1. The bum who told me to tie my shoelaces, New York City

New York City is a place where people sing loudly as they descend the stairs to the Subway, and yell things like “hey mister watch where you’re going!” when you cross the road. All things that, were they to happen in Sydney, you might safely conclude the person was crazy or on drugs. (Who knows, maybe everybody is crazy and on drugs in New York..)

As a teenager travelling with my parents, we were walking in the Subway when a homeless guy suddenly yelled at me, “Hey buddy, tie your shoelaces! You don’t wanna trip and fall do ya?” It was the first interaction I ever had with a homeless person that didn’t involve a request for spare change, and I thus remember it to this day.

Continuing along the same lines, the USA is the only place where I’ve sat in a park (in Portland, Oregon when I lived there), feeling glum and lonely and depressed, and had a homeless man walk up to me in his rags and say “Don’t worry man. Everything’s gonna work out.” That about blew my mind, and kinda put things in perspective.

2. The guy with the guns at my work, Portland Oregon

In Portland, I worked for a solar company. You might think that people that work for a solar company might lean slightly to the left on most issues. But I never caused such an office brouhaha as the day I brought up the issue of gun control at work. Half the office argued for better controls, while the other half wanted to wring my neck for even suggesting it. My cubicle neighbour, who we’ll call Chuck, was really a generally decent guy and very entertaining. But loved his guns and was full of criticisms of President Obama for wanting to restrict firearm ownership and usage. He told me he’d built a turret in his house at home, in order to “protect his family”.

Now, when I went to do my Oregon driving test, I read the test manual and was amused to see the sentence “No firearms are permitted in the car during the test.” How funny, I thought, that’s something you wouldn’t see on an Australian test manual. Then I went to the DMV and after waiting for ages they told me I couldn’t do the test as I was in my rental car. (This was not mentioned anywhere in their written information, nor that of the rental company, however- very frustrating.)

I rebooked the test, and borrowed one of the secretary’s cars from work, but as I was driving out of the parking lot at work, boom, her car broke down.

Stressing about missing a second test, I was forced at the last minute to borrow Chuck’s car. This time, I was backing out of the park when I noticed some rags in the door pocket. Looking underneath, I found two pistols and a load of bullets rolling around! I went back inside the office and dragged Chuck out, telling him about the DMV’s rules. “Don’t worry”, he said, packing four or five rifles into the back of the car and covering them with a towel. “Just don’t let the examiner look under the towel.”
“What if the guns go off during my test?” I asked.
“Gee relax!” he said, “None of them are loaded! You Aussies are so up-tight!”

3. My driving test officer, Portland Oregon

Ok, so I’m doing my driving test, and it’s going pretty good, and then at some point the examiner scowls as I execute a three point turn. But then I realised that he wasn’t scowling at me, he was scowling at the bums on the sidewalk.
“Lotta homeless people in Oregon, huh?” he says. “Obama wants to give `em all a handout.”
I was silent.
“I don’t think people in this country really know what socialism is all about,” he continued.
Oh god. Did he really say that? Isn’t this just a driving test? If I argue, maybe I don’t get my licence. So I stay silent.
“Anyway,” he says, probably sensing I’m not keen on his politics. “I’m not supposed to have an opinion. Let’s head back. You passed.”

4. Strange guy in Darth Vader outfit, Portland Oregon

Ok, so quite a few of these are in Portland. But it kinda makes sense when you understand that’s where I’ve spent the most time. As well as that, there is a mantra in Portland that dictates, “Keep Portland Weird”. From what I can make out, Portland is loved for being weird. This weirdness is not always a good thing, in my opinion. The place is full of meth-heads and wannabe hipsters scowling at you behind moustaches and knitted scarves. Nonetheless, the city also has a lot of good-weird, like flying machine contests on the river and nude people riding unicycles.

The strangest thing I think I ever saw in Portland was a couple I walked past in a city park. The girl was kinda hipster-rockabilly which was fine, ok bit affected, whatever, but the guy she was talking to was head to toe in black and had something over his head that I can only describe as a Darth Vader mask- an actual Darth Vader mask. And he was speaking in an electronic robot voice. WTF?

5. The bike rider that tried to run me over in New Orleans

So I was in New Orleans recently and walking along the banks of the Mississippi, day-dreaming whilst admiring the mighty river. On the path ahead of me, a bike rider began heading in my direction. I turned slightly to the left to avoid him, but he turned slightly left also. I halted and stepped much more to the left, and he turned much more to the left. At the last moment, I had to jump right off the path to avoid being run down by him. Then it dawned on me that this had been no accident. He was probably disappointed that he missed me.

Pissed off, I turned around to look at him, and he’d also stopped to look at me, all wild hair and cretinous eyes. When he saw me face him, he took off quickly on his bike, making him cowardly as well as creepy.

6. The friendly police officer from the Bronx who moved to North Carolina

I was in Wilmington, North Carolina and I was with my American friend Jesse. We were amped to drop into Harris Teeter (a supermarket) and pick up a hoagie (a sandwich). I was about to embark the following day on a roadtrip from Wilmington to Atlanta, Georgia, so we were driving a nice Lexus that I’d rented for the trip.

The car was a column shift auto. I was not used to the column shift. We were exiting the parking lot, which was on a hill, when a massive pickup truck in front of me started rolling back. I went to grab reverse but because I wasn’t used to the column shift I kind of airswung. Our blood curdling screams did not help us and the truck smashed rear first into our car, destroying the bumper.

“Dude- why did you not reverse?!” Jesse yelled in disbelief.

I was in the process of defending my skills with the gear lever when out of the truck jumped a 16 year old kid with tears in his eyes.
“Oh man, I am so sorry,” said the kid. “My Dad’s going to kill me.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” I tried to reassure him. “Accidents happen.” His Dad rocked up and was nice as pie, as most people in North Carolina are.

And then the fuzz arrived.

The cruiser careened into the parking lot with lights flashing and screeched to a halt, and out jumped a rotund African-American female cop with handcuffs swinging from her waist.
“ALRIGHT!” she yelled. “AAAAAALLL Y’ALL ARE GOIN’ TO JAIL!”
The kid started crying again, and I admit I was slightly stunned. I’d heard stories about American cops, but going to jail just cos my car got smashed up? That was unexpected.
“Relax relax!” said the cop with a jolly grin. “I’m just messin’ wit’ y’all!”

The kid was still pretty upset. “Don’t worry sweetie,” she told him. “Daddy ain’t gonna mess wit’ you while I’m around. I see this stuff all the time. People goin’ round havin’ accidents all the time. It ain’t no thang, sweetie. Daddy ain’t gonna mess wit’ you.” Given that he seemed like the most understanding Dad in the world, I really didn’t think Daddy was gonna mess with him either.

We spent the next half an hour listening to black-cop/white-cop stories.
“They always partner me with a white cop,” she was saying. “We pull over a bunch of white guys, he gets out the car first. We pull over a car-load of brothers, I get out first. But brothers be thinkin’ I’m gonna get them off.”

She began describing a car chase during which drugs were thrown out of windows of the car being chased. “Brother be askin’ me to get him off the hook. ‘You gotta get me off,’ he says. ‘Now how’m I gonna git you off brother?’ I says. ‘You throwin’ crack out the window. You busted with CRACK brother. How the hell you think I’m gonna be able to git you off?’ How he think I can git him off?”

“You wouldn’t be able to get him off… cos he’s like, throwin’ crack and stuff,” I agreed.

“I love North Carolina. I’m from the Bronx,” she told me with hands on hips. “Ain’t nobody messes with me down here. Just lovely people. You been to the Bronx? In the Bronx they ain’t throwin’ crack out the window, they throwin’ dead bodies out the window. I love North Carolina. Don’t have to deal with no more dead bodies. Just nice North Carolineans and nice Australians. You need a police report for your car baby?”

7. Strange Guy at the Gas Station, somewhere in Georgia

Anyway, so I drove to Atlanta, and was on my way back to North Carolina when I had to stop for gas on the highway. As I was standing next to the pump, an old man approached.

“Are you plannin’ to set afire to North Carolina?” he asked me in a slow southern drawl, his eyes all hell-and-brimstone, his three teeth glinting in the afternoon sun.
“Err….. no … er .. what?” I replied, not quite knowing how to answer. Was this a trick question?
“Oh- I just saw your licence plate.”
“Right. I see!” I laughed nervously, really not seeing at all.

The man walked away and sat on the kerb next to the shop. Pumpy pump pump. I willed the gas to pump faster. The numbers on the pump ticked over, slowly.. slowly. Oh, no… here he comes again.

“You couldn’t give an old man a ride to North Carolina, could yer?”

“Oh. Oh sorry,” I scrambled to make up an excuse, “I’m actually heading to New York!”

8. Neat Taxi Driver in Memphis, Tennessee

After risking life and limb by walking unintentionally through a dodgy neighbourhood to Sun Studios in Memphis, only to be refused entry, the afternoon was saved by the taxi driver who drove me back into town.

Waiting outside in the broken neighbourhood, I enter the backseat of the most palatial and spotless cab I have ever seen in my life. Everything smells like leather conditioner, the carpets are plush and freshly vacuumed, the dash looks like it has just been detailed. “Dude,” I say, “this is a nice cab.”
“Thankyou,” says the well-groomed, well-dressed, and impeccably polite young African-American driver in a deep voice. “It’s nice of you to say so. I would be insulting my passengers, and it would be an insult to me, if I offered any different.”

9. Greyhound ride between Memphis and Nashville, Tennessee

With no train line betwixt Memphis and Nashville, I was forced to take the Greyhound. Taking the Greyhound in the US South is not the most pleasant experience- even the bus station was full of people I avoided making eye contact with. I stared at my feet for 45 minutes, until mercifully, my departure was called.

The bus ride itself was little better. I am convinced the majority of characters on that bus wanted me dead, so I naturally gravitated toward the others who seemed merely to want me maimed.

One lass boarding the bus struck me as almost normal, and she sat next to me, hopefully because I also come across similarly passable. It turned out she was Australian. Typical! (She was from Penrith though.)

10. My Friend Chelsea in Delaware

While I was undergoing my US college experience at the University of Delaware, I met a cool black girl called Chelsea. Chelsea liked white guys and I liked black girls, so we agreed we could probably match-make for each other- though we didn’t hook up because we became good friends.

Chelsea used to take me out to black clubs where they played the most outrageous music. I remember one of the songs repeated the refrain from a female singer “put it in my mouth, put it in my mouth,” while another was like “Don’t want no short dick man, no, no, no, no, don’t want no short dick man”. In the “no, no, no” bits all of the girls on the dancefloor would waggle their fingers as if telling a guy “no”. During all of these ridiculous songs Chelsea and I would grind on the dancefloor, the skinny-ass white guy and the big-booty black girl drawing a fair bit of attention from the rest of the crowd.

I lost touch with Chelsea when I left Delaware, so Chelsea if you are reading this, get in touch!

11. Security Guard who Threw a Chair at My Head in a Delaware Pub

There was a pub near the University of Delaware called Deer Park. My roommates and I were having a beer at Deer Park one night, when out of the corner of my eye I suddenly noticed a barstool where it should not be. That is, at eye level about to hit me in the head.

Even more strangely, in that same split second, I realised that the chair was being thrown by one of the security guards who worked at the pub. Somehow, thanks to the reflexes of my drinking buddies and other people around me, who managed to catch the chair mid-air, it ended up only barely brushing my shoulder. But almost immediately thereafter I was stuck in the middle of a gigantic ruckus of people who were trying to break up a fight between the security guard and some other random guy at the pub.

I have no idea what this random guy had said or done to have justified such a crazy-ass response from a supposed professional. But the chair had been meant for his head, not mine, and it was the most intense and furious fight that I have ever seen in a bar. The two were locked in a death grapple that lasted more than 5 minutes, before every single other security guard on duty (about 6 big guys) and several other patrons were finally, finally able to pry the two guys apart and calm the situation.

12. The TSA Guy who asked me why I had nitroglycerine on my cell phone

Its not hard to have a rough time with TSA officials- my cousin was just detained for a day on entry to the US, and then deported, because she accidentally stayed a half-day more than her visa allowed on her previous trip. I’ve had two TSA episodes. Once, I was detained because my boarding pass scanned up with a different name than was printed on it (my name). Another time, I was accused of having nitroglycerine on my mobile phone.

“You’ve been flagged as a potential security risk by the airline,” said the TSA official as I passed through security. “You need to follow me please.” And he led me reluctantly to that door that you never want to go to in an airport. It’s a door for bad men.

Inside, I was frisked vigorously and my bags searched. They took swabs of my gear and passed it through a machine to check for explosives.
“What did you say you did for work?” asked the official.
“I’m a solar cell researcher.”
The man frowned. “Do you do any kind of work with explosives?” he asked.
“Explosives? No.”
“Then why is there nitroglycerine on your cellphone?”

I was dumbfounded. This was even more unexpected than my Pachinko jackpot in Japan. In an incredulous instant, I wondered what else they did in that lab in Delaware apart from make solar cells. Was it possible that someone had explosive chemicals in the lab that had somehow got onto my phone? No, that’s ridiculous. Besides, I’d never put my phone anywhere in a solar cell lab other than my pocket, because there could be acids or residue laying about. But definitely not of the explosive variety.

“Your machine must be broken,” I said nervously. “There’s no way there could be nitroglycerine on my cellphone.”

The guy eyed me like a skeptic. “Take a seat,” he motioned. There was a row of seats reserved for bad men. I was in for it, I thought. They’re going to arrest me.

45 minutes later, the official still hadn’t returned. There was only 30 minutes to go until my flight, so I asked a younger guy that was also there: “Excuse me, my flight is leaving in 30 minutes. Do you know when your supervisor will be returning?”
“Oh,” said the younger guy. “You’re free to go.”

Um- what? I didn’t stick around to argue, and 30 minutes later I was in the air over the Pacific, still reeling from this strange farewell from the USA.

Ah, America- land of the free, home of the brave, bosom of the curiously odd.

Been to the US? Perhaps you are even- gasp!- American yourself. I’d love to hear any funny stories you might have in the comments below. 

The post 12 Unusual Encounters with Weird and Wonderful Americans appeared first on Confiscated Toothpaste.

In New Orleans, 5 days earlier, I watch a road-crew digging up the street, and notice the water table right under the road-surface. A pump powered by a diesel generator sucks out water and blasts it to the kerbside, allowing the men to focus on whatever it is they are digging up. Meanwhile, on Rue Bourbon and surrounding streets in the French Quarter, the sidewalks are being forever hosed down. Whether it be spilt drinks or squashed food or the bodily fluids of drunks, the overriding wisdom is to quickly flush it back to the body of water the town is built upon. I step around great muddy puddles as I negotiate the cracked pavements and pot-holed streets.

New Orleans is a town that is muddy and wet and mysterious and exciting. In summer, the nights are hot and humid, and the air feels as though it may at any minute explode into a ferocious thunderstorm. The food is like nothing I have ever tasted before. Throughout the week I wolf down meals of gumbo, jambalaya, blackened catfish, and po-boy shrimp sandwiches. They are all much acquired tastes- all interesting, but all as though mixed with mouthfuls of saltwater and mud, products of their environment.

In much the same vein, the city abounds with curious, colourful and shifty characters, the inhabitants themselves as though they are products of the swamplands that surround them, bunyips emerging from the bayous to prowl the narrow streets, plying their beads or bars or big-ass beers to wary travellers.

The taxi-drivers in particularly are surly and sinister, and liable to scam you out of every last dime in your pocket, scowling as you request for the meter to be turned on, while a sign in every cab warns passengers that killing of a taxi-driver in Lousiana carries the death penalty. The news reports are awash with stories of escaped prison detainees. One white taxi-driver that refuses to talk to us looks in his bizarro ID picture like he might well be a fugitive, while on the morning in which news breaks of a mass shooting in a black church in South Carolina, several black taxi drivers at a rank flat-out refuse to drive me anywhere, one of them driving off with his door open as I try to jump in. The one that finally accepts me, his rear-view mirror laden with beads and voodoo charms, angrily answers “Bonanza” when I ask what he is watching on his portable TV screen on the passenger seat, then pretends to forget that he needs to give me ten dollars change when we arrive at the destination. Requests for receipts are invariably met with a blank docket and a “here you go man, write in any amount you want”.

Aboard the Loyola streetcar, the driver asks an embarking passenger how his morning’s been. “Just goofin’ off, goin’ to work,” he replies as a joke, as if a day’s work is the last thing on the minds of anyone in this town. It’s not really that sort of place. But none of this is intended as a criticism- I walk the streets wide-eyed and amazed, because I’ve just never seen a place like New Orleans before.

There’s a darkness and a bawdiness to this French-tinged town that is almost luscious and irresistible. Ghost tours ply their trade along streets lined with faded maisons, while drunken ex-frat boys call from intricate iron latticework balconies, imploring passing belles to flash their titties for beads. Several oblige.

One such house is so haunted, and so full of dark energy, we are told, that even by standing under the balcony we could have our souls cursed for eternity. At some point in the past, wealthy socialite doctors who owned the house were discovered after a mysterious fire to have a secret parlour where they performed macabre medical experiments upon countless of the dozens of slaves they owned. Drunken revellers passing along the street are blissfully oblivious, cocktails in hand, some of them masked and bedecked in feathers or beads.

And then there’s the music. Music everywhere- a guy wrapped in a giant brass sousaphone walks back to his digs after an impromptu jam down at Jackson Square in the French Quarter. My taxi cruises past a large black man playing solo licks on a Gibson Lucille guitar on the sidewalk. In the Spotted Cat on Frenchmen Street in Faubourg Maringy, the drummer taps at passersby on the windowsill with his drumstick, part of a cyclone jazz routine with a dreadlocked pianist and afro-headed trumpter whipping the room into a frenzy. Over at Snug Harbour, an aptly titled bar across the road, we pay $40 to see Ellis Marsallis, an elderly jazz pianist, who gingerly ascends the steps the the stage, greets the crowd with a low and tired old voice, but then plays the piano with fingers bursting with youthful intensity. And the Rebirth Brass Band, who rock the Maple Leaf Bar on the other side of the city on Tuesdays, and have recently won a Grammy Award, are unforgettable.

My work trip over for the week, I meet colleagues over at Magazine Street in the Garden District, the upscale “American” suburb with shops selling all manner of curiosities from wigs and masks to beautiful artworks and handcrafted hats. The surrounding streets are filled with achingly beautiful old antebellum mansions, their streetfront columns supporting wooden porches and wondrous wooden staircases. We stop at Joey K’s cafe for poboys and sweet tea, and ride the Charles Street street car back to the city centre.

On the morning before I leave town, I tour St. Louis Cemetery 1, the oldest existing cemetery in New Orleans and the most famous. The cemetery is home to countless family crypts, built above ground ostensibly to avoid the water table alluded to earlier. The crypts date from centuries ago to modern times, and house victims of various plagues and misfortunes (particularly yellow fever epidemics which were common in New Orleans) to rumoured voodoo practitioners. The latter tombs have been marked by hundreds of visitors with an X, which is supposed to bring good luck. Unfortunately, several tombs have been vandalised in this way, and for some of which there is no evidence that the occupants were even involved with voodoo. Several crypts are still empty, but in true macabre New Orleans style have been reserved by people keen to be interred in their manner of choice upon demise. Nicholas Cage has built a pyramid-shaped tomb here, and it already has his name on it.

New Orleans is the sort of place you could stay forever, but all-too-soon I’m on the Amtrak heading north through Louisiana and Mississippi and into Tennessee. This is the “City of New Orleans,” the train immortalized in the Steve Goodman song of the same name. It roars alongside Lake Pontchartrain, the monstrous lake which borders New Orleans and flooded it when the tide rose during Hurricane Katrina. Next, we are in the middle of the bayou, surrounded by nothing but muddy swamplands. I keep an eye out for alligators which are said to be sunning themselves on logs, but I don’t even see any logs, or anything so solid, only liquid as far as the eye can see. There are a lot of birds though.

I adore rail travel. The sun sets over rusted railyards and I’m so comfortable in my sleeper cabin with the farms and tornado towns rolling by that it’s an effort to drag myself to the meal car, but when I do I meet Richard, a colleague of mine from Sydney who happens to have the same trip in mind as me, and a couple of Scottish travellers who are as astounded by the American South as I am. The City of New Orleans goes as far north as Chicago, an overnight journey. But we’ll be getting off much earlier in Memphis, and all too soon we’re there!

Memphis is a much smaller place than I expect, and I literally hop out of the carriage and into a waiting cab parked next to the platform, without even walking into the terminal hall. I’ve scored a good deal at the Peabody Hotel, an amazing place I’ll discuss in a minute, and on the 5 minute trip there the driver points out the motel where Martin Luther King was assassinated, a hotel where Elvis wrote several hit songs, the Gibson guitar factory, and Beal Street, the neon-lit stretch where Saturday night is going down. He’s also keen to discuss the merits of black-girl booty versus white-girl booty. We agree that both are good.

I check in and Richard drops by and we walk to the amazing Beal Street. The walk there is a tad on the dark and scary side, and when we arrive we’re surprised to find police checkpoints. Before we can even access the street, we’re patted down for weapons. I cringe to think of the events that must have necessitated that, though the street itself does have a bit of a powderkeg feel to it, and we feel a bit more comfortable once on the strip for the precautions.

The street is lined by neon-lit blues bars, but there’s a lot of action in the street itself, with huge groups of people jiving to hip-hop music. Many of them seem keen to prove that pants don’t necessarily need to be hitched above the hips, or even to cover your CKs, and a baseball cap is not just for keeping the sun off while playing baseball- in fact it can be worn at night and facing backwards, sideways or as one guy impressively and oddly demonstrates, facing vertically upwards.

The bars are actually a peaceful respite from the chaos outside and we check out the music at Blue Note Bar and Grill and the Rum Boogie Cafe which are great. The Coyote Ugly bar from the movie of the same name is also here in this street- and it’s the shittest bar I can remember visiting for quite some time, if not forever. But you might enjoy it if a) you loved the movie, or b) you like your self-opinions low and your good times tepid and coerced.

The night disappears into yet another blur of music and bottles of Yuengling and before I know it, I’m waking up at 10:30 am in the semi-luxurious confines of the Peabody Hotel. Like The Ritz in Paris or the Savoy in London, this place is a bit of an icon in the US South, and the march of the Peabody Ducks in the hotel lobby is something of a tourist attraction in itself. It’s happening at 11 am, so I make myself as beautiful as possible in the time available and head downstairs to watch.

Did I say something of a tourist attraction? Downstairs in the grand, sumptously-appointed lobby, people are crammed several rows deep into every possible nook and cranny craning their heads at a roll of red carpet, which leads up the steps into a beautiful marble fountain that is the centrepiece of the space. I pull a cocktail table to the side and grab a mezzanine view from above, and watch as 4 or 5 ducks stroll up the red carpet, jump into the fountain, and er… that’s about it, actually. The oddest semi-spectacle I’ve perhaps ever encountered is over in all of ten seconds. The ducks themselves live on the roof of the hotel, and after they are brought down to the fountain at 11 am they swim around in it until 5, at which point they march out again. I’m sure even the ducks are puzzled by the attention.

I head out into the already steamy morning and the city is all but deserted. It’s a sharp contrast to the crowds in the hotel or on Beal Street on a Saturday night. I suppose this is what summer Sundays in downtown Memphis are like. My first mission is to find some breakfast, and I end up watching a country blues band while I eat pumpkin waffles with maple syrup, bacon, candied pecans and honey-dew melon. When in Rome!

I head to Main Street, which is quite nice but deserted apart from a few shifty people looking at me strangely. So I walk down to the banks of the mighty Mississippi, which rages past Memphis with some vigour. It’s turbid brown waters are rolling on at a rate of knots, carrying here and there a log from who-knows-where upstream. I catch the hanging monorail across to Mud Island, and watch as a colossal barge comes down the river carrying logs. It’s about ten football fields long, and driven by a single tug, which impressively threads the entire behemoth between the piers in the Memphis-Arkansas bridge without collapsing the freeway.

Mud Island has a scale model of the entire Mississippi River, complete with water flowing down in, which sounds naff (and it is a bit I guess!) but it’s an impressive labour of love for whoever built it, the topography of the landscape and river delta amazingly detailed. I spend way too long walking down it towards the “Gulf of Mexico” (where you can rent a paddle boat), retracing my journey and looking at how New Orleans was flooded during Katrina.

Next on the list is the Lorraine Motel, the site where Martin Luther King was assassinated in 1968 and now the Civil Rights Museum (and apologies in advance if you thought I was going to write about Graceland.. I don’t give a shit about Elvis). I arrive along an almost deserted main street, and I’ll admit the area around the museum has me looking over my shoulder a couple of times. And when I arrive, all I can think was “wow”. The motel and balcony King stood upon when he was shot is perfectly preserved, a white Cadillac still parked below, and on the corner of the block is the original neon sign in garish font as could only come from the 60’s, but with the sign’s customizable announcement letters now spelling out “I Have A Dream.” The quiet afternoon air is broken by King’s breathtakingly articulate oratory, projecting from a loudspeaker over the site. It is very, very moving.

The room in which King stayed is also preserved, but the rest of the hotel and the boarding house across the road from which the assassin fired the fatal shot now comprise the National Civil Rights Museum. What a place. The museum content is vast and detailed and horrifying in its stories of tyranny and injustice, though through the passion and the teachings of the mostly black staff at the museum I felt only love, and this despite the previously mentioned atrocity in a black church in South Carolina, only days prior. King would be proud. Unfortunately, I have only 2 hours, far too short a time to work my way through all of the material on hand. Allow double this amount of time.

I race back toward downtown to the Gibson guitar factory, something I couldn’t miss for the world, having been a Gibson fan and guitarist since my teenage years. The last tour for the day is all booked out, but I plead my case and the guy is cool enough to allow me onto the tour. The Memphis factory makes semi-hollow bodies and historic reissues, while the solid body guitars are made in Nashville, though it’s only the Memphis factory that offers tours. Being Sunday, no workers are on duty in the factory, but we learn how the wood for the body is carved and bent, how the f-holes are cut, how the binding is applied, how the neck is carved and fret wire attached, and we see the area where the painting, flame-bursting and lacquering is done. I’m in seventh heaven- the space is full of beautiful guitars of my dreams at various points in the production sequence, including a half-finished double-SG, and plenty of recent models that are not yet for sale. My lungs aren’t too impressed though- there’s a fine layer of sawdust covering every surface, which is kicked into the air even as the group walks through the factory, and though it fills the air with the scent of rich mahogany, I wonder whether the place has adequate extraction for the workers.

Because the sun has not yet set and I’ve ticked off all my must-sees, I decide to make a beeline for the famous Sun Studios, appearing on my map as just east of downtown. This famous place is where BB King, Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley and Carl Perkins, among others, recorded some of their earliest songs, and it thus makes a claim as the birthplace of Rock n’ Roll. Unfortunately, it’s much further than I expect, and the route becomes more and more run down, the surroundings more and more dilapidated and deserted, until I’m not just slyly looking over my shoulder, I’m more than a little worried for my wellbeing and that of my $2000 camera I’m unfortunately lugging on my shoulders. I spot a pale old man at a bus-stop and approach him, asking “excuse me, do you know how far Sun Studios is?”
“Blarrrgghhhh-arggh-aarrgggghh” is the response, the man’s face twisted in contortion, his eyes wild and furious.
“Ok thanks,” I say backing away hurriedly. This is not going well.

When I finally arrive at Sun Studios, I get the usual spiel about all the tours being sold out for the day, but despite my protestations and the fact it’s just me, the girl at the counter refuses to let me join the tour. “Ok- well can I at least go in and have a look around?” I ask.
“No. You need to be on a tour. We have more tomorrow.”
“But I’m leaving first thing tomorrow… and I walked all the way here from downtown.”
She’s not at all impressed. “I’m sorry sir.”
“But I came all the way from Australia to see Sun Studios.” The last bit is a lie- I hadn’t even heard about Sun Studios until today, not really giving a shit about Elvis and all. But even this lame line of woe fails to convince her. She’s chatting with co-workers with a vibe that says “I can’t wait to get off work for the day”. “Fine then,” I say. “Could you call me a cab please.”
“Sure!” she says, suddenly enthusiastic. “Is there anything else I can help you out with?”
“Er, well you could let me on the tour.”
She just laughs, mistaking my dry belligerence for good humour, like I’ve told a funny joke. I resist the urge to be a real smartarse, because I dearly want my cab ride back to town.

As it happens, the afternoon is saved by the cab driver. After waiting outside in the broken neighbourhood, I enter the backseat of the most palatial and spotless cab I have ever seen in my life. Everything smells like leather conditioner, the carpets are plush and freshly vacuumed, the dash looks like it has just been detailed. “Dude,” I say, “this is a nice cab.”
“Thankyou,” says the well-groomed, well-dressed, and impeccably polite young African-American driver in a deep voice. “It’s nice of you to say so. I would be insulting my passengers, and it would be an insult to me, if I offered any different.”

Say what you will about Americans, but they are diverse and never disinteresting.

This is evident again the following day, bleary-eyed after another night of blues bands on Beale Street, when my Uber driver picks me up from the hotel in a gigantic fuel-guzzling Hummer. He’s the perfect stereotype of a white Southerner- except that when I mention I’m in the solar power industry, his eyes light up. “Oh man, I just love solar power,” he drawls. “That’s so cool. That is the future right there.” He proceeds to talk so genuinely and enthusiastically and rapidly about his interest in the solar power industry, that we finally pull up outside the airport departure terminal.
“Is this the bus-station?” I ask, confused.
“Oh shoot! Oh damn. Dang. I forgot where I was going. Shoot!”

Luckily, the bus-station is close by, and we arrive with plenty of time- too much, actually. With no train line betwixt Memphis and Nashville, I am forced to take the Greyhound. Taking the Greyhound in the US South is not the most pleasant experience- even the bus station is full of people I avoid making eye contact with. I stare at my feet for 45 minutes, until mercifully, my departure is called.

The bus ride itself is little better. I am convinced the majority of characters on that bus want me dead, so I naturally gravitate toward the others who seem merely to want me maimed. One lass boarding the bus strikes me as almost normal, and she sits next to me, hopefully because I also come across similarly passable. It turns out she is Australian. Typical! (She’s from Penrith though.)

The bus ride is not as scenic as the train, but it does have Wi-Fi, which allows me to organise to arrive in Nashville, grab my bag from the luggage compartment, and race directly in and out of Nashville Greyhound terminal without so much as a glance around, and into my waiting Uber ride out the front. He takes me to my Airbnb house (after the splurge at The Peabody in Memphis I need to save some cash). It’s not too far from The Gulch, a hip neighbourhood with bars and restaurants. The house itself is a little eyebrow raising- it’s tiny, but the host, Lisa, has rigged it all up for short-term stays for 6 people (!) including combination entry locks and little signs with instructions on every appliance and piece of furniture. She is however a very nice, attentive host, and a veritable encyclopaedia of everything there is to see, do and eat in Nashville. Even better, I have the house to myself today- Lisa herself is also away in Atlanta.

I dump my stuff and walk into town via The Gulch. I’ve grown used to the 3rd-world vibe of Southern cities, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find that Nashville is nothing of the sort. The initial impression I get is something similar to Portland Oregon, where I used to live- but with honky-tonk bars instead of north-west brewpubs. There’s barely a cracked pavement to be seen. All the girls call me “sweetie” and the guys all seem to want to be my best friend. “Dude- you Australian?” asks the guy who serves me lunch.
“Yeah.”
“No kidding. Awesome,” he says before proceeding to give me yet another run down on Nashville’s attractions. “You gotta try the roast beef roll,” he demands, and after I ask what I’m supposed to do with the French jus that comes with it, he says “just dip it in. You’re gonna love it. It’s fuckin’ awesome.”

Happy to abide a man with that much passion for roast beef, I happily ingest. It has to be said that the food in this part of the world is great. I don’t care what anyone says about American food; I’m been more at home in the Barbecue-cuisine kingdoms of Memphis and Nashville than just about anywhere. Back in Australia we think we know barbecue, but the truth is Aussie barbecue is generally the crappest quality cuts of tasteless meat burned enough to make it edible and washed down quickly with a good cold lager. In truth the Americans do struggle a bit on the lager front, but a half rack of ribs in barbecue sauce, a pulled pork sandwich, a burger with crispy bacon and salad with an iced-tea, that’s my perfect lunch right there. We’re catching on slowly in Australia, but the gaping void between fast-food and fine dining is still mostly occupied only with (very good) Asian and ethnic food. Even burgers in Sydney, if it’s not bloody McDonalds then it’s being presented on a giant white plate with aioli and friggin’ brioche bread like it’s a bloody work of art (and priced accordingly). It’s a fricken burger! Americans, and particularly Southerners, know how to do in-between food properly.

I ponder this and other similarly wanky thoughts as I walk to the strip of Honky-Tonk bars along Broadway downtown. It’s roasting hot so I duck into Tin Roof, one of the bars which seems to be happening, and order a lemonade instead of a beer. The bargirl tells me not to worry about the bill and calls me sweetie. And playing up on stage is a country band, with so entertaining a lead singer that he needs his own show on prime-time.

[in Southern drawl] “So I was playing a show in Louisville Kentucky and I get offstage and I’m feelin’ all pretty good about the show and I see a gentleman proppin’ himself against the bar and he’s starin’ straight at me, so I walk up and say ‘I hope you enjoyed the show’. And he says, ‘Are you kiddin’ me? You sucked!’ I’m like ‘Now why would you go and say such an unkind thing as that?’ He says ‘All you did was stand up there and tell STOOPID stories and play songs with three chords. Do you know anything other than G, C and E? You ever heard of minors or fifths?’ and I says ‘Well now, I APOLOGAHSE that our little ditties weren’t to your taste. But you gotta understand that I play in a COUNTRY music band, and hell, G, C and E are the only chords I’ll ever need!”

 

At this point much hooping and hollering from the adoring patrons, and the band launches into a song with only the aforementioned major chords, and the refrain “G, C and E, that’s all I’ll ever need.” The rest of the set is punctuated by similarly elaborate anecdotes.

I’m obliged to head back to the house for a work call, which kinda sucks cos I’m having so much fun. The tiny house is so empty in contrast to the honky tonks downtown. Silent. The neighborhood feels a bit more sinister in the dark, and at 3 am the backyard security light comes on outside my bedroom window. Oh crap. I suppose that’s the downside of the user economy- when you’re in a hotel or hostel, even if you’re unlucky and end up in a dodgy area, you’re still up on the n’th floor (hopefully) with a bunch of workers watching the front door 24/7 (hopefully). When your Airbnb owner’s away in Atlanta, it’s just you and some neighborhood you’ve never been before in your life. I’m trying to remind myself of the upsides to the user economy as I peer surreptitiously through the venetian blinds. All I can see is trees moving in the breeze- could they have set the light off?

In the US, these risks are compounded by the fact that a good chunk of the population are carrying weapons around- there’s always that element of unpredictability in American society that you just don’t have elsewhere, or at least not in most developed countries. The atrocity in South Carolina is a case in point. Nonetheless, no man with a gun peers down at me through my window. I message Lisa about it the next day and she says it was probably just the neighbour’s cats. Ok then. Good. The sun is out again, it’s stinking hot, and I’m in Nashville baby!

I start the day (including breakfast) at the Country Music Hall of Fame, which is probably the cheesiest thing I could think of doing, but hey, when in Nashville, dot dot dot. Surprisingly, being more of a rocker, I enjoy myself. There’s more Edam than a Dutch deli but there’s also a lot of good stuff, like the personal guitars of lots of country stars (particularly Martin Dreadnoughts) and various weird and wonderful rare instruments, including the original “Log”- the first solid guitar built by Les Paul himself. That’s impressive. The museum also crosses over into folk and rock n’ roll, and there’s plenty of stuff on artists such as Bob Dylan and Neil Young, as well as all the country stars. The museum also has Elvis Presley’s “Solid Gold Cadillac”, complete with built in record player, refrigerator and cathode-ray-tube television, which is pretty cool if you’re an Elvis fan. Myself… ah nevermind.

From the Hall of Fame, you can also get yourself on a tour of RCA Studio B. This is a bit weird, since the museum is downtown while a bus takes you to Studio B in Music Row, not far from where I’m staying. Along with Sun Studios in Memphis, Studio B is one of the world’s most famous studios, given that it launched something like a bazillion top-ten singles. It’s very cool if you like the recording arts or any of the artists that recorded here, and there’s plenty of grand pianos, xylophones, marimbas and amplifiers lying around in the studio that were used in famous songs.

Rather than take the bus back to the Hall of Fame, I opt to ditch the tour and walk around Music Row for a couple hours. The area’s not particularly photogenic (though it’s certainly not ugly) but it’s quite interesting if you like recording studios and music history. There’s churches everywhere too- in fact, the presence of music in Nashville is only matched by the obvious religious presence. We’re deep in the US bible-belt here. I walk past Buddy Killeen Circle which has a sculpture of naked bodies that church groups tried to ban, which is funny because upon seeing it it’s completely inoffensive. Amongst the religious presence are several good universities, including Vanderbilt with its wealth of shady trees, which is a relief in this heat.

From Vanderbilt University I walk back to the house sweating like an emu and drink copious glasses of water and get over-zealous with the aircon, American style. I need to prepare myself for another night in the honky tonks, surrounded once again by music, as I have been this whole trip. Jazz in New Orleans, blues and rock n’ roll in Memphis, and now folk and country in Nashville. It’s breathtaking to be at ground zero of so many rich musical movements, and even more astounding to discover that none of these places are large places- they’re just culturally and historically important places. It’s funny to hear Southerners decry Nashville for it’s “bad traffic”, which isn’t a patch on somewhere like Sydney, and where I can walk the streets listening to the music wafting out of bars and studios drowning out the emasculated sound of car engines and horns.

I lob into the Johnny Cash museum, which is open til 7, then get my fill of music at the honky tonks. Returning late to the house I find a couple of shifty characters out the front, who walk past me looking in my direction as I punch in the combination on the entry lock. Cripes. I quickly lock the door behind me and am startled by a voice that calls out “hello?” My heart skips a beat but it’s just Lisa, home from Atlanta. We talk for hours and face-to-face, she’s not the hostzilla that the copious post-it note signs and rules depicted, she’s just a struggling single mum trying to make a bit of extra cash renting out her living space and trying to manage the chaos of that. Her little daughter, all frizzy black hair and curious questions, is full of beans and just adorable.

We talk until the small hours about their life and my Southern adventures, but I’ve got to sleep. First thing tomorrow I’m leaving on a jetplane for New York City, where locals tell me things like “man, forget the South,” and where I was once even asked if I was from the South.

“Yeah,” I replied, “the deep South”.
“How deep?”
“You don’t even want to know.”

 

New York, skyscrapers, numbered streets, another world of scale and culture entirely, its harassed footpaths packed with jostling pedestrians, and where the traffic really is its own organism, drivers yelling bizarre things at other drivers both in frustration and endearment. It’s quite another story altogether in this mysterious and musical America of unique States: United, but with the fissures of ancient divisions and cultural differences haphazardly plastered over.

Hate the South? Love the South? Hate compasses? Love Elvis? Let me know below. And look out for the video from this trip… coming soon.

The post A Journey of Music, Mud and Mystery through the American South: New Orleans, Memphis and Nashville appeared first on Confiscated Toothpaste.

The Pacific Coast Highway (PCH), is the strip of tar along the western edge of California. It is renowned as one of the most beautiful and exciting drives in the world. For this article, I have constructed a road trip which is a composite of my three tours of PCH. You can spend as long, or as short a time as you want in this lovely area…for those who just want a quick experience you could hire a Mustang (or a Hyundai Excel) and just experience an exhilarating day trip. For those who have the time you could spend a week or more visiting the various State Parks and hidden gems along the way. This itinerary takes in the most commonly traversed part of the Highway between San Francisco and Los Angeles with two added day trips from these cities. Your experience of the PCH can be totally weather dependent – on one of my trips there was a heavy mist and drizzle all the way along the coastline in the Big Sur area obscuring the coastal cliffs and sea vistas, which was a real downer.

Day 1: San Francisco to Stinson Beach

The area just north of San Francisco is well worth a day trip whilst you are in this wonderful city. Head from downtown north over the Golden Gate Bridge then explore the Golden Gate National Recreation Area. There are many interesting vistas looking back toward the bridge and San Francisco. The park includes plenty of old fortifications, including Fort Barry where the 1950s Nike missile site designed to intercept the ‘new’ Soviet jet bombers has been left basically in its battle ready state and is now a museum.

Sausalito is a picturesque, but very upmarket suburb nearby where the hills meet San Francisco Bay. It has a large public marina and an interesting houseboat community with over 400 boats. There is plenty of bayside dining available at varying luxury levels. We went for the fish and chips with the seagulls.

After lunch head toward Muir Wood National Monument, named after the great John Muir whose environmental campaigns helped launch the USAs excellent national parks system. In Muir Wood you will see awe inspiring giant stands of Coastal Redwoods. Head down to the hill to the coast where you will find Muir Beach, then travel north along the coast on Highway 1. I last did this stretch of road back in 2006 and I swear it was about to fall into the sea. (I checked with Google Streetview and it hasn’t changed.) The road is single lane each way and takes a heavy camber toward the seaward side. The safety barrier only appears to have been placed on the parts of the roadway with vertical drops into the ocean, not those sections with just ‘near’ vertical drops. However, the views on this ten or so kilometre part of the PCH are spectacular.

Arrive at the lovely little coastal town of Stinson Beach for the late afternoon and explore the galleries, gift shops and restaurants. Stinson Beach reminded me a lot of one of those towns you would see portrayed as a hip 60s Beatnik community in those old black and white movies. There are plenty of cosy places here to have an early dinner before returning back to San Fran, with an even more exciting journey this time as the driver is on the edge of the cliff! If you like getting some night photography in, there are some great shots to be had of the Golden Gate Bridge and San Francisco from the northern side of the bridge.

Day 2: San Francisco to Monterey

If you are up and away early in the morning, head over to the Richmond area where some lovely views of the Golden Gate from the ocean side of the bridge are to be had. Then follow the coast road south until you find Highway 1. There are spectacular views from the road as you travel past Pacifica State Beach and the beautiful Grey Whale Cove State Beach on the way to Half Moon Bay.

Pillar Point Harbour is a break-wall constructed enclosure which occupies the northern part of Half Moon Bay. Crabs and fish can be bought directly from the fishing boats here. Half Moon Bay is also the home of the surf break ‘Mavericks’ which has giant waves when the winter storm swells are coming from the right direction. This break is not for the inexperience or faint hearted though, two Hawaiian big wave surfers have been killed here.

The single lane PCH continues along the coast for another 70km or so, the landscape varying between rocky coves and headlands and coastal farmlands until you reach Santa Cruz. If you had a late start from San Francisco, it might be best to make your way via the freeway system through Mountain View directly to Santa Cruz. Just north of Santa Cruz you will find Natural Bridge State Park where there is an interesting rock formation just off the beach.

From Natural Bridge, follow Cliff Drive into Santa Cruz, which traverses many small coves on one side with expensive real estate on the other. You will find the Santa Cruz Surf Museum in the old lighthouse at Point Santa Cruz on Cliff Drive and is well worth a visit. The famous surf break ‘Steamer Lane’ is located just below the cliff here. The beach at Santa Cruz is adjacent to the main downtown area. This place is like Disneyland by the sea, with a massive pier, fair rides, a boardwalk and chairlift along the beach and a tacky ‘Fun Centre’- great if you have kids and lots of dollars, but I couldn’t get out of there soon enough.

We now head south out of Santa Cruz along Highway 1 which heads inland for a bit and soon travels through agricultural areas where great quality fruit can be bought from roadside stalls along the route to Monterey. Many of the lower growing dark green coloured crops are artichokes. Castroville, just south of Monterey, is the ‘home’ of the artichoke, even having a ‘giant’ artichoke in town.

When entering Monterey, follow the signs to Fishermans Wharf, which is worth a quick visit. It is a bit of a tourist trap, with lots of reconstructed sea shanty restaurants and gift shops to take your money…a big plus here though, because there is so much competition, you can sample the clam chowder before you buy, which is nice, and if you try a few… lunch is done for those of you on a budget! There are often classic car auctions and displays held in the parking lot here, which are well worth seeing. Cannery row is an interesting part of town, where Monterey’s once thriving sardine industry was based. It is now a lively area with restaurants, museums, gift shops and the wonderful Monterey Bay Aquarium. Allow at least 2 hours to visit the aquarium. I was blown away by their harbour pier display tank and the spectacular jellyfish display. Monterey is an interesting and historic town, once being the capital of Northern Mexico, until it was taken in the Battle of Monterey during the American-Mexican war of 1846. It was also the capital of California at one stage. Cheap accommodation can be found on the eastern side of town where most of the reasonably priced chains are located.

Day 3: Monterey to Big Sur

This morning starts with a trip into Monterey’s historic downtown area which is designated as a State Historic Park. Some of California’s oldest buildings can be seen along the self-guided walk which can be completed as a downloadable ‘cellphone’ tour.

We then head south out of town and find the signs for “17 Mile Drive”. ‘The Drive’ is a private road through a gated community of coastal mansions, private beaches and exclusive golf courses, NO…country clubs, between Monterey and Carmel. If you are not a resident, you must pay a $10 toll to use the road. Stop off at Bird Rock and Seal Rock to see the amazing variety of bird and sea life. I located and watched a sea otter eating clams for quite some time while a busload of gormless tourists were being entertained by the ubiquitous squirrels beside their bus at the Bird Rock parking area. A small set of binoculars is a must here. The famous Cypress Point and Pebble Beach golf courses are also along this stretch.

Next stop is the Lone Pine at Cypress Point. This part of the coastline is famous for the beautifully gnarled and stunted Monterey Cypress pines, and this one in particular, is iconic. It stands proud on a small pyramid shaped peninsular jutting from the coast. Believe it or not, this particular pine is copyrighted by the Cypress Point Country Club….you can photograph it, but you can’t use these images for commercial purposes! (Thank goodness this is a unprofitable web site.)

We exit the toll road at beautiful Carmel-by-the-Sea. This lovely town has kept its relaxed Californian beachside style, and it does have a stunning strip of sand. There are plenty of stylish cafes and gift shops in the picturesque downtown area to relieve you of your spending money. A warning for those travellers wearing high heels…Carmel has a strange law prohibiting such footwear in their city area, but you can get a free ‘permit to wear’ from city hall. The reason for this? To absolve the city from any lawsuits due to the historically dodgy condition of some of their sidewalks.

Carmel Mission survives from 1771 and is still a place of worship. The museum has some interesting displays for small fee and grounds and buildings are spectacular.

Travelling south from Carmel on Highway 1 we soon come to the Point Lobos State Park. A small entry fee is required here, but there are many short walks and charming coves to explore. I spent a good three hours investigating this park and consider it a highlight of the PCH. It abounds in secret kelp filled coves and carpets of wildflowers in the spring. The whaling museum was very interesting and ranger guided tours are available. I befriended one of the park’s volunteer rangers who had just purchased a digital SLR camera. She got some free photo tips, whilst I got a personal guided tour of this lovely piece of the coastline.

We hit the PCH again, and the drive now moves into gear from the stunning to the extraordinary. The coastal hills become mountains and the road hangs precariously above wave swept rocks hundreds of feet below as the Santa Lucia Mountains rise directly out of the sea in the area know as Big Sur. Most this road has no safety barrier…something that is very unusual in my ‘nanny state’ of Australia. There is also no shoulder, so pay attention whilst driving, because if you run off the road you may not be found for months. If stopping at any lay-bys to look at the view…keep a tight hold of your children. This is seriously hazardous location!

The Big Sur section of the PCH must have been an engineering marvel when it was built, although many parts are in need of repair. Just previous to my last visit to the area, a 50 metre section of roadway had fallen into the sea and was at the time being replaced by a tunnel. The original highway wasn’t opened until 1937 and took 18 years to build using mainly prisoner labour. I stopped for lunch at Rocky Point Restaurant which had panoramic views up and down the coastline and of the stylish Bixby Bridge over which I was soon to traverse. Stop off at Point Sur State Historic Park and try to spot some sea otters, tours are available of the historic light house here, but these only run on certain days of the week. The tours were not operating the day I was here, but come highly rated.

The PCH now heads inland into the mountains where you can camp beside the scenic Big Sur River in a cabin/tent for about $100 a night. It is expensive, but accommodation in this area is scarce and they are pretty flash tents!

Day 4: Big Sur to Cambria

In the morning turn west off Hwy 1 and follow the winding and very narrow Sycamore Canyon Road down to Pfeiffer Beach. It is an adventure just finding this ruggedly beautiful beach which is located where Sycamore Creek meets the ocean. A $5 fee applies to park here. There are some spectacular islands with natural tunnels through them only a few metres off the shore. I was kept amused here for an hour or so by seagulls bathing in a freshwater pool just back from the shoreline.

Make your way back to the PCH and head south where you meet the steep coastline again and soon enough you will see the Jane Pfeiffer State Park. The parking fee/park entry in the carpark here is $10, but can be avoided if you can find a spot on the side of the PCH. There are many trails here, but if you are tight for time, walk along the cliff trail to the McWay Falls overview. This is probably the finest view along the PCH, a scenic waterfall falling directly onto the pretty beach which is located in an equally picturesque cove. If you have time, there is an interesting blowhole at the southern end of the beach, and creek/canyon walks east of the parking area including Canyon Falls.

Next stop along the PCH is Salmon Creek Falls about 30km up the road. There is a parking here with a short walk to the falls proper. Just before the town of San Simeon you will see the Piedras Blancas elephant seal rookery. If you are here at the right time of the year, this is a happening place. The pier at Hearst Beach in San Simeon is nice too. The mountains recede from the coast a little by the time you reach San Simeon, and on my last visit I was greeted by golden paddocks bordered by large eucalypts, herds of cows and barbed wire fencing…it looked surreally Australian!

We arrive at nearby Cambria, which is a reasonably sized town with plenty of budget accommodation.

Day 5: Cambria to Morro Bay

This morning perhaps re-visit the elephant seal colony then get the shuttle bus up to Hearst Castle. Now a State Park, the castle was once the home of William Randolph Hearst, the newspaper magnate. The property is in the Spanish Baroque style and was started in 1919. The castle was still being completed in 1947 when Hearst became too ill to live there. In 1957 the Hearst Corporation gifted the building to the government as they could not afford the upkeep. The castle features 56 bedrooms, 61 bathrooms and full sized outdoor Roman baths. This was the place to be seen in the 20s and 30s. It is a truly magnificent property with wonderful views out over the blue Pacific.

We now do what Mr Hearst did in the Lloyd Cole and the Commotions song, and “fade away to Morro Bay”. On the way to Morro Bay, make sure you take the exit off the highway and visit Cayucos Beach. Cayucos is a typical Californian surf town. It has a great point break and a pier, reminding me a lot of the fictitious town in the great movie ‘Big Wednesday’. You can hire a board here if you are yearning for a surf. Cayucos also has its own boutique brewery…the beer is nice, but the tee shirts are fabulous.

Morro Bay was originally a small fishing village located on an idyllic harbour with the massive Morro Rock guarding the entrance. The locals call it the Gibraltar of the Pacific. Idyllic it was, until the monstrous power station was built guarding the other side of the harbour in the 50s- what were the town planners on? The power station closed down in February this year and is to be demolished…sad for those who have lost their jobs, but great news for the town. Morrow Bay today is very arty, with a cool mix of fishermen, retired hippy types, artists, musicians, surfers and well to do boat owners. The main streets in town are lined with West Australian flowering gums. These trees are a fair age and in summer have a profusion of red blossoms which looks great and frames your views of Morro Rock. There are plenty of lovely seafood restaurants down at the harbour and some nice bars in town. Local music appears really well supported here, one night I watched a country and western band in one bar followed by a punk band in another.

Day 6: Morro Bay to Los Angeles or return to San Francisco

On my last visit from San Francisco, after my overnight stay in Morro Bay, I turned around and drove back to San Francisco in one day. It is like driving a different but equally spectacular road! The view is totally different, because on the way there you were so focused on the road and view in front of you, and likewise on the way back. You can also head over to the interstate and take the fast (but boring) road back to SF or LA.

If you have time, the preferable option is to continue south through San Louis Obispo then along the coast road visiting Santa Barbara, Ventura, Malibu and Santa Monica on the way into LA. Santa Barbara is a very nicely maintained Spanish type town. In Malibu you will find some nice beaches (if you can get to them) and some very impressive real estate. Santa Monica pier is a must do, as is the shopping and restaurants on the Third Street Promenade.

Bonus Day: Los Angeles to San Diego

A suggested day trip from Los Angeles would be to start from Huntington Beach and head south along the coast taking in interesting seaside towns such as Laguna, Oceanside and Carlsbad on the way to beautiful San Diego. Don’t just drive down the freeway, but also be careful to avoid driving into many of the large Marine bases along this stretch like I did once! (What other country has a four lane freeway type road entering their military bases?)

Oceanside has an interesting pier with the generic Ruby’s Diner at the end. La Jolla, a northern suburb of San Diego has some scenic coves and great surf breaks. San Diego is a very neat and tidy city with plenty to see if you have more time. The San Diego Zoo is wonderful and not to be missed – especially the pandas. Sea World also has some fantastic exhibits and educational displays, but they are having issues at the moment regarding the backlash from the ‘BlackFish’ documentary, so you may or may not want to give it a miss based on your ideological viewpoint.

All in all, the PCH packs plenty of punch for your travelling dollar and can be done on most budgets. You will need a car though… although this isn’t too unusual for the USA- ‘Land of the Auto’.

We hoped you liked our guide to California’s Pacific Coast Highway. If you’ve done this route before and have any tips we missed, or you have any questions, feel free to leave a comment below.

The post A Roadtrip along the Pacific Coast Highway, California- Stories, Itineraries, Photos and Suggestions for Your Trip appeared first on Confiscated Toothpaste.

20. Midnight Oil – Essential Oils

The original 80s Australian rockers. With a heated energy of revolution present on all their tracks, and a spirit of Aussie adventure, it’s the perfect uplifting music for a trip into parts unknown, particularly if you’re travelling in Australia. If that’s the case, you’d best put on “The Dead Heart” or “Beds are Burning” or “Kosciuosko”.

19. Faith No More – Angel Dust

Where does one begin to describe the twisted genius of Faith No More? Angel Dust is FnM at their most eclectic and definitely an album to listen to when you want to have your mind opened wide up, which usually happens whilst travelling. “Everything’s Ruined” will have you rocking along while Commodores cover “Easy” will have you cruising on a train tapping your toes. Best tracks: Crack Hitler, Midlife Crisis, Easy, Everything’s Ruined, just about all of them.

18. Queen – A Night at the Opera

I challenge anyone to find a better album to listen to when travelling in London- It perfectly captures all the pomp and theatricality of the British capital. “Lazing on a Sunday afternoon” is London to a tea, while “39” will have you in the mood for an epic journey. And I don’t even have to mention Freddie Mercury’s classic “Bohemian Rhapsody”. The album even closes with a double guitar solo version of “God Save the Queen”.

17. Coheed and Cambria – Good Apollo I’m Burning Star IV Volume 1: From Fear through the Eyes of Madness

Strange name, but this is a killer album from start to finish, with bizarre lyrics, melodious hooks, and much rock wizardry. I was introduced to this album by my roommates at the University of Delaware, the first time I lived in America for 6 months, and it always now reminds me of my US college experience and adventure in general.

16. Def Leppard – Hysteria

This is 80s glam rock at its finest, encapsulating euphoria on a compact disc. Since it’s so euphoric, it’s perfect for that train ride the day after an amazing party with your new hostel buddies in a foreign land. Best tracks: Gods of War, Rocket, Women

15. Florence and the Machine – Lungs

“A falling star fell from your heart, and landed in my arms…” So begins the romance of Florence’s “Cosmic Love”. The whole album is a mish mash of romantic experience and yearning for passion, and for me it’s the perfect thing to listen to while on a plane, above the clouds, looking out the window at the crescent moon. Best tracks: Cosmic Love, Howl

14. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr – The Ratpack

Any smooth Frank Sinatra jazz is good cruisy music to listen to on a train or plane, and is equally good for transporting you to a deep state of relaxation or getting you ready for a shindig. The best thing about this album is it has about 100 tracks and also includes Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. for a bit of variety. Best tracks: Some Enchanted Evening, Take Your Girlie to the Movies, Baby It’s Cold Outside

13. Guns n’ Roses – Appetite for Destruction

This is an album which never gets old, as it’s bazillion or so sales will testify. It has actually gone 18 x platinum, which is just ridiculous. But there’s a good reason, because the album rocks effortlessly from start to finish and just sounds so badass. It’ll make you feel like you can do anything, and you might need that if you’re on the way to a new destination! Best tracks: Paradise City, Rocket Queen, Think About You, It’s So Easy, all of them pretty much.

12. Hole – Live Through This

A great and highly underrated album. Live Through This is variously ascerbic, raw, aggressive, heartfelt and introspective. One of those albums I bought a million years ago but still listen to, mostly while travelling. Best tracks: Violet, I Think That I Would Die

11. The Mars Volta – Deloused in the Comatorium

My favourite prog rock. As a fan of the original At The Drive In music, a fellow traveller in Trondheim, Norway turned me onto The Mars Volta just after they’d made the transition to their new incarnation. The Mars Volta have made much good music since, but it’s their first record that has the most incredible melodies, the most mind warping arrangements. It’s so intricate that it’s the perfect album to listen to with headphones. More than that, I bought it whilst travelling in Finland, so it always reminds me of the amazing people and places of that country.

10. The Naked and Famous – Passive Me Aggressive You

A good party CD, with every song full of positive energy and killer melodies. It’s heavily featured in my favourite snowboarding film, “Art of Flight“, so it always gets me in the mood for a snowboarding trip. Best tracks: Young Blood, No Way

9. Noir Desir – Des Visages Des Figures

Another one that reminds me of Finland, even though it’s French. It’s darkly poetic and very powerful stuff. For those that associate travel with worldly romance, you’ll need to have this in your iPod. Best tracks: Le Vent Nous Portera, Lost

8. Red Hot Chili Peppers – Blood Sugar Sex Magick

Tough choice to pick one album from these guys (One Hot Minute is a close runner up) but it has to be Blood Sugar Sex Magick because it’s just so damn epic, full of journeyman funk that will take you on a trip. The guitar solo from “I Could Have Lied” will forever have me driving through tropical Australian sugarcane fields, while Breaking the Girl is a tale of love lost. Meanwhile, “Sir Psycho Sexy” is sexy as hell and at 8 minutes long is perfect to listen to on a train as the scenery goes past outside.

7. Silversun Pickups – Carnavas/Swoon

I’ve had to include two albums from these guys as they complement each other perfectly and sound as though they are meant to be played consecutively, almost like a double album. The band itself has to be the most underrated act in existence- they sound like a smoother Smashing Pumpkins and I’m amazed they aren’t as big as them. Every song a perfect melody wrapped up in Big Muff fuzz. Another band I vibed to heavily in the US, it would make the perfect soundtrack to a cruisy US roadtrip. Best tracks: Substitution, The Royal We, Catch and Release, Checkered Floor, Future Foe Scenarios, Three Seed

6. Smashing Pumpkins – Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness

Another huge seller and an unsurprising choice on my list, Mellon Collie is unsurpassed in ambition and scope, which makes it perfect for a voyage into the unknown. From soaring string sections and beautiful ballads, to fuzzed-out, distorted metal, Mellon Collie is an astonishing double-album. And rarely for a double album, there’s no down moments. Best tracks: Tonight Tonight, Zero, Bullet With Butterfly Wings, Porcelina of the Vast Oceans, Jellybelly, Muzzle, Take Me Down

5. The Smiths – The Sound of the Smiths

The Smiths, with Johnny Marr’s flowing riffs and Morrissey’s stark baritone, were so amazing that it’s impossible to single out one of their albums. So I prefer to just go for this whopping “Greatest Hits” compilation which has all the good stuff on it. The Smiths music is at times uplifting, depressing, lonely, beautiful….. all the emotions you are likely to feel at different times on your travels, and thus the perfect companion for them. I challenge you to listen to “How Soon is Now” or “There is a Light that Never Goes Out” on a plane or roadtrip and not be moved.

 4. Sublime – Sublime

The masters of surf/skate punk/ska released a couple other great albums during their short existence but it’s hard to go past their last one, released after the death of singer Brad Nowell in 1996. To me it is the album of summertime, a collection of rawly-produced, bouncy, funky reggae beats with hip-hop credentials and mosh-pit punk choruses. If I’m going somewhere there is sun and salt-water, I get this straight on the stezza, pronto. Best tracks: Wrong Way, Santeria, Seed, Paddle Out

3. Cypress Hill – Black Sunday

“Had a bad dream woke up in a casket, now I can’t even get back at the bastard” sings Sen Dog on “Lick a Shot”, off Cypress Hill’s first record. You might feel a little bit like that on the road, or it might be your reason for being on the road in the first place. Either way Black Sunday, with it’s motherlode of catchy, smoke-wafting hip-hop classics, will have the party started in no time, whether it’s a room full of people or just yourself. Best tracks: I Ain’t Goin’ Out Like That, Insane in the Brain, Cock the Hammer, Lick a Shot

2. Beatles – Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band

The best album from the Beatles from their “experimental” days and a worthy inclusion in your travel iPod. A world of fantasy awaits within- a nice complement to the real world around us. Best tracks: A Day in the Life, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite

1. Incubus – Morning View

I’ll be honest- there are other Incubus albums I like more, but this one is their best for a trip. I’ve vibed to “11am” to remind myself of what a regular routine is like, I’ve let the stress drift away in Thailand listening to “Are You In?” and I’ve floated down a river to the watery strains of “Aqueous Transmission”. It even has the song “Wish You Were Here”.

0. Mastodon – The Hunter

Ok, I had to choose one more because to leave this out would be a crime. I’ve been vibing to this one recently but really, any album from prog-metal masters Mastodon will work. The intricacy of their hooks, the subtle vocal harmonies, the chord progressions and crazy time signatures, all of these demand patient headphone listening to really let the music soak in and fully understand what they are trying to do. And I never have time to use headphones unless I’m on a trip. Best tracks: Curl of the Burl, Stargasm, Thickening, Spectrelight, Bedazzled Fingernails

Music is a subjective thing, and I want to know how your list differs. What do you have on your iPod?

The post Top 20 Best Music Albums to Travel With appeared first on Confiscated Toothpaste.

Day 1 (watch highlights)

I’m running terribly late for the midday start of Melbourne hardcore rockers King Parrot. They’re only playing for half an hour, and I’m cursing the train as it slowly pulls into Olympic Park station. Once off I run through the melee of police sniffer dogs and negotiate the entrance to the festival, though despite checking the map on the train I’m immediately hopelessly lost once inside. Mercifully, the festival site is not as vast as previous years, and I reach Stage 4 (the Metal Stage) in only a few minutes of running. The two day format is already paying dividends for me.

King Parrot are well into the swing of things by the time I arrive. “Are you feeling sun smart?” screams the bassist Slats in a bogan Melbourne accent. “Cos I’m feeling pretty fucking sun dumb.” He’s not the only one. Though I’ve smothered myself in suncream it is blisteringly hot out here at Olympic Park and I question my sanity in being here at midday. The shirtless, fat and sweaty King Parrot do not disappoint however, burning through a quick assortment of songs with insane intensity. The moshpit is going berserk to instant classics “Bozo” and “Shit on the Liver”, which I’m stoked to discover I haven’t missed. Singer Matt Young dives into the crowd and is carried around on a sea of hands whilst still screaming into the mic. When the set finishes suddenly at the half hour mark, the crowd dissipates stunned, one onlooker summing up the mood of everyone when he says “Damn it, I’m spent after the very first band!”

It’s a full hour before my next must-see act, progressive black-metallers Ne Oblivscaris, also from Melbourne. So I decide to have a look around. I’m stoked to discover the entrance to the main arena is only a few hundred metres away, with everything from free water refills, shady trees, water sprayers, beer and toilets in between. Things seem really well organised and I’m excited about the day ahead.

In the main stadium, classic Aussie ska act Area 7 are up and rocking. I’m always up for some ska so I take a seat in the stands to get out of the sun and watch from a distance. The main stages look great, but the ground is covered in white plastic matting which in the midday sun is almost blindingly reflective. I take it easy for a while in the shade then go back out to the metal stage to check out Ne Oblivscaris.

I’ve seen their breed of jazz/classical/black metal fusion once before at the Annandale Hotel in Sydney and was impressed, and they don’t disappoint this time either. Being devotees of the epic opus, their 40 minute set is crammed with only 3.5 songs including “Pyrrhic” from the new album and “And Plague Flowers the Kaleidoscope” from the first one. Their sound is intricate to say the least but comes across clear even in the open air. Violinist Tim Charles draws cheers from the crowd when he says it’s a dream to be playing at Soundwave, but it’s clear that this is a band destined for big things.

• WATCH: Ne Oblviscaris play at Soundwave Sydney 2015

It’s 2:20 and I’m well overdue for lunch, so I grab some Subway in the main arena and am pleasantly surprised by One Ok Rock from Japan. I’ve never heard of them but they have a youthful enthusiasm and melody that’s contagious, and they become a surprise highlight for me. At the end of their set and my footlong (sub that is) I head to the punk stages for a look around; I catch part of the sets of Fireworks and Crown the Empire before returning to the main arena for the very naughty glam-rockers Steel Panther.

Man, these guys are entertaining as hell. Their banter is off the offensively off the wall, and you’re not quite sure whether its all glam-rock irony or if they’ve performed the same joke so many times that they’ve become it, but they have girls in the crowd flashing their tits on the big screens and dancing on stage and everyone is in stitches or suitably disgusted by the end of their set. Luckily, it also happens that they rock. In between the banter they rip through crowd pleasers like “Pussywhipped” and “17 Girls in a Row”, all blistering solos, leopard-skin pants and blonde hairspray.

• WATCH: Steel Panther’s naughty banter at Sydney Soundwave 2015

I’m having such a good time at Steel Panther that I forget to leave early to catch the start of Fear Factory‘s set on the metal stage. Their industrial rock with machine-gun double-kick was some of my favourite music back in the 90’s, I’d had no idea that they were even still making music. But I’ve never once seen ‘em live and they put on a good show. Things are a bit on the noisy side though, and I begin to wish they’d mix the drums down a little, since with all the double-kick it becomes difficult to make out the rest of the sound. The older classics I’m ok with however, and they play enough classics from the old days such as “Edgecrusher” and “Demanufacture” to keep the fans happy.

Even though I’ve seen them the previous night at their Enmore Theatre sideshow gig with Incubus, I make a quick trip inside the main arena to see Antemasque. Consisting mostly of ex-members of one of my favourite prog-rock bands Mars Volta, Omar, Cedric and Dave (and Omar’s brother on the bass) are rocking out on a huge stage with a smallish crowd, which allows easy access to all the action, but there’s not as much post-punk intensity as they had the previous night at the Enmore. I also manage to arrive right as they launch into “Providence”, which degenerates into a 20 minute stream-of-consciousness jam session. Now I know these guys have been given an hour slot with only one 35-minute album of material to their credit, but extended jams are tedious at the best of times. Personally, at both gigs I’d much prefer to have heard a couple of killer Mars Volta or At the Drive In tracks thrown into the mix. But they recover momentum with a suitably rocking performance of “People Forget” before walking offstage looking oddly relieved to be done.

Back over at the metal stage, I am super excited to see pioneering industrial metal act Ministry. Al Jourgensen struts onstage to the programmed beat of “Hail to His Majesty”. A huge video display behind the band plays Ministry’s left-wing brand of angry imagery, flashes of TV footage and ridicule Fox News. The band are absolutely rocking and to my delight they include my absolute favourite “NWO” and “Just One Fix” from Psalm 69 and finish with “Thieves” from The Mind is a Terrible Thing to Taste. The pit is absolutely pumping. I’d have loved to have seen “Psalm 69″ or “Jesus Built My Hotrod”, and again I’d love for the bass drum to be just that bit quieter but nobody could complain about the sheer quality of Ministry’s set.

• WATCH: Crowd mosh to Ministry at Sydney Soundwave 2015

Next up are Dragonforce. I’ve never bought any of their albums, but I’ve always been in awe at their mind-popping sound, which sounds somewhere between Iron Maiden and a light-speed synthesized video game soundtrack. I’m curious about whether they can pull it off live and they do, it’s amazing. The double solos and incredible guitar work is all there, the keyboardist breaks from his setup at the rear of the stage to jam a warp-speed keytar solo in time with a guitar solo, the singer barely hits a bum note and they’re all high pitched ones too. Refreshingly in a day of screamo and hardcore everything is light and clear and good fun from these guys.

• WATCH: Dragonforce playing “Cry Thunder” at Sydney Soundwave 2015

But it’s Day 1 headliner Faith No More who’ve got my attention now. Back in the 90s when I played guitar in a band at school, we were so devoted to FnM that at school assembly we didn’t play anything else. Their stage is adorned strikingly with flowers and shimmering curtains and they walk onstage in white robes to unfortunately launch into the dog-eared new single, “Motherfucker”. Thankfully, that out of the way early, the remainder of the set is all-time, a mix of old-school favourites like “Epic”, “Zombie Eaters” and “Midlife Crisis”. The setlist draws surprisingly strongly from the King for a Day album, I count seven (!) tracks from that album, and I am transported back in time to the Alternative Nation festival in 1995, teenaged, covered in mud and freezing cold, which Faith No More headlined on their original tour for that album. The sound is great; the sound guy hasn’t mixed the volume too loud. The crowd sings along to “Evidence”, “The Gentle Art of Making Enemies”, “King for a Day” and The Commodores classic “Easy” before they close with awesome new track “Superhero”. They then return for a killer encore, performing Bee Gees cover “I Started A Joke”, “Digging the Grave” and “We Care a Lot”. I can’t fault the performance and wish only they could keep going so we could hear a few more from Angel Dust and Album of the Year. And maybe a couple more from The Real Thing. Yeah- I’m never satisfied right?

• WATCH: Faith No More playing at Sydney Soundwave 2015
• WATCH: Highlights of Day 1, Sydney Soundwave 2015

Day 2 (watch highlights)

Gosh- woke up with my legs and feet absolutely killing me from yesterday, and we’re only half way! Yikes. After a good stretch and a breakfast and a lather of suncream I’m onto the train, much earlier this time, but it doesn’t matter because the connecting train is delayed. And so I enter the festival once again in a sprint- this time for the main arena where Apocalyptica is playing at 1 PM.

I first saw Apocalyptica, a 4-piece metal cello act, in Portland USA of all places, back when I used to live there. I was so impressed that I bought their album on the way out of the show, and jammed to it as a bit of a soundtrack to my US adventure. Today, the sun is absolutely belting down- it’s 37°C (99°F) and the band (from icy Finland) is shirtless, while the crowd is absolutely baking on the white plastic pitch. The sweat is pouring off me and I’m not even sure any of the suncream I applied is still intact. But it’s impossible to look away, because Apocalyptica are unbelieveable onstage, rocking old metal standards and pulling off cello versions of light-speed guitar solos, despite the mix again being way too high on the drums (although the drummer himself is also excellent). Standing right in front of the sound desk, every kick drum feels like a punch in the chest, and the cellos are impossible to make out. I scramble to the front of the stage to enjoy the rest of the show away from the mix speakers and thankfully there everything sounds good, especially my favourite song “I Don’t Care”.

Luckily the next band I want to see, Fucked Up, are in one of the indoor stages, but by god is it hot in there as well. Never mind, cos these punk rockers seem to be feeding off it, and make a lot of noise, some of it pretty good and all of it pretty entertaining.

Back over at the metal stage, metal supergroup Killer Be Killed is getting started, and I’m surprised to see the sun already making way for storm clouds. It’s still blazing hot though, and I’m excited to hear this mix of musicians from different bands. Troy Sanders from Mastodon is doing his usual class act on bass and vocals, while ex-Sepultura frontman Max Cavalera sounds much as you’d expect on guitars and vocals, which is to say good and growly. There’s also Greg Puciato from The Dillinger Escape Plan on lead vocals, while regular ex-Mars Volta drummer Dave Elitch is playing Soundwave with Antemasque, and has been replaced by Converge drummer Ben Koller. No complaints on the lineup then, but how is the music? Well, I like about half of it and the other half I’m not yet sure about yet. It’s a bit on the chugging noisy side so I’ll have to have a proper listen to their album. Having said that, the crowd is absolutely wild and loving it, and I’m prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt.

I go and check out Japanese act Crossfaith, another band I haven’t seen before. They play a brutal show, with screaming hardcore interspersed with electronic house sounds. It’s an interesting mix. The singer is enticing the crowd into all sorts of craziness, huge death circles and two walls of death. In one wall of death I notice a guy dressed as a woman that I’ve seen over at the metal stage; he stands in the middle of the void between the two walls with his fingers in the air and gets absolutely pole-axed as the walls meet. I see kids get dragged out with bloodied noses, broken bones, shoes missing. Definitely not a show for the faint hearted.

I duck out and back to the metal stage for Godsmack, but apocalyptic lightning bolts are shooting across the sky and the thunder is almost as loud as the band. Pretty soon it starts to rain and I take cover at a Nandos chicken burger van. The rain turns into a veritable monsoon, everything is flooded and drenched but still somehow, the band play on, and they are sounding good. Crisp and clear deep grooves. The guitarist complains that “I was going to come out and do something awesome in that last song but I just couldn’t cos of the rain”- I’m amazed they’re even still playing without regard to safety or equipment, and playing so well at that. They turn into another surprise highlight of the day for me.

Next up are thrash legends Exodus. They sound pretty spot on also, and vocalist Steve Souza’s hitting all the high shrieks. He’s also doing his best to whip the crowd into a frenzy, and calls out a huge wall of death. Obviously the old bastards still like their carnage. The weather has cleared and guitarists Gary Holt and Lee Altus are accurate as ever with their riffing and soloing. Its so good to hear some classic thrash.

• WATCH: Exodus and the crazy wall of death at Sydney Soundwave 2015

While I’m waiting the half-hour for Judas Priest to set up, I duck over to the nearby main arena to catch some of Marilyn Manson, whom I’ve never seen before. The grooves are pretty enjoyable, and Manson looks the part in blue and red makeup, stumbling around stage like a zombie for various costume changes, even if his attempts at singing aren’t quite all there. But I draw the line when he smashes a beer bottle onstage and proceeds to cut his arm with it, to the protest of what looks like his management. That’s just downright bloody creepy. Luckily, Judas Priest is getting started back on the metal stage, so I don’t have watch that shit.

I’ve never seen Priest before, but their album Painkiller was one of the first I bought as a pre-teen metalhead back in the 90s. Even then Priest were a classic pioneering bunch of oldies- they’ve been around since the early 70s for godsakes! I’m curious whether they’ll even be able to get around the stage without zimmer frames, but I soon realise what I’ve been missing out on, because Judas Priest friggin’ rock! Their sound is clear and true- the metal stage has sounded awesome today- I can hear every solo and every drum fill. A full stage video screen covers the band in suitably fiery graphics and album themed motifs and the guys look the part, all studs and leather. Rob Halford even rides a freaking Harley Davidson onstage during the set. With 90 minutes with which to play, the band gets through a sizeable collection of back catalogue favourites including “Breaking the Law”, “Beyond the Realms of Death”, and “You’ve Got Another Thing Coming”, as well as killer new tracks like “Halls of Valhalla” and “Redeemer of Souls”. But I’m absolutely stoked when they come back on for encore 2 and I hear the drum solo intro of “Painkiller”. I’d like to have heard some other songs off of that album, but hey- I’m nitpicking.

• WATCH: Judas Priest play at Sydney Soundwave 2015

There’s another half hour for Smashing Pumpkins to set up, so I go and check out Slash in the main arena. Despite being one of my favourite bands growing up, I was a bit too young to catch Guns n’ Roses live in their heyday, so it’s fun to see Slash play with his new band, Myles Kennedy and the Conspirators. I get there at the right time, just as they launch into Gunners classic “Sweet Child O’ Mine”. Not long after that, they close with “Paradise City”, Slash pulling an extended version of that outro solo, as ticker-tape rains from above. It’s a glorious moment.

Slipknot then open their set on the other stage. It’s quite a sight, with incredible lighting and pyrotechnics and stage design, a huge demonic creature hovering over the band and they launch into the crazy percussive wall of sound they are known for. Back when Slipknot released their first album I thought it was pretty groundbreaking, and I went to see them live a couple of times but since then there’s been a bit too much noise and not enough actual good music I reckon.

So I slip off in time back to the outdoor metal stage where what’s left of Smashing Pumpkins, basically Billy Corgan with a few other random dudes playing along. I’m pretty stoked when they open with “Cherub Rock”, a classic from Siamese Dream, and they’ve got the old familiar Big Muff guitar sound going on. In contrast to the main arena where Slipknot is playing, and the prior Judas Priest set, there are very few bells and whistles in this performance, with only a black backdrop and a few lights to augment Billy’s showmanship. The stripped down asthetic becomes more apparent in the next two songs, Tonight Tonight and 1979, which are missing their key synth layers. Tonight Tonight sounds downright odd without the soaring string section in my opinion, but the singalong reaction from the crowd is well deserved as these are also classic songs. After this, Billy segues into newer stuff that is not as interesting to me, and feeling bored I head back over to see what Slipknot are doing.

• WATCH: Smashing Pumpkins perform at Sydney Soundwave 2015

Predictably, they’re making a lot of noise banging on beer kegs with sticks, but the horrorshow appeal of their performance is as present as ever, so I decide to watch for a while. But just at that moment the barrier in front of the crowd collapses and the show is halted. Ten minutes later and with no resolution, I’m getting bored again, so I buy a cookie at Subway and head back over to watch Billy and Co.

• WATCH: Slipknot and the barrier collapse at Sydney Soundwave 2015

I get back right in the middle of “United States”, which is a newer track I really like, and they perform it with intensity. Following this they launch into crowd favourite “Bullet With Butterfly Wings”- it’s clear I’ve come back at the right time. It’s not long though before Billy brings a high looking Marilyn Manson onstage to sing “Ava Adore”, which he proceeds to maim terribly. Unfortunately, it appears that that was the last song. There’s still another 15 minutes to run, so the crowd scream and cheer for an encore. Some minutes later, it appears that’s not going to happen. The disappointment is palpable, and even the technicians seem confused with the house music and lights not coming on for several minutes.

The night is saved however, by Slipknot, who I pass by in the hope they’ll close with something off the first album. In reward, I get “Surfacing”. This is a fitting finale as the stage lights up with an impressive array of fire and explosions.

• WATCH: Highlights of Day 2, Sydney Soundwave 2015

It’s not quite the triumphant end to proceedings that Faith No More’s set was last night, but we can hardly complain with such a well organised festival and such an incredible array of bands throughout both days. Besides, by this point, I’m I’m in too much pain and too exhausted to care much. Rock!

Do you also endeavour to ROCK? What was your favourite festival?

The post The 2015 Soundwave Music Festival in Sydney appeared first on Confiscated Toothpaste.

Begins in Amsterdam, travel to the Hague, Zeeland, Bruges, Ghent and Brussels.
Features the music of Ray Charles, Dungen, The Shadows, Incubus and Ghost.

Read the story of this trip: “A Roadtrip Through The Netherlands and Belgium“

The post A Roadtrip Around the Netherlands and Belgium- GoPro and Canon 6D appeared first on Confiscated Toothpaste.

Love isn’t something you find. Love is something that finds you.”

Thus spake American actress Loretta Young. Though she had a point, the problem with Love is that, being blind and all, it could be looking for you in Norway or Thailand. That’s right- Love may be confused about the continent in which you reside. If you’re at home, stuck inside a shell preventing the petals of love from raining down upon thee, some travel may be a blessing. But be aware that travel can itself be the shell which imprisons you. Here’s some tips to using your wanderlust to your romantic advantage and finding love on the road.

1. Stay in Hostels

Not that I have anything against hotels or anything like that. But while the Fairmont might be very romantic for couples on honeymoon, it’s not a singles’ paradise. And while Lost in Translation glamourised the hotel bar as a place to meet that special someone, you’re more likely to be lost in depression sitting in one on your own with a scotch.

On the other hand, hostel bars can be a hive of activity of happy single travellers looking to meet other travellers. If you can cook, you might also impress in the hostel kitchen. If you don’t drink or cook, you’re still likely to strike up a conversation in the dorm. Staying in a place with mixed dorms might give you the best results. Even if you don’t find love, you’ll find new friends, and that can be almost as good.

2. Don’t Be Afraid to Talk

This might be an obvious one but it’s one that took me a while to grasp in my younger years. You’ll only regret the conversations that never took place. You might have made eye contact with someone across the club or on the boat but if you don’t say anything, it won’t count for squat. Worried that they won’t speak English? How about…

3. Learn a Few Words of the Local Language

It might surprise you how many people out there are willing to try and practice their English with a native speaker. But it’s a bit fromage-ey to go up to someone in France and say “Hi there stranger, how are you?” If you’re a bit rusty with your local dialect, just remember that poor language skills are a bit like a shitty birthday present- it’s the thought that counts. People like it that you made the effort. Even if you don’t pull it off cleanly, a malformed sentence can be very funny, and most people like to laugh.

NB. Alcohol may help in the above.

4. Be Confident, but Watch Your Alcohol Consumption

People worldwide are really not that different. Everybody wants to be swept off their feet by that confident someone. Travel can actually help a lot in this regard, because once you’ve made your 5-minute train connection in Frankfurt against all the odds without speaking German, or your found the laundromat in Tokyo by waving your arms around like a washing machine, or you’ve sat drinking Chianti on the Spanish Steps with people you just met half an hour ago, having a chilled conversation with a good-looking someone will seem a walk in the park.

Again, moderate alcohol consumption may help in reducing your inhibitions, but just like at home, nobody likes a pathetic drunk.

5. …and Don’t be a Creep

If you’re speaking to every person in earshot with an intent to connect amorously then you might be taking things a bit far. I once walked around Bergen in Norway with an American guy who was continuously being told “I’m waiting for my husband”. I had to explain to him that probably, many of these girls actually were just bullshitting him about having a husband, and it was not a pleasant evening’s walk. Likewise, another time I had to tell a Polish guy who was trying to impress people by purposely blocking the path of local women that he was being a douche. There’s a fine line between being confident and being a dickhead.

6. Be Flexible, Stay Longer

I once met an amazing Finn in a Norwegian hostel where I was only staying for one night. The next day I shipped out to Malaga, Spain, where I had planned a roadtrip. Spain was great and I saw a lot of cool Gaudi buildings and ate a lot of great olives and the Spanish were (for the most part) lovely. But for the first week after I arrived I just wished I was back in Norway. The moral of the story? Don’t be afraid to change plans, or better still, don’t make any. Go with the flow and do what feels right.

Also, try and spend more time in fewer places. This will not only allow you to more fully immerse yourself in the culture, but it will allow you more time to meet locals or fellow travellers, and if a relationship should spark then there’ll be more time for it to build into a bonfire.

7. Make Use of Facebook/Email

The above can be somewhat mitigated by modern technology. In times where an encounter at a party or on a train may be at best fleeting, a simple “hey are you on facebook?” may help a planted seed to bud later. But postpone telling them you have a website until a later date- that just sounds plain wanky.

8. Play an Instrument

The ability to play some sort of instrument (or sing, or tell jokes) should not be underestimated- there’s always someone who’s brought a guitar or a drum or a harmonica along and if you have a song you can convincingly pull off in a dorm room or an open-mic night in a bar it will usually go down well with cute onlookers. Just avoid being the sentimental fart that pulls out a guitar and plays for three hours in front of people too polite to complain that you’ve killed the conversation.

9. Go to Romantic Places

If the achingly beautiful scenery is tugging at your heartstrings, then chances are you’re not the only one. There’s nothing quite like being in a foreign jawdropping location to get people in the mood for love. Good examples are the Venetian Canals, the Eiffel Tower in Paris, or a palm-fringed tropical beach in South-East Asia.

10. Be Yourself, but Curb the Patriotism

Don’t be afraid to let those charming parts of your own culture shine; it’s likely that people you meet will be quite smitten and refreshed by them. Certain cultures like Aussie or Irish or Brazilian or Thai generally go down well with most anyone, but national characteristics can be a noose around the neck of anyone wielding them in a manner too loud or obnoxious or parochial. Even nervous Americans can be reassured most of the planet likes them if they aren’t too over-the-top.

In Barcelona I once met an English guy who drunkenly lorded it over a German fellow-traveller that apparently, England once beat Germany 5-1 in a soccer match. Apparently, this was “England’s finest hour”. Don’t be this person.

11. Don’t Travel Forever

I touched on this recently in my popular article, “Why You Shouldn’t Quit Your Job to Travel“, but the truth is that perpetual travel is rarely anything other than lonely. Think about it from the point of view of the object of your affection. They might find a dashing adventurer alluring; a lost soul that will disappear in a week and never wants a permanent home less so. Like everything in life, travel is best in moderation. See the world, fall in love, and then find a home base from where you can enjoy that.

12. Relax

If all else fails, just take a chill pill. Desperation is rarely attractive. Don’t try to force things- let your relationships with people move with their own momentum. I recently got married to the girl of my dreams in Brazil, but we met on the other side of the world 9 years prior. You probably aren’t in the rush you think you are. If you’re still in your 20s, then it’s especially true!

Finding yourself, or finding new friends, are perfectly good outcomes from an adventure. Don’t worry be happy.

Have any other pearls of wisdom or a cool story? I’d love to hear about it below.

The post How to Find Love on the Road appeared first on Confiscated Toothpaste.

Bruges

We pull up outside the hotel with 10 minutes to spare before I am supposed to be online. Abandoning my agreed roadtrip duties, I leave the car with Ed to park. I do the check-in in record time and the lady gives me the Wi-Fi password. I dump the bags in the room, get online, and…

Nothing works. Nothing. Not only is the internet slow as a rock, but it doesn’t work at all most of the time. We begin the call, with an important party of Chinese investors, and it’s a disaster. Twenty minutes in and we are forced to abandon the conference, though the people that run the hotel try unproductively to help (“I’ll just reset the modem. Click!” No! Now I’m completely cut off! Arrggh!).

Ed arrives and I am thoroughly irritated and thoroughly in need of a beer and a nice place to drink it. My mood improves when I realise I’m in Belgium, world capital of both beer and nice places. We’re sitting at a bar on the Grote Markt drinking sweet blonde Leffe and suddenly life seems pretty good. The townscape is bloody-well astonishing, a fairytale conglomerate of step-gabled rooftops and gigantic churches. Across the square is the world famous Belfry, which is positively gargantuan.

“Why did they feel the need to build such a huge belltower in such a small town?” asks Ed.
“I don’t know,” I reply, “but I like this place. It’s ambitious.”
Ed is somewhat unimpressed. “If you like Bruges,” he informs me, “you’d love Ghent. It’s kind of like this but bigger.”
“Really,” I reply skeptically. I can hardly imagine a place as spectacular as Bruges.
But Ed is insistent. “Not only that, it’s a good party place too.”
“Ok then,” I say, my curiosity sufficiently stoked, “let’s go to Ghent next.”

But Ed has a problem. In 3 mornings from now, he is due to fly back to his home in Switzerland. The flight is from Brussels. We are both keen to spend 2 nights in Bruges so as to do this amazing place justice, but the question is where to go next. Ed accidentally booked a flight at 7 in the morning, so ideally he wants to go to Brussels next so that he can easily get to the airport that morning. On the other hand, I still have 5 nights left until I have to fly home from Brussels, but I definitely don’t want to spend all of those in Brussels.

Over the course of the evening, Ed realises his mistake in whetting my appetite for Ghent and tries to take it back. “It’s really much the same as this,” he says. “No point really going.”
“I’m sure there’s early trains to Brussels from Ghent,” I say.
“Ghent’s actually nothing special. It’ll probably be raining.”

We stand mesmerised as a procession of white swans glides silently down a beautiful canal next to ancient buildings, the full moon reflected in the water. There’s no cars around- it could be the 1800s, or the 1500s. It’s Europe at its most beguiling. Later that night, we eat waffles with melted chocolate and banana at a café overlooking the Dijver quay. The ancient and elegant patrician houses on the bank are softly illuminated; a huge willow tree hangs out over the water.
“Ed, why don’t you just try to change your flight?”
“Hmm. Not a bad idea Matty.”

There’s just one problem. Ed has booked his flight with some kind of bargain basement German company called Airline Direct. The first three times he calls, an automated message states simply that there are too many callers at the moment and to please call back another time. Somewhat taken aback by this strange approach to customer service, we place a call at 9 the next morning when the call centre opens. This time it is answered by a very confused German who replies simply “I don’t know” when asked if it is possible to change the flight.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Ed asks in German. “Who does know?”
“We will need to fill out an application and send it to the airline, and we should hear back in 3 to 5 days.”
“But my flight’s in 2 days.”
“Two days?” the operator asks incredulously, as if we’re making the most ridiculous request in the world. “No, that’s not possible.”
“Can’t you call the airline and ask them?”
“No,” says the German with the same air of incredulity. “That’s not possible.”

We try calling the airline but get the predictable response “As you have booked this flight through a travel agent, you need to contact the agent.” Meanwhile, while we waste time dealing with twits, Bruges is laying in wait outside, unexplored.

We start the day with a canal cruise, to acquaint ourselves with the town’s waterways. The guy piloting the boat is kinda funny in a “groan…” kind of way and it’s my first taste of dry Belgian humour. (Typical deadpan jokes include “here is the most important building in all Bruges- it’s the brewery”.) We soon realise that the Belgian driving culture is somewhat less appealing- despite Bruges being a cobbled pedestrian tourist zone, the few cars zoom around at startling speed, with countless near misses with pedestrians and bikes.

We also take a stroll through the Church of Our Lady, another imposing structure on the Bruges skyline complete with colossal tower and flying buttresses. It houses the famous sculpture Madonna and Child by Michelangelo, which was smuggled out of Bruges by both Napoleonic France and Nazi Germany. It was returned on both occasions, with the World War Two incident immortalised in the film “The Monuments Men”.

After lunch we decide to head up the impressive Belfry and get a bird’s eye view of Bruges, but there’s a problem- our investor meeting has been rescheduled for 3 pm today and the queue of people waiting to go up the tower is too long. Rather than risk missing my meeting again, we instead head to the Basilica of the Sacred Blood. Built between 1134 and 1157 next to the town hall of Bruges, it houses a venerated relic of the Jesus Christ’s blood, allegedly collected by Joseph of Arimathea and brought from the Holy Land by Thierry of Alsace, a Count of Flanders.

I’ve never been much for religion, but ever since our quest to get married in the world’s most beautiful church in Brazil, I’ve been interested in religious buildings and artifacts. We walk into the Basilica and take a seat before the altar, only to be told we’re facing the wrong altar. Whoops. A priest appears and holds a glass tube aloft. We file past the glass tube, one at a time. It has what looks like some ancient fluff inside it. Whether or not it is a cloth with holy blood on it, as claimed, I couldn’t say, but the pageantry is cool.

We return to the hotel, and I have the con-call using the hotel telephone rather than the internet this time. I am a bit worried about how much the hotel is going to try and charge us for that, but for now we decide to put that aside and drive to the beach, 15 km away.

As it happens, Bruges was once on the beach. The silting of the Belgian coast led to it being cut off from the ocean, before a storm surge in 1134 created a natural channel called the Zwin that swept inland and restored ocean access to Bruges. You’d never know it given its sleepy nature today, but Bruges then became one of the world’s premier commercial cities, at the crossroads of the famous Hanseatic League trade network for centuries. Finally in the 1500s, the Zwin again silted back up again and Bruges fell behind other cities in economic development.

Nowadays, Bruges is connected by canal to an important port called Zeebrugge (Bruges on the Sea). I’m keen to take in this amazing coastal history and smell the sea air, but we’ve got a slight problem.

We’ve lost the car.

You might remember from Part 1 that I had originally agreed to be the driver on this trip, because among other things, Ed told me he could not reverse park. When I had been late for the con-call yesterday, I left Ed to park the car, and he had to go a long way before he found a spot he didn’t have to reverse into. We then didn’t think about the car for 24 hours. Now he can’t remember where it is.

We walk the streets aimlessly for some time and I have visions of having to explain to Sixt that we’ve lost their car, somewhere on the outskirts of Bruges. After half an hour of searching, Ed is sure we’re in the right street, and then we can see our car, but then something horrible happens. A man driving the usual kamikaze manner comes down the street at speed and hits a kid riding a bike. The kid is not badly hurt, but is shocked and in tears and his older sister is also in tears and unsure how to handle the situation. Unbelieveably, the man gets out of his car and begins verbally abusing the two youngsters. It looks like a situation we’re going to have to intervene in, despite not knowing the local language, but mercifully some locals jump in and begin arguing with the man in Flemish and help the kids to the sidewalk. We don’t dilly dally in jumping in the car and exiting a bad situation.

At Zeebrugge, the tide is out, and when the tide goes out on such a broad, flat coastline, it goes out a long way. There are a jumble of restaurants and beach huts, and to the north the port breakwall lined with cranes. We walk about a kilometre out to sea before we reach the water. Looking back, the beach huts and restaurants are a long way away. One has to be careful walking on this coastline that you’re not trapped by rising waters when the tide turns.

That night Ed and I decide on a course of action regarding Ghent. We’ll head there tomorrow morning, as it’s on the way to Brussels anyway. We want to drop off the car there, because we’re heading inland now where the trains are the more convenient option, and unfortunately there’s no drop off point in Bruges. Once we’re in Ghent, we’ll try and contact a girl that Ed met there last time, and if Ghent’s nice and everything’s hunky dory, we’ll consider staying a night.

The next morning dawns bright and sunny and full of promise and we ready the car- but there’s one thing we haven’t yet done in Bruges and that’s the bell-tower. We race into town, there’s no queue, we go up a spiral staircase for what seems like forever, and at the top is the most incredible view of this wonderful UNESCO world heritage site. The bells go off while we are up there, 47 massive bells playing a song from an automated carillon. It’s deafening and unforgettable.

Ghent

We’re back in the car and heading to Ghent, and typically, we’re barely in the car half an hour before we’re taking the exit from the freeway. There’s tramrails and bike riders and pedestrians everywhere and tangled streets, but miraculously we find the drop off point without drama, and as usual with Sixt, the experience is nice and simple and there are no funny added charges.

We’re near the railway station and it transpires that we’re several miles from the centre of town. Since we’re now without vehicle, we drag our luggage to the station, deposit it, and begin the walk into town.

It’s a total bluebird day and the town is absolutely stunning. I mean it’s mindboggling- it’s hard to imagine a more incredible fairytale city. Not only that, but the vibe is busy- there’s a large university here and many students. In comparison to Bruges, there’s a strong sense that the city is alive and utilised, and not just by tourists. Oh- and there’s a castle. Ghent’s ticking all the boxes.

As we approach along the Ghent-Bruges Canal (so named because it runs between the two cities), the girl Ed met while he was here last time messages back, and she’s keen to meet up and party tonight. Even Ed is in agreement that staying in Ghent, rather than proceeding through to Brussels, is the best course of action.

So we duck into the tourist office and grab a map and try to work out where to stay. In the end, we end up at Hostel 47, a well appointed little budget place just outside the centre of town. We don’t regret it- the place is clean and sleek and quiet and there’s a garden where you can eat breakfast. Furthermore, the Belgian owner, Youri, is a very cool guy. When we tell him that our bags are all the way back at the train station, over an hour’s walk, he says “why don’t you go out and enjoy the city, and later this evening after peak hour finishes I’ll drive you over to get them.” We can hardly believe our good fortune.

Since by this time it’s already the afternoon and the day is ticking by, and Ed will be leaving for Brussels airport early the next morning, the afternoon itinerary is Ed’s choice. Ed’s keen for a beer and a canal boat tour to get acquainted with the city. Beer and boats have been a bit of a running theme the whole trip, and the sun’s out, so I can hardly disagree.

We join a boat next to the beerhouse on the Leie River. It cruises back down the Ghent-Bruges Canal, past the Graslei Harbour, the centrepiece of Ghent and the location of its oldest and most elegant step-gabled houses: the Grain Weighers house, the Guildhall of the Free Boatmen, and the Spijker. Young people relax on the banks in the sun with beers and friends.

We pass under ancient bridges and storehouses and turn left into the Ketelvest. We’re slightly outside of the medieval centre and in a more modern area of Ghent now. There’s colourful houses and commercial buildings, and we pass into the Reep behind the 13^th century Fortress of Gerald the Devil. Access to this waterway is via a long, dark, watery underground tunnel.

On the way back we go past the Gravensteen Castle, and we pass under an adjacent bridge. Under the bridge, just above the waterline is a small 1-metre-by-1-metre hole in the brickwork with a grille across the front. It’s where prisoners on death row would spend their final night, freezing and cramped and lonely. No final meal requests here. It’s a reminder of the city’s distant but grim medieval past.

Next, Ed wants to go see the castle, so we pays our money and takes our tickets.

Gravensteen served as the seat of the Counts of Flanders until they abandoned it in the 14th century. The castle was then used as a courthouse, a prison and eventually decayed. Houses were built against the walls and at one time it even served as a factory. The castle was saved from demolition by the city and restored to its former glory.

We’re told that the castle will be closing in an hour, which sounds ok to us because there’s a lot of other stuff we want to do anyway. But what they don’t tell you is that really, they want you out of there in half an hour. We find this out up on the roof of the castle when a not-so-friendly man appears to shepherd us off the roof and back inside the castle.

By the time we reach the torture room, where various horrifying torture devices and a guillotine all used in Ghent are displayed, the unfriendly man is hot on our heels and allows us not more than about a minute to look around the room. I am extremely pissed off and tell him as much, but it doesn’t do much good, with other security guards appearing and a scene developing. Ten minutes prior to closing time, all the visitors are herded into the courtyard of the castle which leads out to the street. This is very clearly their goal so that they can close up and go home at 5 pm on the dot. The Gravensteen becomes the only negative point on our visit in Ghent, so if you want to go, make sure you visit earlier in the day.

We grab another beer and a spot on the river and the sun starts going down. After a burger at the buzzing Korenmarkt, we head back to the hostel where Youri makes good on his promise to drive us to the train station. He’s a traveller himself and we swap stories inside the hostel van on the way, and I can’t recommend he and his establishment highly enough. Definitely stay there if you are heading to Ghent!

Bags retrieved and all set for Ed’s early morning departure, we head out on the town. Ed is slightly miffed to discover that the girl he met last time in Ghent now has a boyfriend. But the dude is nice and friendly and has the same Belgian sense of humour we’ve grown to like.

We start the night at ‘t Dreupelkot, a tiny bar close to the beerhouse on the river we drank at earlier. ‘T Dreupelkot is run by a man named Pol, who distils his own Jenever, a potent Belgian liquor. I’m always a bit wary of home-distilled liquor but hey, this is Belgium, and the bar is full of happy imbibers- it’s clearly a bit of a Ghent institution, so who am I to disagree? There’s over 200 flavours of Jenever, everything from green apple to chocolate to pepper.

The locals are recommending the square at St-Jacobs Church for its nightlife, so we head over there and it’s a bit more bohemian and divey and that suits me fine. We have a couple of dark Leffes in Jos, a bar filled with black and white photographs of rock shows, before heading back to the hostel for some snooze action.

At some ungodly hour, poor Ed wakes up and traipses off to catch the train to Brussels airport. By the time I wake up I can hardly remember him going, but the room’s empty and it feels weird to be at my own devices. First the car’s gone, now Ed. It’s been a good trip together chatting about solar cells and girls and good times. But I rouse myself knowing there’s another day of exploring Ghent ahead of me.

In contrast to yesterday, today is dark and gloomy, but it’s not raining. I love this sort of weather in Europe, and everything in Ghent today feels more authentic and medieval and menacing. The light for photography is great, and I plot a course of exploration along the axis of three of Ghent’s most recognisable towers, St Nicholas’s Church, the Belfort and St Bavo’s Cathedral.

The Belfort amazingly is even bigger than the one in Bruges. The bells served to regulate daily life in the growing medieval city, with a bell called “Roeland” used to mark the hour as well as to warn of approaching enemies or a great victory. Gradually more and more bells were added, and a carillon built by the famous bellfounders Pieter and François Hemony in the 17^th. The automated carillon now has 53 bells. Unsurprisingly, the view of Ghent from the belfry is pretty spectacular.

Meanwhile, the gothic St Bavo’s Cathedral, with its sprawling crypt, is notable for the Van Eyck masterpiece that resides within- The Lamb of God, also known as the Ghent Altarpiece. Like the Madonna of Bruges, it was pilfered by the Germans during the War, and features in The Monuments Men film. It really is an astonishing piece- I can’t seem to shake realism of the detail in Adam’s foot from my mind.

I also take in the area around St. Jacobs Church, where we passed last night, and the Leie River, and the Patershol quarter. The Patershol quarter is the medieval heart of the city and one of its most desirable neighborhoods, now filled with quirky restaurants. I’m exhausted so I grab a burger and afterwards sit down to enjoy a waffle with chocolate. It’s time to think about leaving for Brussels, so with light fading I grab my bag from the hostel and drag it to the nearby Dampoort station.

Brussels

Dragging my bag for 15 minutes might be the first reminder of what life with no car is like; the second is the train from Dampoort to the main Ghent Station (St Pieters). The first train I’m supposed to catch is for some reason cancelled; the second moves at the speed of an unrushed sloth. It’s meant to be a short trip skirting town but by the time we arrive at St Pieters, I’ve missed my connection to Brussels and the next train’s not for an hour. It’s pretty late at night by the time I roll into Brussels Centraal.

No matter, I console myself, knowing that I’ve got a bed at my colleague Monica’s place, and that Brussels is really the end of the line for this trip- I’ll have two nights here and then fly out to Singapore and home to Sydney.

After a couple of changes on the Metro system, and a late night walk through foreign neighbourhoods, I arrive at the apartment in Etterbeek where Monica lives with her husband Antoine and two young children. To my delight there’s a bit of a dinner party in full swing, complete with pasta and wine and Belgian chocolate. Antoine and the guests are French, so there’s a fair bit of French going on all of a sudden and I follow along best I can.

Actually, Belgium is a pretty interesting place as far as language and culture goes. In Flanders, where our roadtrip was focussed, they speak Flemish, which as far as I can make out is basically Dutch. In Wallonia in the south, they speak French. There’s a fair bit of political tension (ie, they mad hate each other) between the two regions, with secession movements quite popular in Flanders. I’m about to find out that Brussels is considered a third separate region of the country- here they speak both French and Dutch.

Like Amsterdam, I’ve been here once before when I was 17, half a lifetime ago. In fact, I was in Brussels when I received my high school results, prior to beginning my engineering studies at university, so when I awake the next morning I’m keen to rediscover this place.

I start by wandering through the Parc du Cinquantenaire (Jubelpark), with its impressive centrepiece triumphal arch, which commemorates Belgian independence. There’s a major traffic tunnel running under the park, but quite bizarrely the traffic emerges from the tunnel in the centre of the park only to enter into another tunnel 100 metres further on and disappear. Whether or not this is to give the traffic a view of the arch or for some other reason I am not sure, but it sure makes for a strange sight in the middle of the park.

On the other side of the park is the European government area, which I’m keen to see because I love politics. There’s the EU Council building, the EU Commission Headquarters and the EU Parliament building, Europa. I then catch the Metro into the centre of town.

The Grand Place (Grote Markt) is yet another UNESCO World Heritage Site. I’ve seen a lot of splendid squares on this trip, but the Brussels Grand Place, with its town hall and guildhouses in Gothic, Baroque and Louis XIV styles, is undeniably beautiful.

I also visit the Cathedral of St. Michael and St. Gudula, where I come face to face with a woman that looks exactly like a girl I dated more than a decade ago. She doesn’t acknowledge me, and I’m so perplexed by the encounter that I later message said girl to ask if it were her. She replies bemused saying that she’s elsewhere in Europe. False alarm then.

On a winter’s night in 1997, I walked with my father through a dark and snowy park in Brussels. I come across it and identify it as Parc de Bruxelles. On the perimeter of the park is the Royal Palace, which overlooks the Mont des Artes Gardens, with a glorious view over the city.

My friend Kristina, a lawyer who works with European Commission regulations, is staying in Ixelles and I head over there to meet her for dinner and drinks. Ixelles is full of little Art Nouveau bars and restaurants and reminds me a bit of Paris’s St Germain- it’s bohemian and chic. We have a couple of beers and then head to a little restaurant, where we are denied a table due to their being “too busy”. The place is half empty.

“Do you think they just don’t like the look of us?” I ask vexed, given we are a not a particularly poorly-groomed pair. Kristina, who speaks French, assures me this is just part of Belgium’s inconvenient eating culture. It’s not the first time I’ve been unimpressed by the service at Belgian restaurants- throughout Belgium I’ve been told certain items weren’t available, been kicked out due to the owners wanting to close, or kept waiting ungodly lengths of time for food to arrive. We’re rejected from another place who say they are “at this hour only taking reservations” before finally we get a table at a pasta place. The food takes half an hour to arrive, and I’m halfway through my dish before realising it’s not what I ordered. Not wanting to screw around any longer, I eat it anyway.

I’m looking forward to a late night rendezvous with Monica and Antoine but when I arrive home, they’re sleeping and the place is dark. I tip-toe inside so as not to wake the youngsters.

The next morning, my last in Europe on this trip, the 3 of us and the 2 kids ride bikes out to Parc de Woluwe. It’s yet another beautiful day and we sit by a pond with ducks and swans all around, while I reminisce on the trip. We wander through a marketplace where Antoine picks up an old film camera.

Antoine is keen to head to a bar-restaurant he’s heard of for lunch. I order a pizza, and true to form 45 minutes later we are still waiting. It seems there is only one waitress for about 40 customers. My last day is ticking past, and I am grateful when Monica and Antoine offer to take my bike home so that I can head out to the city one more time.

I head to the Palais de Justice, an imposing edifice and the most important court in Belgium, and then to see the Mannekin Pis, the most famous statue in Belgium. Like the name implies, the mannequin is of a small boy taking a piss. I am kind of amused to see so many tourists crowded around to take a look at something so unremarkable. The boyfriend of the girl we went out with in Ghent told me that Brussels actually has a new statue now, of a young girl taking a piss, “but she isn’t as popular”. Mannekin Pis has been comically dressed by somebody in a Scarlet Pimpernel outfit, and I am left with this legacy of the odd Belgian sense of humour as I head to the airport.

That’s all for now folks. I hoped you enjoyed the tale of my roadtrip through the Netherlands and Belgium. Look out for a video of the trip coming soon. 

The post A Roadtrip Through The Netherlands and Belgium Part 2: Bruges, Ghent and Brussels appeared first on Confiscated Toothpaste.

Amsterdam

Wow- I can’t believe I’m here. Whether it’s the day(s) of transit or the craziness of the city, or the fact that I was once here 17 years (half a lifetime) ago- I can’t be sure.

I’ll be spending most of my week in Amsterdam aboard a houseboat on the Amstel River, so I decide to start the week in style. The houseboat is slightly out of the city centre close to a conference I am attending, so for the first night I check into the stunning Pulitzer Hotel, close to the city centre. It’s in the De Negen Straatjes (“The Nine Streets”) area of Amsterdam, a central shopping area dissected by 3 major canals.

The Pulitzer is on the prestigious Conde Nast Top 25 Hotels in Northern Europe and it does not disappoint. It’s an amalgamation of 25 restored 17th and 18th century canal houses, and I have ordered a room overlooking the canal outside. The view is enchanting and the room is as character-filled as I hoped, with rough-hewn beams in the ceiling and large picture windows. It is also luxurious, and after a long trip from Sydney the bed with its soft fluffy pillows is heavenly. There are also chocolate truffles in small gable-house-shaped boxes. I know that it’s the Belgians with the reputation for good chocolate, but these taste pretty damn good also.

Surprisingly, since winter is approaching, the weather is unseasonably warm and the sun is out. This is not lost on Amsterdam’s locals, who are out in force at cafes and on boats in the canals. It’s Saturday afternoon and the exuberance of the city is immediately obvious- it’s like everyone has come out to party. I watch as an endless procession of boats goes past. One has what looks like a group of students making merry with a box of beer, the next has a group of people dressed as pirates, and the next has a group of gay men engaged in a sex act.

The city centre is no less eye-opening. Around Dam Square, crowds of chatting people sit chilled out on the cobblestones, while others dodge hordes of bikes, trams and every other form of transport you can imagine. I walk through the red-light district of De Wallen, where whores stand behind shop-windows and the smell of burning marijuana wafts from coffee shops. A postcard on a rack obnoxiously proclaims “In Amsterdam, we eat, sleep, drink, get stoned and fuck”. Sleep seems the most attractive option right about now, so I return to the Pulitzer for an afternoon nap.

The hotel has an impressive canal boat moored out the front. With its 1920s style polished teak and brass, adorned with marble, leather and bevelled glass, it is apparently the very same vessel Winston Churchill chose to tour Amsterdam in 1946. It looks the part, and it’s about to leave on a tour of Amsterdam’s canals. I decide to fight against my urge to continue sleeping, and get a further introduction to Amsterdam by water.

The canals are truly spectacular and our captain is knowledgeable, waxing lyrical on various buildings, bridges and landmarks. We past under countless curvy bridges and countless boats full of merry makers. I am leaning out of the boat, taking some photos of a crooked house, when someone on the bank yells out “Oi Matt!” in an Aussie accent. It’s Brett, a colleague who will be staying in the houseboat with me, and I’ve chanced upon him drinking beers in the sun. Now I know Amsterdam is not a huge city, but the coincidence is still pretty remarkable. “Do you want me to let you out?” the captain asks me.

“Nah,” I reply.

The sun goes down and the city assumes a dreamlike state. We pass into the ocean waters beyond the train station, which sits on reclaimed land. We then drift down the Amstel River, lined by houseboats, one of which will be my home for the next several nights. But for now, it’s an early night and room service at the Pulitzer.

Amsterdam is chock-full of popular museums and there are two I want to see- the Van Goph Gallery and Anne Frank House, where a Jewish family spent several years hiding from the Nazis after the Netherlands was occupied in the war. I get to Van Goph early on Sunday morning and to my delight, there’s barely even a queue. Seeing all those incredible paintings, from Sunflowers to the Potato Eaters is arresting, as is the news (to me) that most of Van Goph’s superlative output occurred within a 10-year period.

Unfortunately, I am not as lucky with Ann Frank House, with online tickets booked out weeks ahead and queues of several hours being present at all times I walk past during the next week. Let this be a lesson to book ahead!

Before heading to the houseboat, I take a long walk through the Jordaan area of Amsterdam. A former crowded slum, it’s now reborn as a home for artists and entrepreneurs, and is very peaceful in comparison to the rest of the bustling centre. I have lunch in Café Mothers- so called because the room is filled with framed portraits of mothers. I eat dutch sausages, potato and sauerkraut and apologise for not having a picture of my mother to leave there.

I take a cab across town to meet Barak, the houseboat owner. But Brett has got there first and Barak has already left and Brett’s naturally claimed the biggest bedroom. The boat is not much to view from the outside, but inside is a pretty impressive loungeroom complete with portholes. My room is up under the stern of the boat, below the engine which looks like it hasn’t run in about a decade. Barak has also rented us bikes at 10 euro a day, and they sit outside chained to the mailbox.

Life on the houseboat is comfortable and fun- we start each day looking across the still expanse of river and finish each night with the boat swaying us to sleep. The weather however deteriorates and becomes drizzly and cold- a reminder that winter is not far off.

Each day we ride our bikes to the conference, to bars, and to the other houseboat where our colleagues are staying. Theirs is a fair bit bigger than ours- more house than boat, and it looks like it’s been stationary even longer than ours. As it happens, owning a houseboat is not cheap- it’s a bona-fide alternative to owning a house, though with comparable capital requirements. It’s a way of life here for many locals.

Our bikes allow another modicum of local life. Amsterdam has a reputation as a bicycling city, but the quality and quantity of bike lanes and people on bikes is simply mindblowing. I get stuck in peak-hour bike traffic jams and lay eyes upon a three-storey bike parking lot. The bicycle is king here.

Midway through the week, Ed arrives. Ed is coming on the roadtrip with me and is an ex-colleague of ours. He sets up camp in the third room of the houseboat. On our final night in Amsterdam we bike into the city centre and go bar hopping. By night, the city is all bridges and fairy-lights and exudes magic. I’m so enchanted (and a bit tipsy) that, following 4 other bike riders, I ride straight into the path of a car, the riders and the car all skidding the brakes and somehow, all barely avoiding collision. With so many forms of transport criss-crossing Amsterdam, one has to be ever-vigilant when out and about.

Lo and behold, on the day we leave Amsterdam, it’s a sunny Saturday again, and we continue to defy the impending winter. We meet Barak to give him back his houseboat and bikes before picking up our car (a Renault) and heading for Haarlem.

Haarlem

We’ve allowed an hour to drive to Haarlem, including time taken up getting lost on the way out of Amsterdam. Though we do take a couple of wrong turns, we lose barely ten minutes before we’re on the freeway, and it seems like we’ve been on the freeway 5 minutes before we’re taking the exit for Haarlem. And therein lies the beauty of Netherlands/Belgium- it is so bloody compact. Most train routes do not follow the coast, and with the coastline such an interesting jumble of dykes, islands, colossal engineering projects and seaside resorts, it’s a great place for a roadtrip where you won’t need to spend hours in the car each day.

We use the old “this street looks main-ish” technique to arrive in Haarlem centre, park the car and get out for a walk. Haarlem sits upon the River Spaane, with life centred around the Grote Markt (Great Square) with its impressive Grote Kerk (Great Church) of Saint Bavo. To our delight, the weekend markets are on, and the Square is full of little stalls with delicious bakery treats. We haven’t had breakfast yet so we gorge on pizzas and hot meaty pastelles. The tourist office is in the square and is notable for trying to make money off their 1-page maps- when we try to take one we’re informed that it’s 50 cents. I then embarrass myself by asking how we get to the tulip fields. The lady just laughs and tells me that the tulips are only out in the springtime. Right- makes sense.

We take a wander through the Grote Kerk, and then through beautiful neighbourhoods with small houses and beautiful flower-lined small pedestrian streets. The Adriaan Windmill, which sits atop a house, features prominently on the Haarlem skyline. But we won’t be staying; we’re heading out to the Dutch coastline and then to The Hague.

We jump back in the car and drive out to the beach at Bloemendaal, where we sit in the beach club and eat apple pie and French fries (hot chips). Whether they originate in France, Belgium or Netherlands I really don’t care, but they do have them down to an artform around here. They are golden and crispy and delicious and of course come with mayonnaise for dipping. And the apple pie is sensational too.

The Hague (Den Haag)

On the way to Den Haag, as The Hague is called by all but the most English speaking of English-speakers, we have a chit-chat about our roadtriply duties. It turns out Ed hasn’t driven much since he lived in Sydney 8 years ago, and he also admits that he can’t reverse park. But his navigation skills are good, so we settle on me being the driver and him navigating. Being two male scientists, we talk a lot about girls and electrons and lasers and stuff. It seems like no time at all before we roll into Den Haag.

We pull up at the first hotel we find, which is full, and ask for recommendations. We end up at the Hotel Sebel on Prins Hendrikplein, which is basic but comfortable and most importantly, central. It’s Saturday night and we’re keen to party, so we head out to the town square, rationally called “Plein” (Square). It’s packed with party people, who spill out from the bars into the square itself, and we have a good few hours in a nightclub with good drinks and many very tall blond Dutch women. Unfortunately, the Dutch have not yet caught on with progressive smoking laws and the place is absolutely toxic with smoke. We return home with our clothes and lungs reeking of nicotine. It’s been quite a first day of our roadtrip.

The next morning, we head to the beach at Kijkduin, where we have a swim, before driving to Scheveningen, where there’s a grand hotel on the beach with restaurants and boardwalk. The coastline is broad and flat, and gives a good idea of the low-lying nature of the country. At Scheveningen we find a restaurant with Wi-Fi, because I need to make a work conference-call. The waitress thinks it funny that I’m on the phone all lunch, and she ends up showing us around Den Haag later that afternoon.

We visit the Binnenhof, where the Dutch government sits. It’s a spectacular castle reflected in the Court Pond. We have hot chocolate and soup in the other fun square, Grote Markt, filled with tables and chairs and merry-makers of all kinds, and then my personal favourite, the Peace Palace, where the International Court of Justice sits.

I take a walk on my own after dinner, and come across a street party where a geriatric old jazz band is playing and people are dancing. There’s plenty more to see in this surprisingly cool city, but we’re running short of hours. In the morning we are leaving for Bruges and Belgium.

Den Haag to Bruges via the Islands of Zeeland

The second day of driving dawns and it’s going to be a beauty, plotting a course along the coastline of Zeeland where the Dutch fight a constant battle to keep the ocean out. They haven’t always succeeded- in 1953, a combination of a high spring tide and a storm surge flooded 1,365 km² of land. The ocean covered about 9% of the entire Dutch farmland, and 1836 lives were lost in the great North Sea Flood. (Over 300 lives were lost in the UK as a result of the same surge.)

Since 1953, a network of dams and dykes known as the Delta Works was built to protect Zeeland, most of which is below sea level. We plot a course out of Den Haag, but rather than turn south towards Rotterdam, we head onto the N57 which proceeds across Goeree-Overflakkee in South Holland to the islands of Zeeland.

For a couple of scientist-engineers, the route is spectacular to say the least. A landscape of heavy industry gives way to green farmland and the most colossal engineering works. We stop to have a look at the Haringvlietdam, a set of sluices across the mouth of what eventually leads to the Rhine, and marvel at the different level of water on the sea-ward side to the land-ward side. But the highlight of the day is the Oosterscheldekering (Eastern Scheldt storm surge barrier) which stretches for 9 km and took more than 10 years to build.

The landscape is also dotted with enormous wind turbines, and one of them is being serviced by a crew of technicians. We pull up and ask whether we can have a look inside, mentioning that we are in the solar power industry. They are happy to oblige, though because the turbine is operating, we can only enter the bottom of the mast and cannot travel to the top. This is impressive enough, with the sight and sound of the (utterly massive) blades swooshing through the air from directly below being awe-inspiring.

As if we weren’t already astonished enough by mankind’s civil engineering prowess, we travel length of the Westerscheldetunnel, a 6.6 km tunnel linking the islands to south Zeeland and Belgium. We’re not far from the Belgian border now, and because we’ve enjoyed so many stops on today’s trip it’s fast approaching the time I am supposed be in another phone conference from the hotel in Bruges.

But then we pass by a little theme park on the side of the road with a large windmill and a maze formed from crops of corn. Ed wants to stop.

“No,” I say, “we must press on Ed.”
“But don’t you want to run around that maze?”
“Kind of. But we don’t have time.”
“Come on Matty. We have to do this. It’s a maize maze.”

I clench my teeth- the man has a point. “Shit. You’re right.” And I pull the car violently into the gravel parking lot, where we positively bound into the little ticket shop.

The pretty dutch girl behind the counter asks where we’re from and where we’re going, but unfortunately there’s no time to chat, and we grab our tickets and run into the corn. We get ourselves well and truly lost and pose for photos with corn cobs and by the time we get back in the car, the heat is really on. “It’s ok,” I say, “if nothing goes wrong we should still have enough time.”

At that point, it begins raining torrentially. We cross the border into Belgium, but visibility out the windscreen is almost nil. I’ve heard so much about the amazing medieval Bruges and assume it must be well-signposted, but it doesn’t seem to be. I guess to the Belgians it’s just a small town in Flanders. There’s a whole bunch of roadworks and somehow, inevitably, we miss a critical turnoff. We’re heading towards Ghent rather than Bruges, damn it!

After some miles on the freeway, we find somewhere to chuck a U-turn and double back. We’re pointing at Bruges, the rain still teeming down, and half an hour added to the trip. But I still don’t panic, because we’ve booked ahead of time, and the hotel website loudly proclaimed “FREE WiFi in all rooms and public areas”. Nothing could possibly go wrong, right?

…… Or COULD it? You’ll just have to read Part 2 to find out, when we’ll conclude this adventure in “A Roadtrip in The Netherlands and Belgium Part 2: Bruges, Ghent and Brussels“. In the meantime, I’d love to hear from you below.

The post A Roadtrip Through The Netherlands and Belgium Part 1: Amsterdam, Haarlem, The Hague and Zeeland appeared first on Confiscated Toothpaste.

About ten years ago, I was burnt out at work and so took 3 months of leave without pay to go surfing in the Maldives followed by 3 months of backpacking in Europe. My job was pretty low-paying, so I didn’t have much in the way of savings. So I took out a personal loan to fund the trip.

I was about 3 weeks into the trip, when, one day in Norway, I got an email from my boss back home, telling me our division was closing down and we were all being made redundant. I spent some time staring despondently at the hostel ceiling in Bergen before making the choice to go out and drink some beer with some guy I’d met at the hostel.

At the bar, I asked the pretty bargirls in (very bad) Norwegian/Swedish if I could leave my bag behind the bar. They responded in (very good) English, wanting to know where I came from, what I did, and so on. I told them I was now an officially unemployed Australian surfer bum. I gave the bargirl 5 euros for a beer, and she gave me the beer plus 7 euros change, and smiled at me. I was somewhat dumbstruck, but when I ordered my next beer, the same thing happened. I began to feel a bit drunk and happy (and a bit richer), despite the bad news.

It was at this point I met “Jurgen from Bergen”. There was an open mic night happening in the bar, and Jurgen was the organiser. I mentioned I could play guitar, and he told me to get up and play a song. I declined, saying I was too drunk and depressed and didn’t want to embarrass myself. He slapped me on the back and said, “Man, stay in Bergen. I can get you gigs playing guitar in bars. The girls here love Aussies. You will be happy here.” The pretty bargirl gave me another negative-cost beer and suddenly the thought struck me.

“Man, screw this work shit! I am never going back home!”

Long story short, my glorious night was curtailed by that enemy of travel conquests, the evil hostel curfew. And when I woke up the next day with a hangover, I wasn’t so sure anymore about my plan of action. Surely there were better contributions I could make to the world than playing guitar in Norwegian bars? And could it be that last night’s decision had been made more by the beer and potentially also my nether regions, given the attractiveness of the females involved?

Checking my email, there was one from a research institute back home I had enquired at before my trip. There was a vacancy for a PhD research position and I could start whenever I wanted. Now I’m not a superstitious person, but the timing was so fortuitous as to leave me in little doubt as to the correct life path. The redundancy cheque from my old job gave me about 10,000 bucks, so the personal loan was paid off immediately, and I continued the trip as originally planned. The day after I arrived home, 2 months later, I began work at the new job.

Ten years later, I have made contributions to science, love Mondays, have investments, just got married in Brazil and have more travel than I could ever want. Rarely do I need to pay for a flight and it’s at the point now where I am actively looking for ways to avoid travelling to places I have already been many times before (eg, Singapore, even though it is awesome) because the jetlag and flying wears me out and if it’s not absolutely essential then I feel guilty about my carbon footprint.

Things can always be better and my life is not perfect but I am counting my blessings every day.

I wrote an article about getting a job that allows you to travel, but you shouldn’t worry too much if your job doesn’t involve it- as long as they let you take paid leave or leave without pay every so often, you can still see the world. I sometimes get emails from Americans saying “I only get 2 weeks of vacation time a year, not a day more” and if that is really true, you probably need to find a way to take some more time off, even if you really love your job, because you only get one life and smelling the roses is important. If you don’t really love your job, this is even more true.

However, one should not forget the honour in working, in contributing to society. Even if you’re only emptying trashcans, you’re doing a small but essential service that cleans up the planet and allows humankind to continue to progress. If you’re just travelling the world and taking 30 flights a year, just to see the sights, then you are not really making a contribution and in fact you’re most definitely polluting the world and contributing to climate change.

Travel can help you find yourself, open your eyes to things you never thought possible, and bring untold self-confidence. But here’s the other thing about “a life of travel”- it is a solitary one. It is unstable. It is tiring. Many of these people continue to deceive themselves, continent hopping, still trying to find themselves years later, kidding themselves with their regular Facegram (TM) posts that they are living the dream.

But I see these people in hotel bars and hostel dorms and they are lonely. They are frazzled. They exist on the fringes of society as aspirational ghosts. They are just vagabonds.

There is the argument that tourist dollars help developing (and developed) economies, and fair enough. But you could equally argue that western tourism results in cultural pollution. Neither of these positions are entirely wrong or right.

There’s also a host of intrepid travellers who write blogs and “inspire others to travel” or take beautiful photographs or just entertain with their anecdotes, and this post is not really aimed at them, even if I think their advice is sometimes a bit misguided and they might display some of the personality traits above. After all, they haven’t so much as quit working, they’re just doing something that suits them better and contributes in a different way.

So then, maybe the question you should be asking is not “Should I quit my job to travel?” but:

“Should I get a different job?”

Agree? Disagree? Want to tar and feather me? All bouquets and brickbats are welcome below.

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