OH THE DAYS WHEN I HAD MY FULL-THROTTLE MOJO

I have to say that I am rather uninspired for this week’s column. It’s been half term week so the streets of London have been strewn with annoying children and the nightclubs full of just turned 18 year olds getting hammered. I have therefore been rather boring and not done much, neither has the weather motivated me to do much more than sleep. Longest winter EVER! It has got to that time of year when there is nothing really happening. I have totally lost my mojo, I don’t like any of the clothes in the shop, my appetite has gone and worst of all I don’t even feel like drinking any Champagne! It’ll pass, I’ll probably be back on it tomorrow but right this very second I just can’t go on.

So I have decided rather than bore you with my moaning I will take you on another trip down memory lane and tell you about a party that I ended up going to during my time in Brazil. It was a party held for said just turned 18 year olds. As you might imagine it was bloomin’ hilarious...

One of my favourite things in life is juicy gossip. Not the malicious kind where people get hurt but the kind that is just so incredibly juicy and scandalous it makes everything else seem lacklustre (which life does seem to be at the moment with or without gossip). So you can imagine that during my first weeks in Brazil I was denied any gossip as I knew no one, not even the celebs of the telenovelas (Brazilian soaps). But then I had the genius idea to invite myself to a family friend’s son’s girlfriend’s surprise birthday party. It was a guaranteed drama fest.

They were all 17/18 and still wore braces. I decided to position myself in the kitchen as this is usually where everything unfolds. Oh, how right I was....

A few of the girls who were drunk on literally 2 watered down caipirinhas came in crying because one of the boys had made a bet with his mates to pull one of them. As I understood it, the boy had made quite a bit of money. Not to be rude about the fairer sex and indeed my sex but he really was taking one for the team as she was not a looker. Anyway I tried to calm them down in my best portuguese – which I think cheered her up immensely as it was fairly terrible. Whilst I was doing this A MAJOR FATTY entered the room. The fatty was nicknamed 'barriga' which means belly in Brazilian. He told me this with such pride I was so impressed that my initial reaction was to shake his hand but then the giggles got the better of me. Like the girls earlier the watered down caipirinhas had quite an effect on me too. Anyway he told me about the girl he fancied... I like the Brazilian approach to nicknames. I had 2 black friends out there whose names were ‘black out’ and ‘midnight’. Talk about stating the obvious. I suppose my nickname, which my father gave me, also fits under this category.

Then entered public enemy number one who was showing off his winnings after kissing the munter... He was repenting of his ways so I tried to convince him that maybe he should split the cash with the girl - he was having none of it.

I decided that 3 watered down caipirinha was quite enough to allow me to venture out of the kitchen in to the darkened sitting room. Oh my word it made the house parties I had a University look so tame. Everyone was bumping and grinding and for want of a better word sucking face. I felt like a real party pooper when I retired from the party at a respectable 12.30am when one of the girls turned off the funky beats in favour of her opera singing.

It’s time for another safari dinner party maybe that will inspire me a little bit more....

Cordelia Rosa

CONEY ISLAND 4TH OF JULY

Coney Island, Brooklyn, NY, 4^th of July 2010. The sun is burning the back of my neck as I scan for a shady spot while the crowd around me cheers at the competitors in the dock wolfing down five hot dogs in a single mouthful. Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest is an annual event watched by millions on ESPN, and apparently, a show of patriotism on Independence Day.

Unable to find any shade I turn my attention to the sea of red, white and blue while Joey Chestnut, for the fourth consecutive year, retains his title of hot dog eating champ, by gobbling down fifty-four hot dogs in ten minutes.

The bell rings and a roar erupts from the crowd as a victorious Joey is handed the bejewelled mustard-yellow winner’s belt, that he will keep until next year’s competition.

As I jostle through the sweaty crowd to sample one of Nathan’s famous hot dogs I am bemused by the spectacle I have just witnessed. Though few things are more American than this ritual, there must be more dignified ways of proving one’s love of country.

In the queue I voice my thoughts to a man showing off his leathery tan and faded tattoos in a string vest. With a thick Brooklyn accent he tells me: “Ninety-five years it’s bin goin’ on. On July 4^th, 1924, some immigrants had a hot-dog eatin’ contest right here to establish who was most grateful to his country.”

This November’s midterm elections once again revealed US politics as among the most polarised in the world. Yet the patriotism I witnessed on Coney Island, from the eating contest to the thousands of people clad from tip to toe in red, white and blue, is pervading. Never have I seen a country celebrate itself on such a scale – from New York to California and Alaska to Texas.

When I listen to Barack Obama versus Sarah Palin, or to Jon Stewart versus Glenn Beck, the divide in the American national psyche is apparent. It is at times difficult to believe these individuals speak of – even come from – the same country. On the 4^th of July, Americans are united not in what they celebrate, only how they celebrate. How schizophrenic – and how unnerving – in a country of such global influence, to see such jingoism combined with such bitter internal discord.

Cecilia Seilern

PARIS ON A SHOESTRING

So you’re wanting to do something different this Christmas, or New Year, or indeed whenever…but you’re broke. Fear not! A last-minute break in Paris is still within your reach - you just need to be a smart traveller...

Þ The internet is your friend. Use websites such as Expedia, Skyscanner and LastMinute.com to help you get the best deals.

Þ Travel unsociably. Whatever your method of transport – ferry, train, coach or plane - it's worth travelling as unsociably as you can. Travel will be much cheaper at 4am on a Thursday morning than it will be at 4pm on a Friday. This will slash costs considerably and this way you may even be able to travel first class rather than bucket class at a fraction of the cost.

Þ Stay outside of the city. Or at least in less popular districts (in Parisian lingo, arrondissements). Paris is much smaller than, for instance, London – if you travel an hour outside of central London, you can still be in London; however, you can be out of Paris in 20 minutes and in any of its quiet and more business-oriented areas. The town of Levallois-Perret, for instance, is stuck out on the end of line 3, but is only 20 minutes' metro (or less) from the boulevard Haussmann (where all the big shops are) and has many inexpensive but perfectly acceptable hotels that are primarily aimed at businesspeople – usually spitting distance from the metro station itself. Furthermore, it has a town of its own to explore, as well as being walking distance from the upmarket and leafy suburb of Neuilly, from which you can also access Paris by metro. Other suburbs you might want to consider as your base are La Défense (close to the Arc de Triomphe) and Vincennes (close to the Chateau de Vincennes and to Disneyland Paris as well as not being far at all from the Louvre and the aforementioned big shops by RER).

(snow in the lesser-known 15^th arrondissement)

Þ Avoid the traditional tourist traps. As well as covering accommodation, this also includes attractions and food. While I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to go to Disneyland, Versailles, or many other local attractions, Paris and the surrounding area has so much more to offer. Always try to look off the beaten track for eateries (of which Paris has many), and instead of going up the Eiffel Tower for your very expensive view of the city (of which half is missing because you’re standing on it), instead go to the top of the big department stores for your FREE view of the city in its entirety. A book such as Unexplored Paris, by Rodolphe Trouilleux, is also a worthy investment so that when friends and family ask what you did in Paris you have a better reply than “oh, just the same tourist tat you did when you went.”

Þ Vote with your feet! While Paris’ metro and RER system is simple to use as well as being fairly functional and cheap, arguably the best way to see Paris is on foot, which is both inexpensive and rewarding. Try the box set of cards detailing 50 city walks in Paris (Martha Kay and Christina Henry de Tessan) - just pick out a card and Paris is your huître (or oyster).

Bianca Summons

POVERTY PORN IN THE GAP YEAR INDUSTRY

‘A picture is worth a thousand words’, so the saying goes. The images that are used by an organisation in its marketing have as big an impact as, if not bigger than, the words that accompany them. In the gap year industry this fact can be used to profitable effect: by combining tempting photos of volunteering alongside links to “sign up here”. So far, so predictable. But pictures can also be used to mislead. In the case of some organisations they embellish the truth to make it look more appealing – see for example, Gapforce’s brochure which is full of enticing photographs taken of models. Leaving aside feminism or the Trades Description Act, seeing this picture, what would you think? That you are volunteering on a worthy project?

It gets more serious when marketing images are used as a kind of “poverty porn” to generate a misleading picture not only of the work done by volunteers but of the host communities themselves. Take a look at Duncan McNicholl’s photography project ‘Perspectives of Poverty’, which shows how the same person can be portrayed in two very different lights: once as a dejected, poverty-stricken man, and once as a happy and successful man.













According to Ethical Volunteering, an independent advice organisation, we should “look at the pictures and words that are used by the organisation to tell you about their developing world partners.” In particular, look for an organisation that describes the people that they work with and their developing world in a positive, respectful way. Steer clear of those who seem to be promoting a patronising attitude towards their partners especially if that picture is of a sad-looking child. This mock advert from the satirical magazine ‘the Onion’ illustrates the point: Why is this child sad? We don’t know. But apparently, you can help. No wonder the image of the developing world that many people have is of a begging bowl.

Quest Overseas is a small ethical volunteering organisation that offers opportunities for volunteers in locations across South America and sub-Saharan Africa. It involves a variety of projects including community-based children’s projects, conservation and construction. The pictures that the company uses in its marketing are all taken by volunteers and staff, and depict actual work being done on projects.

Quest Overseas works on a long-term basis with local grassroots charity partners. In Peru, Quest have been working in the shanty-town of Villa Maria since 1998 with volunteers providing sports and creative activities for the children of the favela during their school holidays, to give them focus and attention that can help to prevent them becoming victims of drug abuse and gang violence. Quest Overseas is very careful about the way that it describes its projects and what they can achieve. It recognises that volunteers at Villa Maria have a lot to offer to the children – time, friendship, affection, not to mention donations to the charity for educational support. However, can this one project solve all poverty and drug abuse in Peru? No. It is important that volunteers and the volunteering industry recognise that implying this is wrong.

LAKE TAHOE/DEATH VALLEY (leg 5)

By Cecilia Seilern travelling with Lily Barton

The ominous characters of Crescent City and the greedy folk of Reno are both unflattering American stereotypes. What we experienced next of American people in Lake Tahoe and Death Valley demonstrated a far more desirable quality in the American national psyche.

We sallied forth to Lake Tahoe with the naïve notion that no popular holiday destination by a lake in the Golden State would be served up without sunshine or heat. As we approached the area, the pine trees heavy with snow were a telltale sign that we had been mistaken. Lake Tahoe, indeed a popular holiday destination, is a ski resort! The lake, it turned out, is known for the clarity of its alpine water and the panorama of surrounding mountains on all sides. Though snow was still stubbornly lining the side of the road in April, it was warm enough for us to be in t-shirts and we thought little of camping another night in the cold. Nothing, not the fact that out of a dozen campsites only one was open, or even that in this one open campsite ours was the only tent, nothing would stop us in our quest of saving a buck or two by avoiding a warm night in a motel. Having erected our tent and digging out every last piece of clothing that might get us through the night, we were accosted by the camp host Ed, who came to collect the sum of $20.00 for the plot of land we had chosen. No doubt expecting us to be seasoned and equipped campers, Ed nonchalantly informed us that a snowstorm was expected with temperatures dropping well below freezing; he was immediately faced with our horrified expressions. Too stingy to pack up and go, and too embarrassed to reveal our idiocy to Ed, we were ready for what would no doubt become a test of our endurance while Ed turned on his heels and back to the comfort of his RV. A few moments later, while we were piling on as many layers as would fit, Ed reemerged from his warm RV and headed toward our frail tent. Having reevaluated the situation, Ed decided he felt sorry for us and kindly led us to an empty RV tucked away in the back of the park. When the season reopened the following week, the RV in question would be rented out for $900.00 a week; Ed gave it to us for free and though it was damp and smelly, it might as well have been the Ritz we were so relieved to be out of the cold! We stepped out the following morning to find ourselves surrounded by six inches of snow…

As our summer tires struggled to get us up and down the Sierra Nevada mountains, we looked forward to the heat as the landscape merged into the arid desert of Death Valley where our summer tent would finally fit in! Or so we thought… The moment we exited the mountainous insulation of the Sierra Nevada, we were once again faced with unanticipated weather conditions. Having never experienced a hurricane in the mild European climate I’m used to, I can only assume that what was blazing through the desert that day was just that; a milder version perhaps, but a hurricane nonetheless. Six trucks were blown off the highway which was promptly shut leaving us stranded in a small desert town named Lone Pine on the outskirts of Death Valley. The wind made the prospect of camping one that not even we, as broke as we were, could consider. We walked into a few motels asking for their cheapest rates walking out again and again dissatisfied with their offers. Finally resigned to fork out for a night in a less than desirable room we couldn’t afford, we gave it our last ditch attempt. We walked into the last motel on Lone Pine’s Main Street and were met by rugged looking man with hair as white as snow, a deep tan and cavernous wrinkles from the dry heat and harsh desert sun. His name was Doug and completely unfazed by the hissing gale outside that had now rendered the town into a state of darkness, he calmly responded to our financial enquiry simply by saying; ‘Merry Christmas, don’t worry about it.’ Utterly bewildered by this blasé act of kindness, we protested at first but soon accepted breathing a sigh of relief as strong as the wind blowing outside. Amid Americans’ many flaws; their collective greed and often shocking lack of worldly cultural understanding, lies an admirable quality and one, which is quintessentially American. Time and time again have we encountered a kind of helpfulness and hospitality seemingly unique to the States. Whether it’s buying a breakfast smoothie and leaving with a goody bag full of granola bars and nuts given to us by the owner upon hearing of a long day’s drive ahead, or simply always being told: ‘Oh my God I love your accent!’ there is something innately kind, even admirable about the clichéd American perkiness we so often mock.

REDWOOD/RENO (leg 4)

By Cecilia Seilern travelling with Lily Barton

We awoke after the worst night’s sleep of our lives having frozen to death in our far-too-large tent leaving worries of horny convicts a distant memory. As we packed up the tent, the surroundings that last night felt so intimidating to us looked much friendlier in the morning light. Our little campsite now conjured up images of happy families frolicking in the nearby stream rather than twitchy junkies hiding behind gargantuan tree trunks in search of their next fix. Tired but relieved to have gotten through our first night camping, we left the magnificent sequoia trees behind and headed for the shimmering lights of Reno. In one day’s drive, we saw the scenery change from the thick red trunks of the Redwood trees, to the snowy Sierra Nevada mountains and down into the hot and dry Nevada desert. It felt as though were my attention to wane, even just for a moment, I would miss an array of sights.

We arrived in Reno in time to see it in all its glory. The sun had set and the round casino light bulbs were shining brightly above us. Having set up camp about 20 miles outside of ‘The Biggest Little City in the World’, we were excited to sample some true American tack. Lured in by what looked like a town full of fun and our excitement probably amplified by a day in the car, we were ready to play on the penny slots and drink for free. It only took about five minutes in a casino for our excitement to falter. Surrounded by enormously fat, monosyllabic drowsy men and equally fat either half naked or half dead women chain smoking and losing all their money, we nostalgically remembered the meth addicts of Crescent City. Walking up and down the main casino street of Reno, we saw through the colourful façade and were faced with the depressing reality. Enormous casinos had turned their lights out and gone out of business, pawn and loan shops lined the streets like candy floss at a fun fair and drunken bums begged for a dollar to find a place to sleep no doubt having lost their beds at the betting tables. Although I only spent one evening in Reno it made me think of what a dying town might be like. After the Gold Rush, Nevada was left littered with ghost towns. Once prosperous mining towns were now simply abandoned after all its resources had been exhausted. This made think what an impressive ghost town Reno would make and I was left wishing its inhabitants would abandon it making my Reno dreams come true!

SAN FANCISCO/REDWOODS (leg 3)

By Cecilia Seilern travelling with Lily Barton

We hit the road again headed north towards the Redwood forest where we planned to spend our first night camping. We drove out of San Francisco and over the Golden Gate Bridge in the morning, (a truly worthwhile minute or two) and soon found ourselves in quite different surroundings. About two hours north of San Francisco, we found ourselves in a sea of massive sequoia trees reaching high into the skies and far into the horizon. Sunlight flickered through the branches like strobe light as the road wound in and out. As we drove through tiny roadside towns, passing endless crumbling Motels with rusty signs, more often than not the ‘O’ hanging low between the ‘M’ and the ‘T’, we finally felt like we were in America. The kind of America you only really see when on the road. Every town we passed, though inhabited, felt like a ghost town. The once brightly coloured gas stations and diners had faded into pastels and every building looked as though it had been built for temporary measures; only someone forgot to tear it down again.

As we approached our destination, Crescent City, a town almost on the border with Oregon and in the middle of nowhere, we were once again on the coast. California’s northern coastline is much wilder, buffered by massive cliffs heavy with dense forest. Our sat nav only took us so far and failed to find our campsite. Having driven around in circles, we finally stopped by a deserted looking motel to ask for directions. We called ‘Hello! Hello!’ and were met with an eerie silence. We finally peered into a dusty window and saw a lonesome woman watching TV. We knocked and she finally lifted herself from her seat and tentatively opened the door a crack. One look at the woman standing on the other side of the door was enough to give Freddy Krueger the creeps. She told us she had been afraid to open the door because a car had recently been stolen out of her parking lot. Her greasy, straggly hair shaking along with her voice, she told us a nearby maximum security prison attracted some unsavory characters and has lead to a lucrative meth trade in the area; a trade to which, I suspected, she no doubt contributed… She had no answer to our queries so we set off again a little unnerved by what we had just learnt. There is something considerably creepier about the thought of an American prison compared to a European one… We found our campsite only a few minutes away from the sinister motel and as the sun was setting and we drove into the woods, an uneasy feeling set into the pit of our stomachs that had little to do with the bear warnings in our empty campsite.

LA/SANFRANCISCO (leg 2)

By Cecilia Seilern travelling with Lily Barton

We left LA for San Francisco happy finally to be hitting the road. Music is an integral accompaniment for a road trip like ours and if your trip starts in California, there is no shortage of music to fit the landscape. We left the city driving down the Sunset Strip listening to The Doors and the Byrds, both bands which in my mind are synonymous with Los Angeles. As we drove on, we finally flick our ipod to the Beach Boys while snaking along the Californian Coast. Some music sounds amazing everywhere, but the Beach Boys sound best when heard in the surroundings by which they were inspired. No sound could better have taken us north towards San Francisco.

About half way between LA and San Francisco, on the outskirts of San Luis Obispo, right off Highway 101, a big pink sign caught our attention beckoning us off the highway to take a closer look. The Madonna Inn was most unexpected. The exterior, like a pink and white meringue or a fantastical take on Hansel and Gretel’s sweet house gives a distinct sense of the absurd. Still, its candy floss exterior cannot prepare you for what awaits inside. The gargantuan shiny fireplace that greets you in the lobby looks almost modest next to the dining room it conceals. With plastic looking gold chandeliers covering every inch of the ceiling, illuminating the bright pink leather upholstered thrones and benches, its’ light reflecting shimmery flickers on the colorful goblets on the tables, each plate heavy with a fluorescent pastry served by a waitress in a dirndl… All that, off a highway sandwiched between a Subway and Burger King! We managed to convince a maid to take us around the bedrooms. The rooms we saw varied from a cave, in which I half expected to see Wilma Flinstone come out of the cavernous bathroom its décor was so cliché; to a flower room in which flowered wallpaper was ubiquitously covering everything floor to ceiling with overflowing flowerpots and vases adding up to an avalanche of clashing colours. The list of rooms goes on from a ‘jungle room’ and an ‘old-style honeymoon suite’ but I’ll stop there. Suffice to say I wanted to stay for 100 days playing musical chairs with every room.

As we approached San Francisco, our ipods appropriately preparing us for our stay with Jefferson Airplane, The Grateful Dead and Janice Joplin, we began talking about the city we were about to explore… We have grown up being taught that everyone is equal, be they gay or straight, black or white. I have personally rarely encountered racism or extreme homophobia first hand, (though I am neither black nor gay) and though there is still progress to be made, we have come leaps and bounds in the last fifty years. San Francisco, in particular Haight-Ashbury, a street in the west of the city, was central to the progress in question. In the 60’s, musicians and artists and many, many hippies set up camp in Haight-Ashbury. Never having been to San Francisco, when I think about the city, I think of them. Images of people playing music on the street, hairy naked people making love and acid come to mind. I hoped it was still like that. As we drove into the Bay Area, up and down the famously hilly streets, I was on the lookout for flower children and hippies but found none. We arrived at our hostel, and were instead greeted by a skinny goth (an equally desirable sight but rather in Prague). The city is beautiful, with Victorian houses built on a slant and its people far more relatable in many ways than Los Angeles and because of its legacy, a definite highlight of California but I often felt as though I had arrived very late to a really good party. Everywhere we went I was reminded of what happened here in the 60’s and all I wished was to have been there. Haight-Ashbury, still filled with vintage shops full of amazing clothes from the 60’s and 70’s, which in my mind were no doubt worn by Janice Joplin herself, were yet another reminder of what was no longer here.

CALIFORNIA/NEVADA (leg 1)

By Cecilia Seilern travelling with Lily Barton

We landed in Los Angeles faced with the sole task of buying a car that would carry us all the way to New York City in three months. The budget was limited to $ 2,000, and the obstacles extensive. We had heard that as a foreigner, buying a car in Fortress America was a challenge and indeed it led us to work ourselves up into quite a tizzy after a few days of contacting insurance companies, being put on hold for hours, having our hopes raised only for them to be shattered moments later when we were told, for the millionth time, that only American licenses could be insured. Thankfully, all we needed was a kind American helping hand which came in the form of our dear friend Jules. The car, a blue 1993 Volvo station wagon, was bought off an Armenian man named Fred with questionable morals. The car itself was on budget but we had to fork out an entire grand on various repairs before we set off, but set off we eventually did!

California is State of many landscapes all of which ignited some kind of nostalgia in me. The first, Los Angeles, was not a city I expected to be charmed by. I envisaged the people to be as manicured as the lawns set against a muggy backdrop of highways and pollution. Though this assumption was somewhat correct, my time in LA left me excited for the future of this young city. Los Angeles, the second biggest city in the United States, a city now globally recognized as the Mecca of Movies, was until the 1920’s known more for producing one-quarter of the world’s petroleum. It was in fact in the 20’s that filmmakers, enticed by the warm climate that would allow them to shoot all year round, flocked west and studio buildings began to appear in Hollywood. In the last century, Los Angeles has blossomed into a world centre for business, international trade, entertainment, culture, media, fashion, science, technology, and education. While there certainly is an element of superficiality in Los Angeles, I couldn’t help but feel like I was in excitingly creative surroundings. Pit against a European cultural capital such as Vienna, a city with a long and rich history which has produced art and music widely acclaimed across the globe, burgeoning talents such as Mozart, Klimt and Schiele, LA seems comparatively novel and could simply not begin to compete. When I walked the streets of LA I felt a distinct sense of culture in motion, and innovation; a feeling I lack when walking the streets of Vienna. Though inevitably impressed by the architectural beauty of a city such as Vienna and everything else it has to offer (which is a lot), and by no means trying to undermine its remarkable achievements, driving along the palm tree lined boulevards of Los Angeles reminded me that this is a city in the making; that it is NOW that LA is at its greatest, and it is the NOW, that future generations will study. This is what excites me about Los Angeles, and this is what makes me want to come back.