Travel – Kelly Tatham

Four Thousand Islands, Laos (SPIDER ATTACK!)

In 2008 I spend three months backpacking around Southeast Asia. This is one of my stories.

Keli and I took turns riding the broken bike the whole winding road back. We’d spent our second day cycling around the island of Don Khong and across to a neighbouring island to see the Khone Phapheng Falls, the largest waterfall (by volume) in Southeast Asia. 4,000 Islands or Si Phan Don are nestled into the verrrry bottom of Laos right near the Cambodian border. Though often frequented by young backpackers as a side trip from Thailand, Laos shares much less in common with its neighbour to the southwest than you might think. In 2008, at least, there were no 7-11s, no t-shirts boasting Heidi Klum’s naked back and middle finger (a Khao San favourite in those days), and at least 75% fewer buckets* per person.

Striking a pose in front of Khone Phapheng Falls.

I had met my travel buddies, Katie and Keli, British ladies on their way back from a year in Australia, on the bus from Chiang Mai to Chiang Khong. That was where we would start our two-day slowboat journey down the Mekong River and into the heart of Laos. After 10 days traveling through peaceful Luang Prabang, dionysiac Vang Vieng, and sleepy Vientenne, we decided to set off for the 4,000 islands together. Kelly, Keli and Katie. We bid adieu our other Laos travel companions — they were headed off to Vietnam — and went south.

We landed our first night on the island of Don Det. But, with no other backpackers to be found, decided to head over to Don Khong as soon as possible for what we hoped would be a livelier time. First thing the next morning we loaded all our worldly possessions into a large canoe-type boat with a motor on the end and set off, the water around us murky brown, like the colour of milk chocolate gone rancid.

Our boat floated lazily downriver, guided slowly by the puttering motor, passing linked islands, their foliage spilling out into the water. The world here is flat, nothing but palm trees separate island and sky. Guesthouses pepper the shore, raised up on stilts. Some of them have brown, thatched roofs; others red or blue plastic tiles to protect them from the elements. Most have hammocks swinging on their balconies.

After arriving on Don Khong, we spent the better part of an hour searching for a place to sleep. All the huts were dingy and beat up. I would safely say there wasn’t an air conditioning unit around for miles. We didn’t come across many backpackers either, so we decided to spend only one more night there and leave for Cambodia first thing in the morning. By this logic, we were satisfied with a small room, boasting one double bed (to squeeze the three of us in), a couple stringy hammocks on the balcony, and the not unfamiliar combo of hole in floor + sink = bathroom. If memory serves, this particular hole was surrounded by shiny blue tile; a classy touch. After arranging for early morning transportation off the island and over the border, we rented some bikes and began to explore.

***

After taking pictures at the waterfall, we had hoped to rent a boat and be taken to see the Irrawaddy dolphins, (a breed that lives in brackish or freshwater), but our leisurely pace had set us behind. Twilight was creeping nearer, and the boat drivers wouldn’t take anyone out this close to dark. So we turned back around and bike through the palm trees and past the vibrant green fields back to our guesthouse. Katie’s chain fell off her bike about fifteen minutes into our return journey.

My hands got all greased up trying to repair Katie’s chain. Locals we passed on the way tried to help as well, but the chain was broken; there was no fix. We decided to take turns on the broken bike, one foot on a pedal, the other foot pushing and coasting, pushing and coasting. Although we didn’t have enough light to make it to see the dolphins, we should have had plenty of light to get home before dark. But a sign poking out of a window just off the road reading ‘Authentic Italian Pizza’ distracted us from our journey. We couldn’t resist stopping.

A margherita and two quattro formaggis later, the sun had set and we were on our way again, now in the pitch black dark. It seems to be pizza > safety, every time. Fortunately, between the three of us we miraculously had two items that glowed. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop Katie from almost biking head on into a water buffalo. At least none of us fell into a rice field (though it got uncomfortably close).

It was about nine thirty at night by the time we road in, elated and exhausted. We laid our bikes up against the shop we’d borrowed them from and surveyed the near deserted pathway. Lights glowed from only a few buildings. We wandered down until we found the island’s internet cafe. Settling in, they reminded us of the electricity curfew of the entire island. Lights off at ten o’clock. (Yes, the entire island, believe it or not, turns off at 10 p.m.) We spent 10 minutes checking Facebook, then, realizing the time, headed to a little shop nearby to buy candles. It was now quarter to ten, just enough time to return to a our wee little room, brush our teeth, and tuck ourselves in before the entire island went dark.

Candles in hand, we walked down the path to our guesthouse and up the three steps to our balcony, still buzzing from our broken bike ride, unlocked the front door and flicked on the lights. And there it was…

Inside our mosquito net.

Four inches long.

Thick.

Brown.

Furry.

Four legs angled to jut out of its front half and another four jutting out the back. Not round, but rectangle shaped; gigantic; hairy; brown; spider. I repeat, inside our mosquito net. And yes, with ten minutes until the whole island was to go dark.

I’ve always been afraid of spiders, my whole life. And, apparently, so have Keli and Katie. We screamed, I am not proud to say; then we stared: at each other, at the spider, our mouths gaping open and closed, silently, in utter shock. This is no good. I watch as tears roll down Katie’s cheeks and I try to gather enough breath in my lungs to stop my hands from shaking violently. This response is not rational, I know. But today does not appear to be the day that any of us conquer an irrational phobia. So what are we going to do? We’ll sleep on the balcony. That’s the only option. But it’s not an option. Our bags are on the floor, we can’t leave them there, open, unattended. There are only two hammocks on the balcony and they’re scrawny as hell. And God only knows what could crawl on us out there. Someone needs to get rid of the spider. It has to go. We need to sleep in that bed. But I won’t move it. Keli won’t move it. Katie won’t move it. Fine, we won’t sleep. We’ll stay up all night, smoking our dollar packs of cigarettes, swinging on the rickety plastic hammocks. No. No. We’ll go get help. There’s got to be someone who can help us.

I instruct Keli to stay put and watch the furry monstrosity. Don’t let your eyes stray from it, or it could move and then where will we be? Stare at it. Don’t even blink. Katie and I grasp on to each other, still shaking, and head for the road, back to the cafe. We spot an older couple chatting with a guy in his late twenties. Excuse us. Is there… Could you… could you possibly do us a huge favour? They initially regard us with concern (it was probably the tears) but after we explain the situation, they simply laugh.

We guide them back; the young man has agreed to remove it for us and the couple wants to watch. Keli is still standing at the entrance of our room, petrified. There, we point… inside the mosquito net. The young man looks inside the room. The three of us edge backwards. The older couple giggles at our state. The man pulls a tissue out of his pocket and steps inside. My eyes burn as I try to remain calm. We’re too far back on the balcony now to see what’s going on. He’s in the room just a second, but by the time he comes out, we’ve crammed ourselves into the furthest possible edge of the balcony corner. Got it. He stretches his arm, and spider-encased hand, out toward us, teasing, but is met with shrieks high enough to communicate with stray dogs on the other side of the island before he can even fully straighten out his elbow. Seeing our fear, he rescinds the gesture.

Thank you. Thank you. We couldn’t have… Oh my God, thank you so much.

We have about two minutes ’til lights out now. The emanate terror is gone, but every dark corner holds a new, unknown threat. I pick gingerly through my bag, poised to react at a moments notice, and pull out a long sleeve t-shirt and pants — clothes inappropriately warm and packed mostly for plane rides — but I need to cover as much skin as possible. I pee into the blue tiled hole, eyes peeled on every corner of the room. I brush my teeth and slip into bed next to Katie, who under the pretence of being the most frightened managed to score the middle spot. Keli’s laid out candles on the window sill and I watch them burn as we tuck in every corner of the mosquito net, our sole protection from the outside world and all its creatures. Katie plays music from a small speaker. We speak in hushed tones, as if loud noises might stir other figments of our nightmares. I lay awake, watching the candles melt, drip, and, slowly, go out.

The next morning, after a sleep even more fitful than one an overnight bus blasting The Beach on repeat, we pack our bags and head to the boat. As we settle in to the passenger van that will take us to Kratie, Cambodia, my long Canadian legs squished against the back of the driver’s seat, we talk about our plans to stay the night somewhere, not only air conditioned, but in a building, made of cement, on the top floor. The mini bus revs on and we begin our journey across another boarder, happy to be leaving Laos. Little do we know, the first thing to greet us on the other side will be a platter of barbecued tarantulas resting atop a smiling Cambodian woman’s head. Maybe it’s time to conquer that fear after all?

* bucket – a mixture of Sang Som (Thai whiskey), coca-cola, and red bull (the illegal in North America kind) served in a colourful plastic bucket (think children’s sand pail) with many straws meant for sharing (or not) and causing its imbibers to get incredibly fucked up.

Every Tuesday I’ll be doing a new Travelback instalment. It’ll will likely be different every week — sometimes a list, sometimes an essay, sometimes just highlights or photos. A huge dream of mine is to write about travel and the world… Okay, well, I’m already living that dream, so I should specify: a huge dream of mine is to get paid to write about such things. This exercise may be a bit self-indulgent, but ultimately I want to work my travel writing muscle to the point that it’s strong enough to entertain and inspire you. As such, I hope you enjoy. xo Kelly.

Memories of Paris

I’ve been to Paris twice. The first in September of 2007 and the second in November of 2007. It was on the same backpacking trip and the only destination I circled through twice. When I first arrived in Paris, in September, from Vancouver, my heart and my head were full of expectations. So full that I’d forgotten to fill them with directions from the airport to my hostel. I was traveling with a not entirely pleasant girl who kept barking at me to, instead of my somewhat broken but mostly passable French, ask for directions to the 10th Arrondissement in English.

After an hour or so of asking random Parisians on the street — On cherche Rue la Fayette! Savez-vous où est le hostel Peace and Love?* — and, mind you, we were actually fumbling closer to our destination… I finally broke and consulted a hotel desk clerk… in English. She directed us to a bus and, relieved, we got on. I remember Rhianna’s “Umbrella” was playing over the speakers, but in my jet lag-addled brain, the words sounded French. Figuring they must have recorded a different version for this iconic country, I said as much to my travel mate. She sneered and I listened more closely: “When the sun shines we shine together…” Oh. Well, that settles that then.

*Not “Paix et Amour”, but Peace and Love — obviously catered to travellers and missing from any well-to-do Parisian’s radar.

Effiel Tower from the 10th Arrondissement — The view from Peace and Love hostel and my first time seeing the Effiel Tower live.

What I know now is that the Paris Metro system runs from the airport I landed at (CDG) and meets a connecting line that would take us a block from where we were going. But I had an overly-confident attitude heading into my first backpacking trip, stemmed likely from travels with my parents to various countries — some of which I don’t even remember but figured, surely, that the ability to travel well rested within my blood. And, perhaps, also, I assumed Paris would take me in, accept me as its own. I knew I belonged there, so shouldn’t the city know it, too?

Whatever confidence I assumed my blood to be filled with, it certainly wasn’t there three days later as I sat, crumpled, at a dusty train station, halfway to Versailles to visit some long-lost cousins. Crumpled because of construction closing the train line and deterring me from carrying on. Crumpled because I didn’t know now where to go. Crumpled, dreaming about returning home. I arrived in Paris expecting to be swept up, but Paris laughed at my romanticism. It chewed me up, spat me out, and kicked dirt on top of me.

***

When I returned to Paris two months later, everything was different. My maddeningly passive aggressive trip mate had returned to Canada, taking with her 300 dollars that she would never return and any sense of obligation I had to anyone. Paris, the second time, was going to be mine.

I selected a bunk in a large co-ed room at the 3 Ducks Hostel; this time in the 15th Arrondissement, a 25 minute stroll to the Effiel Tower. Their policy was ‘no outside alcohol’ as to promote sales at the bar, but we snuck 97¢ bottles of France’s best non-champagne region sparkling in anyways. We played Kings Cup/Ring of Fire/Sociables with the harshest rules: anyone who swears gets that word written on their face in sharpie. I learned how to roll cigarettes.

The two people I remember most were an American girl and an Australian boy. Though I was only 20 at the time, I remember thinking they were so young. They must have been 18 but to a 20 year old as wise and experienced as I, they were children. I was jealous of them, though, as the American girl would spend our pre-drinking evenings reading French newspapers, analyzing and translating every single word — the Australian boy was invited to look over her shoulder, but I was not. She was living in the hostel and in Paris for an indefinite amount of time. Part of me wanted to be her.

One day the Australian boy and I made plans to sightsee. First, we made our way to the Catacombs. Over time I’ve been told they can often be severely backed up with tourists, but on this brisk day in early November, we walked straight in. Straight in then down and down and down and around the winding steps. Unsurprisingly it is quiet down there, muted. There is something special about being underground. It is the opposite of the thrill and unease you feel while flying. There is comfort in the depths, familiarity. Even in the dim atmosphere there were still tourists behind us that yelled and shouted. So we kept our voices hushed and our pace slow, losing them for several minutes of quiet until another group rushed by.

The amount of bones is staggering. Skulls on skulls on femurs and fibulas and thousands of other human puzzle pieces. Despite the stacks of deconstructed skeletons, it wasn’t at all scary or terrifying. More contemplative than anything. I read every plaque but I couldn’t now tell you a word of what they said. The bones of six million people.

Once we emerged from under the city (and after we found the nearest crepe truck), the metro whisked us off to Cimetière du Père-Lachaise. If you can visit on an overcast fall day, I suggest you do just that. Crisp leaves and dark skies are the perfect setting for visiting the above-ground dead. Most cemeteries around the world could put their Canadian counterparts to shame, but of all the storied haunts I’ve wandered through across the world, this one stays in my memory the most. The best set designer in Hollywood could not mimic the grandeur of Père-Lachaise. Perhaps because the atmosphere is so dense with history, with devotion. This is a place where you have to die as somebody. Père-Lachaise elevates your artistry in death and the tombstones reiterates that.

We hovered by Jim Morrison’s grave, giving the French teenagers space to smoke their In Memoriam cigarettes and listen to The Doors through their headphones. I put on red lipstick and kissed Oscar Wilde’s grave. The Australian boy took a picture on his camera but never sent it to me.

***

I tell anyone who will listen that one day I will live in Paris. You could play a game in my home of ‘count the Effiel Towers.’ Including photographs and magazine cutouts and artwork and postcards and my metre high statue, there might be 2o. Or more. It is a cliché, I know. I am Owen Wilson in Midnight in Paris. I am Carrie Bradshaw in season six, but I don’t skip out on dinners in my honour to please a man. Magic lives in those streets and I want to be a part of it.

They say Paris is for lovers, but that’s not true. Paris is for anyone who wants to believe. In something. In anything. Be it love, magic, history… death. When you go to Paris — or when you go back — I suggest you leave everything behind. Bring a map and if you can’t resist it, a camera. Speak in broken French. Get lost. Make new friends. Avoid anywhere playing Rhianna. Smoke cigarettes outside cafés and drink the cheapest sparkling you can find… on the street, by the Effiel Tower, by yourself or with that bloke you met at your hostel. The magic of Paris is what you make of it. It won’t present itself to you, you must seek it out instead. I imagine Paris as a bridge troll, not allowing you to pass until you have given it something. Not money or trinkets, but something of yourself. Blood, tears, dignity. Perhaps that can be said of all great cities, they take nearly just as much as they give. But sometimes, I think, Paris gives just a little bit more.

Nassau, Bahamas (Part 2)

Let’s get to the most important part right away: Sky Juice.

Seriously. So good.

So after I’d walked up the Queen’s Staircase, I headed over to Fort Fincastle. It overlooks the eastern approach to New Providence, Nassau, and Paradise Island (not to mention the infamous Atlantis).

After that, I had a few places in mind but no specific plan, so I unfolded my trusty map and decided to walk in the direction of the fish fry. (Fish fry, FYI, is Nassau’s famous strip of seafood restaurants. Right on the ocean, with more options than you could ever attempt to choose from. When you head there ask a local to direct you to their favourite haunt.)

As I was wandering down through the mostly empty downtown Nassau suburbs, I bumped into a group of twenty-somethings. I’d seen them earlier (near the pirate museum, I believe), so I waved and they called me over. Turns out we were a few short blocks from a rum distillery. They invited me to join them for a tour and, naturally, I said yes.

The tour was a bit lacklustre, but the grounds were beautiful and the rum, tasty. My new friends were a group of cousins from New York and Toronto taking a family vacay together. I surreptitiously told them I was here with friends who didn’t feel like sightseeing today; (mostly true.) After siphoning as much free rum as we could, it was time to head to the fish fry. We walked straight down to the water and, in the stifling heat, decided to take a pause before turning left. Thankfully we did, because that’s when Sky Juice was discovered. (See above.)

The middle shack on the right provided the Sky Juice.

Something I hadn’t done enough of in my previous travels was ask the locals for tips. That, and take pictures of food; (yes, I’m part of that 50% percent.) Often times what the guide books recommend and what the locals suggest overlap, but it’s always worth it to ask. (Sky Juice was recommended by several different people.)

Speaking of suggestions, I knew I had to try conch while I was in the Bahamas. The book I mentioned in the previous post, An Embarrassment of Mangoes, told, in great detail, the joys and pains of eating conch. Thankfully I didn’t have to eat it myself — it requires a great deal of pulling to get it out of the shell and a great deal of beating (to tenderize) once it’s set free.

I selected the cracked conch and it was flippin’ delicious. It’s very similar to calamari, but even better — more tender, more flavourful. If you ever get the chance, you must try it.

(Disclaimer: you probably won’t have much luck at the resort. I had the same problem finding Mexican food in Cabo. They have a sushi restaurant, a steakhouse, fine French dining, but only one tiny hole in the wall for Mexican food! What up? As such, I couldn’t find any conch dishes at any of our resort’s food establishments… They did, however, have fantastic thin crust pizza.)

Then, half-cut on Sky Juice and full of conch, it was time to bid adieu to the cousins and head back to the resort. I hopped on another bus (they’re always whizzing by) and was back with plenty of time to lounge around in the pool and get ready for a big dinner out.

Bahamas, you were swell.

I don’t know how feasible it would be to travel around the Caribbean on a budget* but I do hope to make it back before I’m 50. It would be incredible to spend some time island hopping — or sailing, (after I get over my fear). Grenada in particular is calling to me.

It’s a beautiful place; and, though, despite it’s proximity to the States, it didn’t feel overrun by tourists or bereft of culture. Sure there were a lot of pander-y shops — I didn’t even mention the work day spent wandering around the hella touristy area; but if you look a little further, there’s a lot of authenticity and stunningly beautiful sights to be found.

*Budget: A personal travel guideline for the foreseeable future.

Nassau, Bahamas (Part 1)

Earlier this year I was fortunate enough to be a member of the crew on the second season of The Bachelor Canada — which, in the fourth episode, took us to Nassau, Bahamas.

I’ve never had any immediate desire to travel to the Caribbean. Don’t get me wrong, when I found out we were going to the Bahamas I was ecstatic. But of all the countries on my bucket list,* the 30 or so islands making up that freckled piece of watery globe sat closer to the bottom. I blame “An Embarrassment of Mangoes.” A brilliant book of travel narrative, no doubt, but the writers spoke so convincingly of their middle-aged sailboat adventure from the icy waters of Canada all the way to the tip of Trinidad and Tobago, they had me certain I didn’t need to follow their steps until well into my late 50s.

*Every single one. Twice. Minus Albania. (Don’t ask.)

Now, of course, my mind has changed and I would go back at any given moment.

We flew to the Bahamas over two arduous stopovers en route from Cabo. (I know; woe is me.) Los Cabos are beautiful: heat, still and dry like the circulated air on our flights, with cacti and golden brown soil to match. But the tropics they are not. A desert life is not the life for me, so stepping off the plane and into the soupy warm of Nassau, sweat immediately sprouting on my skin, I felt at home.

The puddle jumper from Miami was a touch rough, but what do you expect on a miniature plane packed with 80+ pieces of film gear? Film gear that didn’t all make it, natch. (Again, miniature plane.) No matter. A sing-a-long passed the time as we waited — fruitlessly — for word on our items. Eventually we learned they’d be on their way first thing tomorrow and on our way through customs and off to the resort we went.

Three days later… After a super early airport drop off and a quick nap, my only day off kicked into action. Everyone else was content downing Mai Thais and Pina Coladas in the pool, but I wasn’t about to let the Bahamas pass me by, so I took my haphazardly folded map and my 20 megabites of wifi (Traveling is so easy these days, isn’t it?) and sauntered off the resort.

I started out with “Old Town” but quickly realized it was a bust — so I turned around and hopped back on one of the local buses. Like the Brits who colonized them (truth? lie? I’m typing this with no internet access so choose your own history adventure), Bahamians drive on the left side of the road. A bus ride into town cost a $1.50 (in the local currency or American dollars — the two are interchangeable) and was filled mainly with locals. I chatted with the driver and got a few tips on where to go and what to see.

Every building is so frickin’ pretty and colourful.

Downtown Nassau is a stunning array of brightly coloured buildings, cobblestone streets and hack-y tourist shops. I strolled through the parliament building and up and down a few streets before realizing I couldn’t wait any longer to visit… the Pirate Museum*!!

New Providence Island, Bahamas was a MASSIVE hub for pirates back in the 1600 and 1700 hundreds. Treasure hunters still visit consistently and the attitude of piracy is kept alive with the island’s many international banks with loose legalities.

*Pictures not included. But, yes, there was a ship and era-appropirate** streets built inside the museum. And, yes, I was the only one walking around. And, yes, they played sound effects over the loud speaker and I got a little bit scared. (What!? It was dark!!)

**Unintentional spelling mistake. Leaving it.

Each building, one Grand Budapest Hotel after another.

After the museum I decided to wander further… I’d Googled places to check out in Nassau and every list included the Queen’s Staircase. I wandered out of the downtown core, passing many more vibrant buildings and homes… and some eroding, dilapitated ones as well. Similar to Cabo, there is so much beauty and colour, but at any given moment, poverty is right around the corner. That being said, at no point did I feel unsafe. There is a happy buzz in the air, one reflecting the cheerful hues — or maybe just indicative of all the American money filtered through the country.

Named after Queen Victoria, the staircase was built between 1793 and 1794 as a direct route to Fort Fincastle. There was a cheerful man at the bottom who spent about 15 minutes telling me and a few other tourists all about the history of the place. It was a beautiful, peaceful spot, not too overwhelmed by tourists, and filled with stunning flora — like, finger roots!!

Stay tuned for Part 2… including a drink recipe for a dangerously delicious Bahamian cocktail!

Back in the Homeland

Mere hours off the plane, I’m decked out in fancy rain boots, sporting zero makeup, and trudging through the rain to dine at the Na’am. Vancouver, never change.

Leaving L.A. was extremely bittersweet. I’ll write more about it in the coming days, I’m sure, when I’ve had more time to reflect. Saying goodbye to Hayley was hard. Life’s just better when she’s in it everyday. But I was returning home to fresh water and my bed and Miss Alana whom I hadn’t seen since September. (She was off traveling through Africa and India AND writing an amazing blog about it.) And as great as L.A. is and as positive as I always am, real life has to be attended to once in awhile and real life is Vancouver right now.

Krista being lovely while Nisha continues to fight the good fight against taking an attractive photo. Tuscan nachos and thai stroganoff — and sesame fries with cheese and miso gravy, in honour of Hayley.

Now life is a job search, a constant rewrite party, and remembering to blog in between hanging out with everyone else. For the first time in my life I know exactly what I want to do and I am actually, educationally speaking at least, qualified for it. So bring it on (and feel free to send me your film/tv job offers).

On top of all of that I have a new goal: an Arts & Culture mission, if you will. Or, proving: No Fun City.

Vancouver’s such a tiny little city but we have so much potential. I think the most exciting, interesting parts of Vancouver’s arts and culture scene are hidden beneath the surface. Right now a lot of the best stuff is inaccessible* to most people; so while I’m here (for the undisclosed future), I’m going to dedicate myself to taking in and talking about every rad homegrown thing I can find.

So bring on the music, the theatre, the poetry readings, the sketch comedy, and send me events and ideas and suggestions of things to see!

*inaccessible/not on their radar/they have no clue events and happenings are happening

Starting with:

Rain City Chronicles‘s monthly storytelling night. February edition: Love Hangover. What I’m assuming to be is a night of people reminiscing about terrible experiences of love and life for multiple hours in a boozy locale. (So, awesome!)

If you’ve never been to a storytelling night before, I highly recommend it. It’s like you’re at a party and you’re listening to a drunk person go on and on and on about their shitty love life, except that drunk person** is actually hilarious and poignant and potentially re-affirms your own shitty love life with their relatedly heartbreaking tale. And: there are still tickets available! (Which never happens, so jump on it.)

Many more posts about L.A., the people I met, and the things I learned, are on their way, but they will now be interspersed with the goings-on of the great Vancouver, British Columbia.

**I’m not saying that every storyteller at this event is going to be drunk (Although they might be; public speaking is terrifying.) but it’s an analogy of a drunk person in relation to a… oh fuck it, you get what I’m trying to say.

Writing days & movie nights

While it may appear that all I’ve been doing in Los Angeles is playing, I did in fact come here to get some work done. Some network! Get it? Work… network! #sorrynotsorry

Anyway, I’ve had the opportunity to meet some wonderful people here and will soon be compiling all the advice they have given me into one handy post. But for now, I’m just going to keep posting the fun stuff!

Tuesday was a REALLY EXCITING DAY.

(The only picture I took on Tuesday.)

Yeah, so Tuesday I spent the day writing and emailing and jumping at the banging noises from the kitchen. Hugo is a sneaky teenager (I blame his adolescence for us not getting along.) and continually ducks in and out of cupboards in search of a “hit.” I finally got up and found him in the top cupboard, next to the fridge, head deep into a torn up food bag.

Wednesday was also mostly filled with more of the above but I needed to leave Narnia so I decided to check out Universal Studios City Walk.

Finding something in walking distance is super rare for LA, but luckily Universal Studios is about a 40 minute walk from Ryan and Hayley’s place; (or 25 minutes plus a free tram* up the hill.) I was going to walk but the tram was right there, so naturally I hopped on. It takes you all the way up to the entrance of Universal Studios and what they call “City Walk.” City Walk is basically just a sweeping row of restaurants, tourist shops, and restaurants and tourist shops.**

*The tram loads diagonally across the street from the Universal City metro stop.

**Not a typo.

Enthralling stuff.

It was neat, but not exactly a “must see.” The real reason I went up there, though, was to catch a movie.

Mild digression: Every year I tell myself I’m going to see all the films nominated for Best Picture; and every year I’ve gotten really close, but never quite made it. This year, however, I WILL do it! (I mean, it’s really not that complicated, especially in this day and age.***)

So I bought a ticket to Gravity. (I realize it’s shameful that I hadn’t seen it yet, but I was really busy last year, okay?!) The theatre up there is massive, boasting 20 screens. Unfortunately it was no longer in IMAX (Damn you, Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit.) but I was still blown away from seeing it in 3D. Gravity is truly a jaw dropping cinematic feat that will surely win several technical Oscars, but I sort of wish they’d done one more draft on the dialogue.

***But pirating is bad; don’t do it.**** Pay for movies.

****Unless you’re pretending to be a pirate, like, a real one, not then internet kind: in that case, carry on.

Exciting even at night!

Thursday I had plans to meet up with Jake (a classmate of mine from VFS). He just recently moved down to L.A. permanently, but, being California born and bred, knows a lot more about the city than I do.

He picked me up and, after some much needed coffee, we drove up to Griffith Observatory. I’d already been up there (on Nisha’s last day) but it was nice to spend some extra time wandering around and taking in the view.

That view, amirite?!

Kidding aside, it’s actually beautiful to walk around. We popped inside — it’s a legit planetarium in there — then made our way back down the hill (mountain?). For our next stop, Jake drove us to the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences Margaret Herrick Library. (Say that five times fast.) The building is gorgeous, but the inside is actually pretty mellow, at least for what I assumed it would be like coming from the people who put on the always ritzy Oscars.

We browsed around for a while, enjoying the massive selection of film and television books, saw a real Oscar, (!!!) (All About Eve – Best Costume Design, Black-and-White), and enquired into seeing production notes and scripts. (They have a gargantuan collection, but most requests take 24 hrs to process.) You can’t psychically check anything out of the library, but it’s a fantastic research resource for anyone spending time in L.A.

A hotel on the Sunset strip.

I hadn’t spent any time on Sunset Blvd, so we decided to drive down the infamous strip to find some food and pick out famous sites (Chateau Marmont, The Viper Room). I was craving Mexican (I’m always craving Mexican.) but Jake pointed out another place and I (temporarily) let go of my taco craving. And I’m glad I did, because it turns out that he was taking me to the diner from American Graffiti.

A classic, All-American spot, we ordered some greasy food and played Tom Petty’s American Girl on the jukebox.

Unlike Vancouver institution, The Templeton, the jukeboxes actually work here.

I wish we had more classic diners in Vancouver. Screw the Cat Cafe, I want waiters on roller-skates! We finished up our tasty (and artery clogging) food, then Jake headed off into the smog as I took to the Boulevard to wander.

I had plans to meet a VFS Writing alum in a few hours and was going to sight see up and down the strip until that time, but was feeling quite sleepy. Just as I was getting deep into my daydream of Nap Cafes***** I spotted a movie theatre! Hallelujah!

I’d stumbled upon one of Robert Redford’s Sundance Cinemas. It’s a 21+ chain where they serve drinks, fancy coffees, meat plates, edamame, you name it. The seating is reserved and the chairs large, cozy, and equipped with side tables. Now that’s how you’re meant to watch a movie! I picked Philomena, purchased a large Americano, and settled in.

Best Picture nominee, Philomena, is sweet, lovely, and ABSOLUTELY HEART-WRENCHING. Literally, bring all the tissues.

After it was finished, I had the perfect amount of time to walk down Sunset and meet VFS alum, Lynn, at The Cat & Fiddle.

*****This seriously needs to be a thing in major tourist destination cities. When you’re too far from your hostel/hotel and need a little break, you just know you’d pay $15 for a clean place to sleep for a couple of hours.

Sunset Blvd street art.

Lynn is super awesome and had a lot of great advice. (Combined advice article is forthcoming.) We had a drink and a snack then headed back onto the Blvd in search of the Nerd Melt Showroom. The Nerd Melt is a comic book/graphic novel/action figure Mecca with a back room built for storytelling, sketch, and stand-up shows.

That night was a storytelling event called Risk! and the theme was “freaky.” I love storytelling nights. (Really looking forward to the Rain City Chronicles‘ Love Hangover when I’m back in Vancouver. (Tickets still available, but they go fast!)) We settled in and it was quite the show. There were hilarious stories and heartbreak stories and meth stories and ghosts stories. It’s so cool to hear someone share something that’s meant so much to them. I sincerely recommend finding a storytelling night to go to, whatever city you live in.

Whenever you’re in L.A., though, I insist you check out Nerd Melt’s website. They’ve got so many shows with tons of recognizable actors and just quality entertainment. It’s a great addition to the UCB and Groundlings circuit. Thanks so much, Lynn, for taking me!!

How we celebrate Martin Luther King day…

By going to Mexico!

Not actually Mexico.

No, unfortunately, we didn’t go to Mexico, but we found the next best thing: Olvera St.

Hayley works an insane schedule so naturally we were both thrilled to find out she had Martin Luther King, Jr. Day off. After much discussion of what to do with such rare freedom, (her, not me. Clearly as a writer I have all day free to toil and hate myself.) we decided to check out the famed Olvera St., known for being a little Mexican corner of Los Angeles.

While I’ve only been to Mexico once, to a tourist town, when I was eight, and can’t specifically vouch for its authenticity, it did feel like we had traveled to another place, city, country…

Olvera St. is just that, a street, filled with stalls and restaurants and wandering singers with guitars. There are tons of things to buy: leather wallets and shoes, wrestling masks, clothing, and lots of little cafes and stands hocking Mexican snacks and drinks. Hayley picked up some beautiful ceramic peppers, avocados, and other various faux-vegetables to decorate their kitchen. I got a fridge magnet. Woot!

Hayley & I.

After the wandering was over, it was time for food! (Obvi.) So we headed over to a little place Hayley’s friend Courtney had recommended, El Paseo de Los Angeles. We found a lovely shaded table outside and ordered the usual, skinny* lime margaritas and table side guacamole, not to mention a new addition of the dirtiest Mexican platter you ever did see. (DELICIOUS.)

*Less sugar, I guess?

Completely satisfied, we rolled into Hayley’s car and made our way home. ‘Twas a magical little escape and while it sated my travel need for 24 hrs, after that time had passed, I just crave traveling to new places more and more. So, again, the million dollar question, how can I travel the world while building a career? (Blogging? Blogging’s the answer, right!?)

This little well reminded me of Kaitlyn. (Hi, Kaitlyn!)

Nisha’s Last Day in L.A. and Celebrity Approachment

Sunday morning we woke up refreshed and groggy. Wait… refreshed or groggy, you choose. It was Nisha’s last morning (sob!) so we decided to squeeze in a few more things before driving her to the airport. First on the list, farmer’s market! My obsession with farmer’s markets knows no bounds and I couldn’t wait to check out what a Southern Californian one had to offer.

The farmer’s market in Studio City is right off of Ventura Blvd near Laurel Canyon Blvd. (Just a quick walk down the gorgeous L.A. river.) It’s noisy and right on the street, but what it lacks in tranquility it makes up for in PONY RIDES!!!

Like, whaaaaaa?

(Vancouver, time to step up your game!)

As we wandered through the stalls, Nisha’s eagle-eyes spotted the one and only Adam Pally. Squee! A couple things to note here:

1. Nisha is super mellow around celebrities. When I met this girl a year ago, she had NEVER seen a celebrity. Together now we’ve seen several and she’s calm and collected every time. I’m pretty sure I LOST MY MIND until at least, like, my 10th sighting of a famous person. (As in, there were tears involved when I saw Jared Padalecki for the first time. Also, Renee Zellweger straight up gave me dagger eyes. (But that’s probably my fault for pointing and hissing into Carrie’s ear much louder than necessary (or realized).))*

2. Adam Pally is lookin’ fine. The Max Bloom weight is off and that is one fine beard.

3. Through all of my brushes with those professionally charming people we call actors, I’ve never wanted to approach someone more. Happy Endings continues to be one of my favourite shows of all time, even after DOZENS of repeat viewings. I’ve never been one to approach famous people or ask for autographs or pictures. I always figure they’d appreciate their privacy more than whatever I have to say to them. But you don’t go into the business without a healthy love for attention, so sometimes it’s probably totally okay to say hi. But how do you know?! Thus, I’ve created a handy, dandy chart that you may assess before deciding whether or not to approach a celebrity.

*Edit: Nisha’s response: “I was not so cool when I saw Ricardo from the Food network. I’ve evolved.”

Kelly’s Handy Dandy Chart for Deciding Whether or Not to Approach Some Who is Significantly More Famous Than You Will Ever Be.

According to my chart it would have been totally acceptable to approach him, but, alas, we decided not to. He was with his kid and farmer’s markets should be considered a safe** place (additional factors that would require a much more comprehensive chart). In hindsight, I kind of wish we had, at least just to say how much we appreciate his work, but it was too nerve-wracking at the time. Thank goodness I have this handy chart for next time!

So in between all of this we were actually sampling and buying food. There was TONS to choose from and we probably sampled our body weight in fresh California produce. The absolute highlight of it all was something called bolani. It’s a vegan flat-bread from Afghanistan and it’s FREAKIN’ delicious. You can buy them stuffed with spinach or potato or pumpkin and then choose from an assortment of spreads to lather over them. I’m talking garlic mint cheese and cilantro pesto and jalapeño jelly. Seriously, get thee to an Afghani restaurant and order ALL THE BOLANI***.

Apparently these guys (East & West Gourmet) are all over farmer’s markets in California and you only have to read a couple Yelp reviews to know I’m not alone in feeling ecstatic over their product.

We took our bolani goodness along with some fresh avocados, handmade tortilla chips, ceviche, and salsa and headed back to Hayley and Ryan’s apartment for a feast. Amazing.

**Safe from being attacked by overzealous wannabe TV writers.

***Pronounced bo-lonnie, not bo-lownie or bo-lani. (I think… Hayley?!)

If you hadn’t noticed yet, I really like panorama shots.

After the food and before the airport, we took the windy, jam-packed drive up to the Griffith Observatory. I guess all the tourists come out on Sundays, because it took us about a half an hour to get up the hill (mountain?). But it was worth it, even if the view is smoggy and you can barely see anything, you’re really there to point your camera in the opposite direction and get the ubiquitous**** tourist shot.

****Guys, I spelt that in one try. One try! *Self high five!*

I’ve been trying this new “not showing my teeth” thing in photos and I don’t think it’s working out for me. I look pissed when in fact, I am not. (Quite the opposite actually.)

You may recognize that building on the left (aka The Griffith Observatory) from Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle or if you, unlike me, are a classy person, from Rebel Without a Cause.

We then rode over to LAX and said our goodbyes to Nisha (sad!) before heading home for an evening of relaxing and TV. The end.

Today is a grey day in L.A. (but Day 9 wasn’t).

This is what, I believe, the kids calls “#nofilter”.

I’ve been in Los Angeles for nearly 20 days. (Say what!?) And today I miss Vancouver. The fresh air. The rain. The short distances between boroughs. It’s a god damn beautiful city and sometimes I have to leave for awhile to remember that. If you live in Vancouver please consider yourself very, very lucky.

*This post was written over two days. Today the sun came out. Yesterday it rained. People in L.A. LOSE THEIR MINDS when it rains. It’s hilarious. Actually, it’s pretty much exactly what happens to Vancouver when it snows. I highly recommend this Jimmy Kimmel video. So funny.

So the temperature has dropped. It got down to 50 last night (10??*). It will probably get up to the mid 60s today; still a treat for January, but not the warmth I quickly got accustomed to when I first arrived.

So, brief, fleeting homesickness aside, (I know, STFU Kelly, no complaining from you! But I’m just being honest…) L.A. is still frickin’ L.A. I guess I’m just grappling with the loss of my romanticized fantasy Los Angeles. But cities on pedestals shouldn’t throw stones. (What?!) California is known worldwide as a dream destination, and for good reason.

Day 9 (a Saturday) was a magical day. We rented biked in Venice and rode them all the way to Manhattan Beach. (A solid hour plus ride.) I (barely) managed to keep up with rockstar athletes, Ryan, Hayley, and Nisha. We only ducked onto the road for a short while and the rest of the ride along the beach was stunning.

*I’m no longer Googling the difference. I gots to figure it out on my own! 32 = 0, 61 = 16, etc…

Clearly I’m having way too much fun with Pixlr.

It was an incredibly gorgeous day. It’s moments like that where I would sell a little piece of my soul to live here.** We arrived at Manhattan Beach and set up camp next to an empty volleyball next. Hayley and Ryan’s friends were still on their way so we decided to test the water. We dipped our toes in and it was, yes, decidedly freezing, but hell if I’m not going swimming in January! After a bit of wading and much reassurance from Hayley that this wasn’t the beach the great whites like to hang out at, we dove in. (Upon later reflection, we realized said beach was only TEN MINUTES AWAY. Seriously, watch this video.) The water was gorgeous and refreshing. I even ducked in a second time later in the day. (And half-heartedly attempted to surf. But, yep, still no upper arm strength on this girl.)

**Which I’m pretty sure they collect at the DMV in exchange for a California driver’s license. (The shards of soul are then tossed in the air to rest above the city as a cloud of broken dreams.)

After we towelled off, Hayley’s co-worker/lovely lady Katie and her finance, Ned, joined us as well as Ryan’s friend, Nate, his girlfriend, Batel,*** and their friend Kyle. Tequila in hand, it was time to play volleyball. I begged to be left on the sidelines (While I played a lot of sports growing up, I always abhorred volleyball.) but, alas, to no avail. It was, shockingly, actually really fun! Clearly elementary school volleyball should be taught on a beach and missed hits should not be punished with the popular girls laughing at you, but with shots of tequila. We played a game called “Ace“. It was super fun and my awful playing even got mildly better. (Big ups to Ned and Nate for teaching me!)

***Massive apologies. I’m almost certain I’m spelling that wrong. (But maybe you should make yourself easier to Facebook stalk?! 😉 )

Then the tequila was gone and the bikes needed to be returned so we bid adieu and promised to meet up in a few hours. Nisha, Hayley, Ryan, and I hopped on our bikes and journeyed back. The ride back to Venice was even more beautiful than the ride there. We almost made it back before the sunset (but, obviously a photo shoot was necessary midway). We managed our bikes fine in the dark and then, just as we were pulling into Venice Beach and I was thinking about how incredibly perfect the day was, I kid you not, fireworks started going off behind us. Glorious.

We returned our bikes and nabbed some massive pizza slices before hopping in the car and heading home. We showered and I started getting ready to go out, but you just know after a full beach day and two hour bike ride there was no way we were making it back out; so Nisha made us some dinner and we totally crashed. A perfect California Saturday.

The panorama option on my camera, with varying degrees of success.

Live! Sitcom! Taping!

Does anyone know any good memory boosting tricks? I think with all these fictional characters and events swirling around in my head, my brain is having trouble grasping on to the tangible ones. Or maybe it’s just a product of my generation: if I didn’t tweet it youtube it instagram Facebook tumblr snapchat (ok, that last one’s flawed) right away, it never happened. Why would my brain exert actual energy when social media (and its warehouse of servers in Alaska*) can do that for me?**

What I’m trying to say is I only have one picture from Day 8, so it practically didn’t happen. But it did and it was great. Onwards!

*There’s a horror movie pitch somewhere in there.

**Those platforms have to store their info somewhere, right? Someone told me that once… I think I need to read more books.

The picture is from Day 7.

What we did in the morning doesn’t matter. (I don’t remember.) It likely involved breakfast at some point and probably a little TV. What matters is what we did in the evening: attend our first LIVE! STUDIO! TAPING! Well, except for Jimmy Kimmel the night before… So, it was our first LIVE! SITCOM! TAPING! (to be aired at a much later date). Barbara (the Wonderful) arranged for us to attend a taping of Men at Work, the TBS show we have previously seen a rehearsal of.

Danny Masterson, Adam Busch, Michael Cassidy, James Lesure

And now, like all our feelings for Clint Eastwood, I bring you the conflicted chart* of emotions:

The Good: The show, Men at Work: It’s funny. It’s not 30 Rock but not everything can/should be. It’s cute and fun and would make for excellent background TV on a rainy day of collaging.

The Bad: Our audience warmer** whose name escapes me but we’ll call Chris, because that’s what he called every male he brought up to the front, (except for Ryan – see below). I understand now that there are different calibers of warmers (stay tuned for future post) but way back then, on Day 8, I thought all studio audiences had to sit through an uncomfortable, groan inducing*** and, frankly, racist five plus hours of Chris’s brutal jokes. (He more or less just brought people up to the front, heckled them, then made them dance.) I understand that the job must be VERY hard — I could certainly never do it — and it probably wasn’t as awful as I’m making it out to be and, in fact, most of the audience seemed to really enjoy it, so, you know what, why not run with it, Chris, the same way I’ve completely run away with this ridiculous sentence.

The Ugly: The two individuals, (one nicknamed “rapey Ryan” and the other, let’s call her Christina), who chose to bump, grind, and otherwise engage in inappropriate behaviour in front of 200 hundred people. (I’m no prude but when the shirt AND belt come off and you’re shaking your bits atop the face of a woman who is now lying on the floor, I’m looking away.)

The Good: The attractive writers/crew. Nisha found her future husband. (Who, naturally, we stalked after the show and who, naturally, completely ignored us.)

The Bad: The sandwiches they served far later than midway through the night. But, hey, the taping (and the sandwiches (and Chris’s entertainment)) was all free, so this is not a real complaint.

The Good: Michael Cassidy! This guy has the smile/wave/laugh move down like you wouldn’t believe. He even took the time to come up to the audience and answer questions. It might take another 10 years but this guy’s going to be a movie star. Mark my words. (Seriously, I got a total Ryan Reynolds/George Clooney early TV days vibe.)

The Bad: Danny Masterson. (Hyde!) I couldn’t tell if he was phoning it in or his character was meant to be really, really low energy. Probably not the best question to arise.

The Ugly: Molly Sims’ face. It. Doesn’t. Move. (Which really isn’t ugly so much as sad.)

The Good: The rest of the cast. James Lesure nailed every take and brought something new every time. Adam Busch was also fantastic as were the “suburb” extras.

The Bad: The Nickelback joke! There was a great Nickelback joke in rehearsal and it got cut. I think we were the only ones who laughed at it in rehearsal and the show doesn’t air in Canada, so I get it; but we were sad anyways.

The Good: Going to a taping of a sitcom!!! All bad and ugly aside, it was an incredible experience. It’s absolutely longer than ideal, but five or six hours of numb butt is the trade off for seeing a television show taped live; and it’s worth every minute.

*Not a real chart. More of a list, actually.

**One who keeps the audience “warm” i.e. laughing during the lengthy hours and repetitive takes.

***I know that a “groan” is still categorized as a “laugh” but let’s not aim for that, okay?

The alien spaceship we saw floating on the way home.