialists, a multitude of scans, unnecessary procedures and immediate action as a right - yet studies still show that we as Canadians are significantly healthier and more satisfied with our care. We also do not have the right to sue our doctor (the idea would never even cross my mind) so that keeps costs lower for the taxpayer - (s)he aren't weighing out potential lawsuits in their head as they treat their patient.

If you don't believe me, this article from the LA Times is what I was reading this morning in sunny Los Feliz, Hollywood that spawned this train of thought. I really love the statistic that we in Canada spend 10% of our economy on healthcare, compared to the US's spend of 16% - the huge increase in spending still leaving 50 million citizens without insurance. Human rights aside, from an economic standpoint universal healthcare makes more sense!

A brief message to the Yanks out there: Listen, guys - your 'system'? It's broke. It needs to be fixed. You are the only First World country without free healthcare. And your news is lying to you. Talk to a Canadian or Brit about what we have before you let Glenn Beck tell you how to feel and shock you with half truths and horror stories about the Healthcare bill passing in the House.

Taking care of people lesser off than you does not make you a socialist - it makes you a good person. There's a difference.

And even if you don't choose to cover all of your citizens and residents equally - well, whatever. That's your choice. But for the love of God - quit dragging Canada's system through the mud by using false information! This is not about Canada - like usual - it's about you.

See, in Canada we even have dedicated Leprosy Sections! Modern and free heath care!
(Just fucking with you - this is in India....)

PS - I just want to clarify that I do not think Americans are any more stupid than other folks - trust me, I have been all over the world and can attest to the fact that people are stupid equally everywhere.

Goodbye to the Strange (Unless You Count West Hollywood)

2009-11-08T21:16:00.000-08:00

You can't get more LA than this - a trip 3 years ago.

So here it is. My last night in somewhere-not-North-America spent lounging on an idyllic beach in the Yasawa Islands, Fiji. The last 10 days have been the complete opposite of the past 14 months of my life – I lazed around and did next to nothing, a sharp contrast to my usual constant ethnographical explorations and arduous bus journeys. Surveying the beautiful beach spread before me, I remarked to an American pal "There's so much not to do!"

Tomorrow I head to LA, and while not home it is certainly a lot closer than anywhere else I have been. The next two weeks (which I will spend in Hell A, Palm Springs and San Francisco) are the last puny vestige of this nearly year and a half journey around, well, Asia and beyond – a Pacific Rim odyssey that has led me to places I had never even dreamt about. I must admit, this last hoorah has been a highlight – I recommend Fiji wholeheartedly.

Will I miss the strange? The unknown? The exotic, whether it is the whiff of dog meat in Vietnam, a gonging prayer bell in India or the bogan twang of a rural Aussie accent? Absolutely. But am I happy to be heading somewhere that I can get a decent taco, a kiss from S and all of the products I saw advertised on Saturday morning cartoons that weren't available in Canada? Well, yeah. That'll be good too. For a while....

So now, on to my second home of California, and you can dream, on such a Winter's Day, that you are there too....

...minus all the awkward Papa John stuff, of course.

Viva Los Angeles!

Fiji - Pretty Much the Best Place Ever (9 out of 10 nights, at least)

2009-11-07T20:57:00.000-08:00

Tomasi and I right after the conga line broke up....

They say that you're supposed to drink your best wine first – that way, when you are still stone cold sober and at your most observant and critical you can enjoy the good bottle completely. All substandard bottles should come later, finally saving the 9 dollar bottle of swill for the end of the party when the Trivial Pursuit questions seem to be getting a lot harder and no one cares what the wine tastes like as long as their glass is full.

The opposite logic holds true for travel planning.

I am predicatable in a few ways: I will always order another round if you do too, I will never turn down cheese, I will stuff my bra on Hallowe'en and I always – ALWAYS research the hell out of my travel destinations. I'm that girl who pipes up with the random useless facts about the gross national product of Laos or the medieval history of Budapest while you would rather sip your pint and talk about ball sports or boobs. So of course, dutifully as always, while in Melbourne I picked up the newest edition of the Fiji Lonely Planet and started highlighting.

Fiji is pretty much the best place ever.

My mind was made up pretty quickly that for this trip I would eschew the typical ethnology and history that interests me so much and head to some islands to relax and unwind before heading back to North America. Fiji is not a typical backpacker destination – the only accomodation option on the islands are resorts, but most have dorms. I chose the Yasawa group, a rough and rugged chain of volcanic islands a few hours by boat from the main island of Viti Levu known for their beautiful beaches. Unlike the Mamanuca chain, the Yasawas have resorts and lodges for all budgets and are thought to be less touristy than these islands. And if Lonely Planet had anything to say about it, Octopus Resort is the place to stay.

The gushing half-page review was not enough for me – LP has tricked me many a time and I needed more proof. I popped onto tripadvisor to see that out of over 157 reviews, 140 give Octopus top marks. The most common compliment? The food. Well, you all know me – that was the decisive factor. Not to mention the extremely ethical nature of the place – they supply jobs, scholarships and a generator to the small village located behind the resort and make every effort to be eco-friendly. I booked four nights in their dorm (they have a wide array of accomodation choices all the way up to posh luxury bures) and figured I decide the rest later.

After a night in Nadi at a perfectly nice hostel I set out for Waya Island and Octopus. My first few hours were a bit tentative, but after the first evening I was sold. Like an adult summer camp (reminding me - in a good way - of Dirty Dancing – I mean, is their any other way to be reminded of it?) the resort is chalk full of activities. I made an ever rotating cast of pals and proceeded to relax on the beautiful beach, snorkel the reefs, sip cocktails, conga-line around, engage in boardgames and discussion, swim in the pool and get lomi-lomi massages. More importantly, I feasted on the three inlcuded meals a day – the food was simple but excellent.

Simple and amazing - Hallelujah omelette bar.

I booked myself an extra night and pondered my next move. Should I head back to Viti Levu? Further North in the Yasawas? Pop over to the Mamanucas? Stay put at Octopus? I finally decided to catch the ferry 30 minutes North and stay at Boteira Beach for a few nights, after which I would spend one night on the 'party island' of Beachcomber and then onto to Nadi for one final day.I bid goodbye to Octopus and all of the amazing staff there and landed, this afternoon, at Boteira.

It is the same price as Octopus, which is the thought that keeps running around my head as I take in the surroundings, so very different than what I am now used to. Where Octopus had about 60-80 guests of all demographics, here I am one of 9. The esthetically pleasing walkways, sand floored restaurant and relaxing common areas have been replaced by a haphazard, ramshackle collection of eerily empty barn-like buildings. My spotless dorm has been replaced by a cavernous space of which I am the only inhabitant and the bathrooms more resemble an outhouse than the modern, clean amenities offered by Octopus.

Do I sound bitter? Only slightly.....more homesick for my last resort – which is silly, but true.

Kini and Kidi - they had eachother in a headlock and were play fighting only moments beforehand.

I want my fresh fish with pineapple salsa and roasted vegetables and gourmet pumpkin salad and traditional Fijian Kokoda (lime cured walu – like a coconut ceviche.) I want my nightly kava ceremony – a muddy tasting slightly narcotic drink served with much pomp and tradition in most South Pacific countries. I want dorm bed – freshly made every morning, supplied with a showering towel and a beach towel and decorated with fresh flowers (never have I seen such a thing!) I want to talk to the staff of all ages who are encouraged to mix and mingle with the guests (unlike hotel employees in so many other countries) and who all knew my name.

To add insult to injury the price for the meals and dorm bed are exactly the same here at Boteira Bay as it was at Octopus. To give you a comparison that would be like paying the same rate for a Fairmont or Hilton and getting a Best Western instead. I think that the feeling of poor value is what is really getting me as I sit here eating my breakfast of cold cereal and dreaming about the omelette bar at Octopus.....

So I guess the moral of my story is that unlike wine, you should save your best accomodation for last while traveling so that you can really appreciate it – build up to the nicest (rather than the cheap goon) otherwise you inevitably will be disappointed.

It is with some guilt and more than a slight bit of traveler's shame that I, Violet Dear, am heading back to Octopus for my final two island nights rather than pay more money for ferries and resorts that may end up as disappointing as this one. I may even kybosh my last night in Nadi for one more in paradise – a slightly busy, fun loving one, a but a paradise nonetheless.

I may even carry a watermelon.

After a glass of really good wine, of course....

Traditional bures hidden in the palms. See you in 2 years, Fiji.

A Review of "Shantaram"

2009-11-02T03:03:00.000-08:00

V is currently in Fiji and is having difficulty getting a stable internet connection, so she hasn't been able to update her blog and won't be able to for a bit. She's been writing a lot, so as soon as she's got a stable internet connection again there will be a lot of content coming.

For now, here's a review of Shantaram she wrote while we were still in India that's been published by the fine folks at Blunt Force Beating. Here's a snippet:

"Leopold’s Bar is an institution in Mumbai. It opened its doors in 1871 and is still a popular expat and backpacker hangout today, featured in every guide book and travel show made about crazy Bombay – The Maximum City. It hosts a mix of douchebag hippies on their way to party in Goa, young urban professionals here to celebrate merger completions and red nosed Western ex-patriots escaping their demons.

...

It’s one of those books that are always found in backpacker neighbourhoods in Asia – Shantaram is by far the book of choice for India. Every second traveler has a finger wedged in this 900 page monster, in whose pages Leopold’s is mentioned so often that it is practically a main character."

Have a great week everyone.

-s

Excuse Me While I Kiss This Wine - A Day Tour in the Yarra Valley

2009-10-29T02:49:00.001-07:00

It's mine - all mine! Crush it right into ma mouf!

Any evidence I ever needed that I am truly an adult comes from my increasing and voracious interest in wine drinking, err...tasting.... My number one priority for Australia was to get out there and start tasting – seriously tasting – as many of the local wines as I possibly could. Mission Accomplished.

The Yarra Valley is a cool temperate area 1 hour outside of Melbourne that is famous for its wineries and as an ideal location to produce Sparkling Wines of the highest quality – Domaine Chandon (of Moet &, for all you non-high rollers.) I booked myself a full day tour and starting dreaming of all that wine....

**********

See, in our teens my best friend Heppy and I would pool our money and ask an older buddy (a 'boot' in Canadian slang) to procure us a bottle of the worst wine money can buy – a sweet white German monstrosity called Schloss Lauterheim. My seventeen year old palate could not distinguish between the sickly sweet bile taste of the cheap hooch and the magnificent reds my mum was drinking – had the good stuff been cheaper we probably would have drank that instead. It was about getting off our face, nothing more.

The full truth is that Schloss (if you drank too much we called it "Getting Schlossed") mixed well with Sprite and clove cigarettes and we split many a bottle of the gut-rot before I finally had had enough and could stomach no more. "I am finished with wine." I announced, reaching for vodka (a trend for me for many years) "It's gross."

It is with a red-stained mouth that I shake my head in horror at the memory, for now I am a Wino.

That is not to say I drink copious amounts of the stuff (although sometimes....) I now simply love to truly savour and enjoy a beautiful, special glass of wine. I love to learn about the different vintages, oaking processes and grapes, and I have a fascination with meal pairing.

Before the Yarra Valley, I had only been on a wine tasting tour of the Okanagan Valley in BC – my mum, S and I popped by 3 or 4 vineyards 2 summers ago. At that point I definitely loved wine, but knew little about it. S was often entrusted with the selection process in the liquor store or at restaurants – at that point the only thing I knew was that I didn't like Cab Savs.

How things have changed. I now worship at the altar of Zinfandel, adore a spot of Shiraz and a glass of Pinot Noir. I confidently order Malbecs and Pinot Grigios, Bourdeaxs and Valpolicellas....and still don't like Cab Savs.

********

Step One - We will have lots of fun.

Our first stop of the day was at an adorable heritage winery, St Huberts (Aussies pronounce in St Hugh-bitts, but my Canadian brain repels that and insists on St Ooo-bear – the proper, French pronunciation.) It was there that my awesome guide Nick walked us through the steps of basic tasting:

a) hold the glass up to the light and admire the colour
b) swirl it around (holding only by the stem to avoid heating the wine) and 'open it up'
c)first sip, quick and straight down
d) second sip, slosh it around all luxuriously over your teeth, tongue, lips and gums – 'chew the wine'
e) third sip, ignore your pride and slurp it up into your mouth like a little mini-gargle and 'smell the wine from the inside' as the aroma fills your mouth with wonderful boozey fumes. (This one is my favourite.)

I'll take it!

We sampled four wines – a 2008 Sauvignon Blanc that tasted light and green apple-y, a nutty Chardonnay that reminded me of popcorn (I generally do not like Chards – 'Cougar Pop" as my mum calls them) a 2006 Cabernet Merlot (plasticky and too oaky for me) and a great Pinot Noir called The Stag – I liked this one so much I bought a bottle.

Violet Dear: Wino.

Now it was 11am, I was drinking wine on an empty stomach and let's face it – was a little tipsy. We moved on to Rochford. This is an unbelievably gorgeous vineyard that also hosts major concerts in the Spring and Summer – recent acts include Chris Isaak (!) Leonard Cohen (!!) and the B52's (!!!) I am sorry to say I didn't love their wines as much as the other wineries offerings, other than a great Muscato with honey-ish fizz that I could see myself accidentally getting plastered on a hot Summer patio day... I will also say that they have the closest thing to a Cab Sav that I would consider drinking – not too oaky and with a strange-in-a-good way gruyere cheese flavour.

Frankly Rochford didn't need to have the best wines because the lunch that they presented (incredibly included in the tour!) was spectacular – I actually moaned while eating it. A few times. Of the four choices (a kangaroo ragout, a chicken dish, a pumpkin lasagna and a fish) I reliably chose the fish. (Of course I did – have you met me?)

Please, sir - can I have some more?

It was a Red Emperor Fillet served with chat potatoes and a pesto cream sauce – it was firm and wonderfully cooked, and the potatoes were roasted to perfection. I was so expecting a schlocky "included lunch" that the perfectly seasoned and unique dish completely caught me off guard. It was delicious – worth at least 30++ in a Melbourne restaurant. We were served a full glass of our choice of wine – I bucked tradition and chose a full bodied Pinot Noir with my fish – always gotta do things differently!

The next stop was the (in)famous Domaine Chandon – one of only four outside of France (the others are Argentina, Brazil and Napa.) This high end sparkling wine (it cannot be called Champagne because it is not produced in the one eponymous valley)comes in three varieties – a sparkling Shiraz (red champagne-ish! Who knew?) a dry, more traditional white and a golden coloured sweet Cuvee Riche. Nick took us through the entire fascinating process of how sparkling wine is produced (and just how long it frickin' takes!) and then we headed for the tasting.

No sir, I still don't like it....

I learned something valuable that I did not know about myself – it is not purely the cheap Baby Duck sparkling wine that I do not like – I even hate the most expensive. This suspicion has been in my brain for a long time – S's brother likes to sit in the VIP areas of LA clubs and a bottle of Moet or Kristal inevitably gets doled out, but each time I gagged on that I blamed it on the copious amounts of Grey Goose I had imbibed earlier in the evening. This time I sampled all three and they still tasted of bile and wine coolers to me. Call me unedumecated – they make me want to yak.

Cutest bottles ever.

The final stop of the day was my favourite – the small, family owned Yering Farm. There was a real sense of tradition and a respect for doing things differently here – we sampled our delicious wines on the grass of the winery, soaking up all of the spectacular scenery and peering out for kangaroos in the distant fields. By this point in the day we were all tipsy and now friendly with one another and Nick even got behind the counter to do some pourings. A perfect end to a perfect day.

The effervescent Nick pouring out our wine.

I arrived back at Lindsay's house and opened the bottle of The Stag that I had bought at St Hubert's – she and I had been planning on going to a Drag Night in St Kilda but the day caught up with me and instead we relaxed and ate good snacks, talked girlie shit and by gum, we finished that bottle.

No surprise there.....

A Perfect Sunday Supper - A Trip to Lygon Street

2009-10-26T04:26:00.000-07:00

Melbourne's Commercial Drive, without the hippies and d-bags.

Melbourne's Little Italy is legendary – and for good reason. One out of every ten Melbournians was either born in Italy or has Italian parents and the result is a city that takes its food – 'just like'a mama used to make' - incredibly seriously - sometimes a tad too much so.

After an afternoon spent at the Old Melbourne Gaol (that's jail to us North Americans) I strolled up to Lygon Street, the city's main Italian area and home to a plethora of authentic eateries – everything from gelaterias, pastry shops, pizza places, fine dining and coffee houses. It is a huge swath of people eating, whether they are sitting, standing or walking with a cone or latte in hand.

I was baffled by the sheer choice of places to eat – every place was packed and each one looked better than the next. So I did what any traveler would do – I asked a local.
“Excuse me, are you from Melbourne?” I asked the first group of people who walked by. They paused.
“Yes we ahhh.” They all said in unison, their lack of R sounds proving their Australian citizenship.
“If you could only eat at one place here on Lygon Street, which one would you choose?” They all looked around for a moment, as if stunned at the idea of being forced to choose only one. Suddenly one woman's eyes glazed over dreamily.
“DOC – I would eat pizza at DOC.” Everyone else in her party seemed galled that they hadn't thought of it first.
“Of course! DOC! You must try it. It's....”
“....amazing.” another friend finished.

With a recommendation like that, who was I to second guess? I headed straight there.

After over a year looking through phonebook sized- photo menus this is a revelation.

DOC stands for Denominazione D'Origine Controllata, a term given in Italy to products deemed worthy of carrying the name, Italian foods with ethics and authenticity that keep them from turning into breadsticks at Eastside Bloody Mario's, and it is owned by real live Italian speaking Italians (a rarity in Vancouver!) This Pizza and Mozzarella bar (a new trend that will hopefully pop up in my city soon) is set just off of Lygon on Faraday St – and I knew from the moment that I walked in and was seated that this place was different than the kitsch-fest Eye-talian joints lining the main road.

White walls, minimalist deli-nouveau décor, chalkboards covered in scrawling Italian – the emphasis is on the simple food, with no checked table cloths or chianti bottle candle holders in sight. The menu is populated with basic pizzas, anti pasti (including big chunks of hand torn fresh mozzarella) and salads, and the wine list, while small, contains a nice array of Aussie and imported offerings.

Wine and salt - this is what runs through my veins, ladies and gentlemen!

I ordered the most straightforward dish on the menu - the venerable Pizza Margherita. This simpler-than-simple pizza consists of three toppings: tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese and fresh basil leaves. (I elected to pay a bit more and have them add buffalo mozzarella as well – a favourite!) I am not alone in thinking that a pizza joint can be judged on how well they are able to prepare a basic margherita - there is really no room for error in its simplicity. Sometimes the things in life that seem the easiest are actually the most difficult to execute properly. I paired my pizza with a glass of Panorama Shiraz, keeping with the whole “Hey, I'm in Australia” thing I have going....

In my next life I will be an Italian woman. Or Italian dog. Or goat. As long as I get to eat this all the time...

Twenty minutes later the pie arrived – a paean to the art of pizza. Yes – it was simple, but gloriously so – its lack of fancy, jazzy toppings allowing the basic beauty of its chewy, crispy crust and thin, fresh marinara sauce to shine through. The cheese covering the base was lovely but a little bland – but each bite with the buffalo mozzarella was a revelation. The delicate, almost watery nature of buffalo mozzarella seeped onto the pizza and transformed the crust into a creamy soft velvet, mixing with the sauce but never becoming soggy. Nothing overpowered another ingredient- it was me, some milk, some wheat and a tomato and it was perfect. Viva Italia.

See the wonderful watery runniness of it? They way it slips into the sauce? A perfect buffalo mozzarella.

Finishing my wine (using the tasting techniques I learned on my Yarra Valley tasting tour) I headed across the street for some dessert. Did I ever.

Brunetti is a Melbourne institution – a huge Italian patisserie/espresso bar dripping with marble and staffed by uniformed baristas and chic waiters. I decided that pizza wasn't enough – I ordered two, yes two, desserts and a cafe latte. You only live once – might as well clog those arteries and show 'em who's boss! Jerks.

"Less is More." - Most reasonable people.
"More is more." - Violet Dear

The chocolate canolli was a bit disappointing for me – a little greasy tasting with the chocolate filling more closely resembled a really firm cup of pudding rather than a rich creamy mousse. The Granatine, however, was wonderful – just barely sweet, a tad yeasty and filled with the smoothest, lightest zabaglione cream imaginable – I could have eaten 2 more but decided to call it a day so that I can hoist up my jeggings for a little bit longer...

Normally espresso makes me feel like a meth addict, but this one was mild and lovely.

Sitting in Brunetti as I slurped up my hot latte and ate decadent treats, listening to the musical lilt of Italiano surrounding me I really did feel like I was back in Italy. Lygon Street is such a vibrant, tasty neighbourhood – I think every city needs one.

A Little Italy with as many great dining options as Melbourne's Lygon Street is hard to find outside of the old boot, but I will keep trying.... and eating. And eating. And drinking wine..... with zabaglione cream. Now that's amore.

A Foodie Shangri-La - Queen Victoria Market

2009-10-22T06:20:00.000-07:00

Bulgy, rotund happy tasty tomato friends!

Satellite television can be a cruel friend. When S and I lived in Mumbai I would watch the Travel&Living channel and watch with salivation and sick envy the gooey food porno of Nigella, the minimalist comfort dishes of Ina and Giada's fattening glory (which she cannot possibly be eating.) Don't get me wrong - I LOVE Indian food but I can't cook it worth a damn. It was my opinion that while I was in India, why should I cook Indian food? The stuff was practically being given away everywhere I looked.

No, instead of dahl and roti I wanted to cook magnificent pastas, divine salads and olive oil soaked anti pasti. I wanted what they were eating on the Travel&Living Channel.

After getting all worked up and excited for the amazing meal I envisioned myself making in my cold water kitchen (2 burners, no oven = many salads) I would head to the shiny expat grocery store to shop for my ingredients. Once inside I would be confronted with the sad reality as I gazed upon pathetic displays of "Western" foods - a few sickly blocks of cheese, a token bottle of pesto, a handful of soft flavourless olives. The shelves looked full, until you noticed that they were stocked with endless repeats - the seemingly bursting shelves actually only held about 30 different products, all marked up and sold at prices that were shockingly high, but that I paid anyway just to try to taste the intangible flavour of home.

It was often an epic fail, to coin a phrase.... bizarre cobbled-together dishes emerged from my gas Coleman stove-thing and were eaten politely by S. "It's the ingredients," I would moan, "there's no goddamned cheese or non-Indian vegetables, no fresh seafood, no good olive oil. Eff it, let's go get an aloo gobi."After leaving Mumbai, for the next year we had no (or very brief) access to a kitchen.

But now I am in Melbourne and staying with my friend Lindsay - and this time not only is there a kitchen, there is even an oven... but that is not the best part.

The best part is the Queen Victoria Market in downtown Melbourne.

Commence arty sign photo, now!

It is one of the largest markets in the world, the largest in the Southern Hemisphere and is seeped in tradition and history - all reasons that I opted to go on the Foodies Dream Tour organized by the visitors centre. I was in Heaven. Finally, my dreams of cheese, butter, wine and olives all smashed together in some sort of foodgasmic brain overload - thank god I had a guide, or I would have had a seizure.

They had possum and wallaby as well... reminds me of this.

The market was built in 1878, and has stood in its current incarnation since 1929, expanding out the back into long sheds when space in the main building filled up. The interior is an Art Deco dream - the marble counters acted as a natural cooling system before refrigeration and are all original and in the process of being restored.

Yep, they eat Skippy.

We started our tour in the meat hall - though I do not eat meat myself I do like to see steps in the right direction toward sustainable, 'special' meat experiences (rather than the endless unethical parade of factory farmed flesh the Western world is known for.) Wild game meats are a sustainable and healthy alternative to "Sad Cow Disease" (I just made that up. Yes? No?) and Aussies are nuts for their native meats. I almost tried a bite of kangaroo, but then remembered this little fellow. Goddamn my bleeding heart. Oh well, better mine than his....

Shiny happy oysters.

Ah, the seafood section. In both the meat and fish halls are family run butcher shops and fish mongers who have been in this Market since its opening date in 1929 - the quality shows. The air had only the faintest hint of a fishy smell despite the thousands of kilos of shrimp, octopus, clams and swimmy fishes lining the display cases. Just look at these glistening, fresh oysters - who could resist? A dash of lemon, a pinch of salt and slide it down the hatch.

This will be on the flag of Violetistan.

The Produce Hall is one of the loveliest I have ever seen. Heirloom tomatoes sit next to heritage apples and organic broccoli - and every piece is picture perfect. It is the small farmers of the world that are working to prevent a complete mono-culture of the world's seeds and the loss of historically important- and delicious - quirky fruits and vegetables. Support them!

Interesting fact - when the market was just starting to take on its current shape in 1917 the produce sheds were built over top of a huge graveyard - to this day there are over 9000 bodies in unmarked graves beneath the potatoes and melons. Macabre.

The only way to be into mushrooms and not be a giant douche...

At Granville Island, Vancouver's QVM equivalent, there are two long haired hippie dudes who have a booth in the fall: The Mushroom Guys. While they look like they'd be hawking those other kind of mushrooms they only sell strictly legal types while lovingly and passionately expounding on the wondrous properties and uses of chanterelles, morels, lobster and porcini- they are addicted. Since speaking with them at length one day now mushrooms get me excited - I feel like Amanda in Another Roadside Attraction. I can't wait to get home and cook with some pine and black ears as well as the three precious lovelies above!

Note the reflection of the Art Deco windows in the case....

The final wing we toured was the Deli - my favourite of all places. I felt like a kid in a creamy, salty candy store as our guide led us past Italian, Greek, French and Modern Aussie delis each selling wondrous piles of delight. I spent so much money - and I hav never been happier to do so, unless on shoes.

Mr Brando, I don't appreciate that suggestion.

Artesanal butters were really something I started getting into before leaving for Asia - a thin slice on a piece of bread can rival the complexity and flavour of a fine cheese. Some of the vendors in the Market fly their butter in from France (!) but these guys make it fresh using Aussie milk. If you usually eat the gold foil wrapped block from the grocery store or - gasp - margarine you simply need to haul ass down to the farmer's market and get your wee hands on some real butter. It makes all the difference in the world (and yes, to the ole' waistband, so moderati....oh whatever. I love butter more than skinny jeans...)

Stay tuned in the Winter for my new Cheese Blog, written by Mr Williams and I!

What else can I say? This is an amazing selection of cheese. I think I just had a stroke.

Yes, wine man, I will marry that Zin, I mean you.....

To finish off the excellent tour, what is a little taste of wine at 11:30am? This lovely shop sells local wines, ciders and microbrew beers. My suggestion? Walk home with the bags - that way you can pre-emptively work off the calories from the orgy of food and booze sure to follow after a visit to the Market.

Not the best lighting, but I hope you can clearly see how lurvely it was, despite the separated sauce :(

That evening I returned to Lindsay's flat, arms laden with bags and bags of goodies and ready to prepare a meal using only ingredients from the Market.

The Menu:
Seared Salmon fillet with a Blood Orange and Sauvignon Blanc vinaigrette (it separated at the last mo, but was still yummy!)
Roasted Asparagus
Crispy New Potatoes with Lemon and Chili
Tomato, Rocket and Boconcini Salad topped with basil, shallots and walnuts

So while yes, I love and miss India, there ain't no one more happy to see Queen Victoria Market than me. The tour was great and the supper- well, that was wonderful, if I do say so myself.

And I do!

Next time I'm making a boconcini sald with boconcini and a boconcini dressing.

Taronga, I Love Ya - A Day At The Sydney Zoo.

2009-10-20T04:29:00.000-07:00

Walla-what? Wallaby! This tiny kangaroo species is adorable. Look at him. My god.

I know I keep harping on about my stolen camera, but if there was ever a day that I wish I had my old huge zoom Canon it was on Monday- the day I visited the Taronga Zoo in Sydney. Never have I been in a place with so many amazing photo opportunities!

Normally I either avoid zoos or downright abhor them - sad, mistreated animals pacing around behind bars like they've lost their minds so that selfish people can tap the bars and snap flash photos - but Sydney's magnificent Taronga is not like that at all. The animals live in huge enclosures that simulate their natural habitats and are subject to some of the world's most successful breeding programs, a sign that they are calm, happy and well taken care of.

The zoo's acres of dazzling Sydney Harbour views are filled with animals from around the world, but I was most interested in the weirdo Aussie creatures: bilbies, wallabies, platypuses, kangaroos, echidnas, kookaburras, emus, chazzwazzers and many, many more... I remember my grandfather and I reading and re-reading the Worldbook Encyclopedia "Childcraft" books and I was utterly fascinated by all of the strange Chysalid-animals found in the land of Oz. This was my chance to see them up close.

It was sheer luck that the Taronga Zoo offers an amazing advantage to foreign tourists - for a mere 3 dollars (the price of a bottle of water - yes, you heard me - in Australia) - a guided tour of the "Wild Australia" section of the park. I had an extremely knowledgeable and friendly volunteer t myself as she showed me the ins and outs of her country's domestic marsupials and birds.

If you'll be my bodyguard/I can be your long lost pal/ I can call you Betty/And Betty when you call me/ You can call me Al

The first stop? The Koala Bear, of course. Along with the infamous kangaroo this guy is the most famous of all Aussie creatures - other than the drunken Bodhi surfers in Bali. I know they're not bears, and I know you're not supposed to cuddle 'em, but when I saw this eucalyptus-stoned little snugglepants I instantly wanted to throw caution to the wind and snatch him up. Thank god I was in a zoo, otherwise the facial scars could have been disfiguring. Hell, I want one as my personal guard dog - I'll just entice attackers, muggers, stalkers and rapists to hug him (who could resist?) and WHAM! Koala Attack!

Platypus Rock Sculpture - My favourite Aussie animal!

Has there ever been such a strange, mindblowing and completely bizarre animal as the Duck Billed Platypus? They are one of the two egg-laying mammals on the entire planet (along with the echidna, a porcupine/hedgehog lookin' thing) and they also happen to be freakin' adorable. My guide and I popped into their habitat twice with no luck - these guys can be elusive and shy and they often hide from vistor's sight. Determined to see one, I hoofed it back when I was leaving and... success! It was dark in their home and so my photos are all streaky and blurred, but I assure you that it was awesome. They are much smaller than I thought - the size of a flat pug, and that weird ducky beak is a sight to behold. Did I mention they have a poisonous claw on each hand? Platypus WIN.

This bird dresses kind of like my Great-Auntie Dilly...

What the hell? Oh, it's an emu? Carry on.

Something has gone, like, Pet Semetary "It came back wrong" here..... Where is Gage? Oh for the love of god where is GAGE!

Wait, I let you get away with the last one, but what the eff is this thing? Well, my guide informed me that it is a cassowary, a large flightless rainforest bird that is similar size and shape to an emu or ostrich but is a lot more cranky and violent - hence the electric fence. But just look at his colour! And his magnificent creepy feet! They are known for being kicky birds.
Australia freaks me out.

Best. Kangaroo. Photo. Ever.

This lady is just chillin' out and sunning herself like a giant golden retriever. Seeing kangaroos in the flesh made me feel like I was in some hallucinogenic "Who Framed Roger Rabbit" sort of world where things are slightly wrong and it makes your brain hurt. They are so common and so mundane in Aus that having them here in the zoo is purely for us tourists - the equivalent of having raccoons on display in North America. They remind me of a donkey/dog/deer cross - and yes, they do hop and sometimes balance on their huge leg-like tails. I've seen it, but it still makes no sense at all to me.

Along with these hopping beauts my guide took me through the nocturnal display, of which I have no photos due to the nighttime lighting. All manner of weird marsupials are contained within - possums, bilbies, wombats and bandicoots - even the elusive Tasmanian Devil. The whole pouch thing still freaks me out - the babies are born the size of jellybeans and somehow hoist their way blindly into the pouch where the mummy begins to take care of them and they mature for another six months (or less, depending on the species) before actually being "born." Is that gross or magical? I can't even decide....

OMFG. Wallaby. It was soft like a cat! And not one of those janky cats, a nice one!

We made our final stop to see my favourite of the marsupials - the Wallaby. A tiny, friendlier version of the kangaroo - how could that not be amazing? Taronga is unique in a lot of ways - in the kangaroo and wallaby enclosures there are no fences (as the animals are tame and have been mostly hand-reared due to being orphaned) and so if one ventures onto the path you are permitted to pet it. It was my lucky of luckiest days - this was one of the most special moments of my life, right up there with petting this baby elephant.

You can just see the white shells of the Opera House peeking out behind him....

At this point I bid my guide farewell and thanked her profusely for educating me on all of the weird, wacky and wonderful Aussie creatures. I couldn't resist a peek at my favourite of the African species - the Giraffe, another of nature's bizarre R. Crumb LSD animals. Similarly, I also visited the pygmy hippo, but one woman shouting "Thass not verry big, innit?" in a thick British accent and claiming that this hippo was "crap" kind of ruined the experience for me.....

Probably the most entertainment you can have on this side of the law.

It struck me as I spent a full thirty minutes staring with glee at the Meerkats that I have never talked about my cats here on the blog, and I can't imagine why I haven't - I guess they just haven't come up.... I have two cats, Kevin and Trixie, and Trixie (who S calls Tracksuit, or Trackasoo in a Japanese accent) looks EXACTLY like a meerkat, but black and white. She even stands on the edge of the couch and looks around just like one. I love her (and Kevin) more than anything, but if I could trade them in for meerkats I would do it in a second. In a second.

You'd do it too.

Oh, who could resist? I was so enthralled by this gag that I can't remember anything about these sweet little foxes, other than the fact that a) they are cute b) they have big ears and c) they are foxes.

Whee! Little penguins!

The otters, seals and penguins were my final stop. Is it super ignorant to admit that until my visit to Taronga Zoo I had no idea that there were penguins in Australia? Well, there are. And they are little. And they are called "Little Australian Penguins" - that is their actual name. So, screw you Antarctica! I didn't wanna visit you anyway....

It was a wonderful day at the zoo, completely worth the admission fee (50 AUD including ferry.) I learned an awful lot about Aussie animals and birds (I've got my eye on you, cassowary) and enjoyed soaking up the rays in the wonderfully scenic location. While some (hell, most) zoos are unethical and poorly run, Taronga is an exemplary park for big and little kids alike.

Now I just have to find those old Childcraft Encyclopedias and see how it compares....

Up close - Human. Background - Chimp. No sir, not enough evidence for me. Creationism all the way!

Meanwhile, in Sydney....

2009-10-16T04:39:00.000-07:00

If there was ever a time I wish my good camera hadn't gotten stolen...

I had barely been in Melbourne for 24 hours when I took off for Sydney for a four day weekend trip. Though I was jetlagged, tired and confused Lindsay and I decided to get the really touristy tourist stuff out of the way (man, life is a chore- an absolute chore) and so we headed off from our hostel in King's Cross (more on this neighbourhood in a future blog) to walk the city.

Walking around a bend in the harbour and being smacked in the face with the huge spectre of the famed opera house and the gigantic Sydney Harbour Bridge was one of the most surreal moments of my life. Few architectural wonders are so stunning, so fabled - I had only felt this way a few times before - when seeing the huge towers of Angkor Wat, the behemoth Colleseum in Rome and the Eiffel Tower. I was giddy......

Beauty and the Dork. You decide who is who.... (PS - I am the Dork)

.....as evidenced by the hundred photos that I took from all angles.

Oh Sydney, your walk of fame includes Germaine Greer and for that I am so impressed...

From the Opera House we followed the boardwalk (exactly like the Seawall in Vancouver) until we accidentally ran into the middle of The Rocks. Lindsay kept thinking that I actually wanted to visit some stone structures when I kept squawking about The Rocks.... really it's just the name of the historic district in Sydney. It was here in the 1830's that Australia as we know it today took shape and transformed from a penal colony to a modern society. At the expense of the Aborigines, of course....

Old meets new #1 - murals dot the area showing The Rocks in 1901.

We spent some time in the wonderful (and free) Rocks Museum and the gentleman on duty whipped out a map and regaled us with historical anecdotes and jokes and painstakingly marked each pointg of interest. About 3 minutes later we left the map on a coffee shop counter and watched in horror as it was swept into the soppy wet garbage. Thankfully, we were still able to remember what he had told us - kind of.

Old Meets New ##2 - 19th century row houses and skyscrapers.

The Rocks became a hotbed of seedy port-town activity and when 3 people died from the Plague in 1901 the conservative government (now moved to a posh suburb) declared it unsafe and razed it to the ground. Jerks. Thankfully there is still enough left to make for a cool few hours walk.

A boat crosses the shadow of the bridge.

From The Rocks we crossed the monolithic Sydney Harbour Bridge, dubbed the coathanger by the locals. It was built in the 1930's and is just gigantic. I had my heart set on doing the Bridge Climb - you are harnessed in and actually traverse the huge arcs of the structure, up to the summit and back down- until I found out that it was 169 dollars. We walked instead across the normal way instead....

Oh you pretty thing...

From the centre of the bridge we couldn't resist snapping more shots of the Opera House - it is ridiculously pretty from any angle. Though its critics have called it "a typewriter full of scallop shells" it is almost universally adored. Despite the controversy surrounding its completion it was made a UNESCO site in 2007 and is considered the most iconic building of the 20th century. So yeah, you bet your sweet ass I took a lot of photos.

The best gate ever. St Peter guards a piece of crap compared....

Across the bridge I insisted we stroll the boardwalk of Luna Park, Sydney's retro theme park. It is a mix of Coney Island (before they went and executed that elephant...*adjusts collar* RIP Topsy) Australiana and retro 50's kitsch. I loved it.

Dear California Adventure, you suck. Love, Violet Dear.

How amazing is this? The Sydney Harbour Bridge, an old timey ferris wheel and all of the 'fairy floss' that you can eat. It is actually kind of embarrassing how many things in Luna Park I took photos of. But the midway was so much better than the usual toothless prison-tattooed carny operated scam fest we have at home, I couldn't resist.

More than a little bit terrifying.

Do I even have to say anything?

This game is much cheaper than the others.

I could have stayed in Luna Park all day - they even serve wine (how very Australian of them) but we were tired and hungry....

Back in the land of good beer.

...but not too tired and hungry to resist a drink with this view. Sydney, you big beautiful lady!

Our perfect day concluded with an hour around Sydney's big sexy harbour - the largest inner city harbour in the world and certainly the most beautiful. We managed to time out trip to take in the sunset and it only cost 5 bucks. I don't need no fancy yacht!

All in all - a great day- and I am about to start another! Let's see what we get up to.... I'll let you know.

Me and this guy love Sydney.

Stuff I Like - October

2009-10-14T22:20:00.000-07:00

Holy %#@%ing crap! It's Melbourne! (These guys are in the CBD)

1) Melbourne
Last night I landed in Australia after a grueling 8 hours trapped in a cylinder with people incapable of parenting their children. I must admit, although I am sad - even kind of gutted - about leaving Asia, arriving in the calm and clean oasis of Melbourne is nice. I wasn't expecting the sub Arctic (well, 11 degrees C) temperatures but the fresh rainy air reminds me of home and I ate the best veggie burger ever - so I am feeling happy. Today my friend Lindsay (whom I am staying with) showed me the CBD (which, I am informed, is never called 'downtown') and we bummed around her place in St Kilda. Tomorrow? Sydney for four days. Any suggestions on things I should do?

Heres is a link to the original poster for the film - hilariously inappropriate. Did the ad men watch the movie? This movie?

2) Harold and Maude
I half-assedly watched Harold and Maude when I was about 14 – it came on Bravo or somesuch channel and I think I was on the phone for most of it. I went the last half of my life claiming to have seen it, thinking I had seen it – but when I watched it on my flight from Kuala Lumpur and Melbourne (on my laptop peeps, Air Asia has not gotten into cult classics or anything) I realized that I hadn't. I have been missing out All. These. Years. It is the ultimate Violet Dear film – featuring the strangely eccentric rich ( I do love my Grey Gardens), a skinny weird boy (meet S, ladies and gentlemen) and macabre scenes of faux violence (I've never met a zombie film I didn't like). Plus, Ruth Gordon's Maude reminds me of my wacky Grandma – and even looks a wee bit like her.

I can't help but think that perhaps if I had been paying more attention so long ago my current crush on Bud Cort (at the age he was when playing Harold) would be more age appropriate. But then again, I hear he likes older women....

I bit blurry, but you get the picture. Ha! Pun!

3)Shoes
So I like shoes, right? I bought two pairs in Manila and I love both. Yay! Yay Shoes!

4)Louis CK
Because his standup has finally made me feel okay with and hell, even proud of my lifelong hobby of choosing someone who is standing in a line with me and thinking of irrational reasons to hate them, y'know, just to pass the time.

5)Travel Cutlery
Some people need carabiners to secure their mountain climbing gear or for other similarly strenuous athletic endeavors. Not me! The only one I own holds all m' forks and spoons together. It's quite fitting really – I have specific travel accessories that ensure that no matter where, no matter when – I'm good to eat. Need something sliced? Have you been presented with soup? Got some pasta to twirl? I'm at the ready, like some gluttonous version of James Bond or Inspector Gadget.…..because while you are trekking up Everest or repelling down a cliff face somewhere I'll be in the cafeteria eating my fucking face off. Priorities, people.

....And 1, 2, 3 - collective "awwwwww!"

6) S, my amazing partner
When I woke up yesterday morning in my room at the Tune hotel next to the LCCT terminal in Kuala Lumpur I leisurely stretched out on the big comfy bed, checked the fast and affordable wifi and then had a hot shower with the best pressure in all of Asia. Oh wait, this isn't about my love for Tune hotels? It's about S? Oh, right..... After having the lovely shower and then blowing my hair straight with the amazing hair dryer (sorry, I'm getting there) I rummaged around in my bag and found a tiny memento that S had slipped into my backpack in Manila without me noticing. We bought some similar ones as gifts in Ubud - that means that he has been toting these around for over 2 months. Swoon. It makes me even sadder that I won't see him for a month...

Goodbye Asia - and Thank You.

2009-10-13T11:07:00.000-07:00

Our very first day on this trip, over one year ago - jetlagged and haggard in Bangkok.

It seems strange but fitting that here I am spending my last night in Asia eating some slightly soft gouda cheese and watching The 400 Blows, two very decidedly Un-Asia things to be doing as I try to ease myself back into the West. I am on a Cebu Pacific flight from Manila to Kuala Lumpur where I will spend the night before flying to Melbourne tomorrow afternoon, and as the gouda hits the bitter umami area of my tongue and the film mesmerizes me as Truffaut always does I am numb. It doesn't feel real.

I landed in Bangkok on October 4^th 2008 with a stick (that I did not know was there) firmly up my caboose, 25 extra pounds of doughy flab around my midsection and a brain full of stress and trivial matters. After a year of backpacking and living in Asia I have none of those things.

What I do have is a changed life.

I go back to the West with memories and experiences that no one can ever take away from me. I snorkeled in the Maldives and trekked in Nepal. I karaoked in Vietnam, climbed ancient ruins in Cambodia and gave alms to monks in Laos. I volunteered with animals in Thailand and slept at a monastery in Burma. I ate my face off in Singapore and Hong Kong and saw a real live Orang Utan in Malaysia. I survived two typhoons in Philippines, heard the haunting call to prayer in Brunei and lazed on an idyllic tropical island in Indonesia. I freakin' lived in India, for Shiva's sake. How could all of these things not change a person?

I was scared, ecstatic, sad, empathetic, apathetic, overjoyed, hot, frustrated and excited. I rode in contraptions and vehicles that make a simple Thai tuk-tuk look like a limo, I ate things that should have made me sick and once I did get sick, like dysentery sick - from Israeli food in Goa. I walked around in a daze after landing in the topsy turvy land of Delhi and then walked around in a daze 6 months later in the shiny meccas of consumerism dotted around Bangkok's Siam Square. All manner of noises - LOUD chatty Karnatakans, confused roosters, a mosque's loudspeakers, fornicating geckos and pigs being slaughtered to name a few – have kept me awake. I slept on bug and mice infested trains, used toilets that would make a Calcutta beggar wince and politely endured the endless barrage of questions from people very curious about me and S. (No, for the record, this is not my natural haircolour and no, I do not bleach my skin.)

We donated money to roof a monastery in Thailand, by putting our names on one tile we ensured that we would be together in Thai afterlife.

I cried over sick dogs (and discovered a trick in poor countries with no pet food: crack some eggs on the sidewalk for them). I cried over begging children and yet refused to condone the act by giving money, in principle at least – I broke down more than a few times. I cried great hitching sobs of fear when S was in Mumbai for the terrorist attacks and I was trapped in the North. I cried over unjust governments oppressing their people – the Tibetan population in India and the sweet people of Burma. I cried for personal reasons too – this year we lost S's beloved Grandma (she was 98 years old and fought til the end) and my best friend's brother – there were many, many tears when I went home for the funeral. Sometimes there still are.

But I laughed too – man, did I laugh. I laughed when my Mum got gored (only a little) by an angry bull in Rishikesh, when S got the worst haircut ever (no, I am not kidding) in Mumbai and when Gia sold me that amazing anklet. I howled at the Moustache Brothers in Mandalay, at the unintentionally hilarious Engrish posted everywhere and at the epic 1970's Ramayana on Indian TV. I laughed at myself a lot, at S even more and loads and loads when Bran, Willie and Alexis all visited.

I learned. I learned to relax and give up and let it go. Asia taught me patience, to be laid back and that a smile is the most important weapon you can brandish to win favour and friends. I learned how to make a momo, how to best eat a whole fish with just chopsticks and how to take apart an entire crab without a cracker, using just my fingers and teeth. I learned that most people can be trusted and that your gut will tell you who cannot, and most importantly I learned how to say “Thank You” in 10 new languages. I used that a lot.

It's crazy – Asia is life in real time. Colours are more vibrant here, flavours more piquant and fresh, noises are louder and everything is so in the moment that even the most cautious person turns fatalistic – and I can't believe that it is over! This wasn't my first time to Asia, and I will come back again and again, but will it feel the same? Will there be that same sense of freedom and adventure and let's face it, awe and pride in myself for taking a year to travel and fulfilling my dreams? Will I throw caution to the wind and just dive in and live, really live life so freely? I really hope so.

************

S has left Manila on a different flight – he is headed to LA to work and after I visit Australia and Fiji I will join him there. He is bidding goodbye not only to Asia but to this amazing year of travel. While I know he is ready for home and a break he too had tears in his eyes as we reminisced about it all.

I keep thinking about that first night when we landed in Bangkok. I looked at him over our first Chang beers and asked “What do you think we'll feel a year from now when we are going home?” Neither of us could fathom it – it seemed so far, so abstract in nature. He shrugged.

“Only time will tell, I guess.”

It has. It's said a lot.

From Thailand to the Philippines: the most recent photo of us, taken in Vigan.