Art meets art

Jiggly giggles abound on this crisp winter’s day and with only the sun to kiss our skin, we smear body paint over our torsos. This is not the scene for some titillating fantasy, although the guy “working” on his roof next door may dream otherwise. We’ve gathered here today to celebrate the female form and to raise awareness for breast cancer by creating art with our breasts.

Breastique Art is the brain child of Shiona Herbert, “I came up with idea during my housewarming party when a group of arty types got crazy with a canvas and some paints in this very courtyard.” This heady event lead to evolution of Breastique Art where workshops are run for the enthusiastic novice to the connoisseurs of boob art. Workshops are also becoming popular for alternative hen’s nights, pregnant bumps and baby showers.

The workshops are liberating, fun, and a little risqué. It’s an intimate moment as each woman disrobes in her own time and the instant she pulls her breasts away from the canvas is magical. The “big reveal” is as much as surprise to the artist as it is to her comrades.

The paintings themselves are predominantly abstract which suits the very nature of the process. The experienced create more defined shapes like vases of flowers, the human body, and fruit, especially the round fleshy variety. Shiona demonstrates one painting technique called the mash by rubbing the canvas with her colourful breasts as you would mash up potatoes. Breast art has its own terminology like a nipple switch (the nipple is rolled onto the canvas), a press-up (a full-on push into the canvas), a pucker (pucker up your nipple to kiss the canvas), and a shimmy where you shake it like you’re Dita Von Tease. The brisk wind blows up some nipply results.

Local Perth businesses are welcomed to become part of Breastique Art’s Maximum Exposure Exhibit by displaying a piece of this unique art on their premises. The proceeds of any sales are donated to the Breast Cancer Foundation of Western Australia.

For more information and workshop bookings go to www.breastiqueart.com

The Top 50 Restaurant Guide Western Australia 2011 is due for release in November 2010. This guide is STILL the first and best independent restaurant guide for WA. To thank our valued supporters, the 2010 edition is available for free download at the Gourmet Godfather

Paris' lacy icon looms

Read here for tips on how to survive the crowds with the family.

Peter Pan statue in the Luxembourg Gardens

Live like the locals with a market visit and then a linger in Paris’ favourite park, Jardin du Luxembourg. Have a gander here A Family Picnic in Jardin du Luxembourg

New Norcia, north of Perth, is Australia’s only monastic town and till today, is run by Benedictine monks.

Travel writer Pico Iyer, once commented on the town, “In 30 years of almost constantly travelling around the world, I have seldom met a place so clarifying and calm as New Norcia. It makes you think again about what matters: it returns you to a sense of stillness and community that’s hard to find in the modern world; it refreshes the soul better than any holiday. The only hardship of coming here is leaving.”

Looking out from the hotel’s columned terrace over the town is a tribute to serenity, community spirit and European culture. I’ve visited during the wildflower season in spring and the drive home offers vistas of green rolling hills and fields of wildflowers, and I couldn’t  agree more.

Published in Malaysian Airlines In-flight magazine Going Places November 2009

In every corner of the Mundaring Truffle Festival punters gorged themselves silly. Buns filled with truffle infused fare were shoved into faces, truffled pasta was hoovered and brie was smeared with…well I’m sure you can guess.

For the full post go to http://www.nileguide.com/destination/blog/perth/2010/08/03/mundaring-truffle-festival-pompeii-style/

Lovers of truffles and people of Perth, or those lucky to be both, check out the Mundaring Truffle Festival this weekend just 40 minutes east of the CBD in the Perth hills. Whether you take the organic approach of wandering at leisure through the throngs of enthusiasts and novices, or take it a little more seriously by joining a workshop or cooking class, you’re sure to leave feeling the fungi’s decadent allure. Check out the official website at www.mundaringtrufflefestival.com so you remain focused during your truffle infused high. If you’re still craving more, try a truffle degustation at local restaurants Darlington Estate www.darlingtonestate.com or the Loose Box www.loosebox.com.au.

If you still have no idea about what all the fuss is about, perhaps the following will inspire the taste buds.

An Ode to the Truffle

A black diamond in the rough.  Jagged edges craving to be sliced over innocence.  An egg, a potato, handmade pasta, a slab of steak, shimmering risotto, a supple scallop or a sliver of asparagus.  Your earthly pleasures are to be inhaled, caressed, consumed, and devoured.  You are without gender, curvaceous like a woman and yet renowned as the seed of the earth.  A fungus, so intense in scent and flavour defying even a flame, which merely reduces to a mushroom ambrosia.  Alluring in your mystery, a temptress to the next conquest.  Shyly hiding in the ground waiting to be sought after with the vigour of a lover who can’t resist.  Even after the act of indulgence is over, insatiable yearning follows.

We are captive in our Balinese apartment. The rain is unrelenting and there are Mexican soap operas on the television. In the corridor outside, countless children host their version of the World Cup. As another goal is scored, it’s the abrupt end of siesta time for our baby daughter, Paris.

The pandemonium momentarily subsides as one of the culprits receives such an earful from his mother that I revise my plan to tell him off myself. Besides, as my husband Stephan points out, how threatening is a woman of meagre stature wearing floral yellow pyjamas in the middle of the day? I have to agree, and go back to admiring his painted toenails — apparently there has been a misunderstanding at the day spa.

Like all tropical downpours, it ends as quickly as it began, and we set off to visit the pool. This is Paris’s first overseas trip and considering how much stuff such a small person requires for a trip to the park, you can imagine what packing for a toddler visiting a developing nation is like. Unlike Stephan, who breezed in at the last minute, threw a few things into a suitcase and declared we were ready. So forgetting something was understandable. And in this instance, it was the bathers and the swimmer nappies.

You can’t buy swimmer nappies in Bali. I should know, after many attempts to describe my request to the blank expressions of shop assistants. We settle for "pull-ups" and although they are slender when dry, the moment they are submerged in water they swell, resulting in several nappy changes during each pool session.

Despite the other children’s attempts to ignore Paris’s massive bottom, she must be wondering if her butt looks big in her new bathers.

Between nappy changes, I enviously notice the couple on the opposite side of the pool, in the "adult" area. Engrossed in their books, every so often they stroke each other’s arm or pass a comment. They break away from their reading only to sip colourful cocktails. Sighing, I reminisce about our lives before parenthood. I am certain we didn’t have to rush around all day looking for nappies and bathers. My thoughts are interrupted by Stephan yelling, "Can you get another nappy ready?" The child-free couple flinch.

Back in our apartment, I get ready for dinner in record time. My thoughts drift back to the couple by the pool while Paris bangs her toys as she impatiently demands her meal. The concierge has organised an open-sided van to take us to an Italian restaurant. As we leave the serenity of Legian for the frantic beat of Kuta, Paris stands snug on the back seat between us. As our speed quickens, the wind blows her hair and she raises her tiny arms to catch the breeze.

She squeals with delight: "Whee, whee, whee."

Motorbikes and madness engulf us. Paris’s gappy grin coaxes broad smiles and waves from all around. Enjoying her celebrity status, she calls out to her adoring fans, "Hello! Hello!" Suddenly and surely my memories of pre-motherhood bliss are dispelled just as quickly as Paris’s swimming nappies took to bulge.

Published in The Australian 18 March 2006

Photo taken by Kelly Romano kelly@krp.com.au

Read the full article here as published in Asian Geographic Passport issue 2/2010

Much as lava oozes through the landscape, Willem Heyneker has flowed into Perth’s art scene with maximum impact. His body sculptures and jewellery are available at several outlets around Perth. For the full impact of Willem’s ethereal designs, please go to http://www.nileguide.com/destination/blog/perth/2010/06/24/traversing-the-terrain/

The full article is published on www.nileguide.com 24/6/2010

Check out my post on http://www.nileguide.com/destination/blog/perth/2010/06/01/holy-cow-five-reasons-to-not-bustle-past-cowaramup/ for five reasons to stop in at the charming dairy town of Cowaramup just five kilometres north of Margaret River.

As published on NileGuide June 2010 http://nileguide.com

My five-year-old daughter and I slip out into the fairytale garden in our pyjamas. Not that we really need to slink around but Tree-Elle Retreat is the kind of place that conjures up conspiratory gestures. There isn’t a soul in sight, except for the flock of geese awaiting their breakfast, until the spell is broken by a galloping sheep on the horizon. Bleating all the way, he pushes to the front of the flock like a spinster desperate to catch the bouquet. Except in this instance carrots instead of flowers are flung over the fence. This sheep causes no end of amusement as every time he sees movement outside our chalet he charges over as quickly as his pudgy legs will carry his chunky girth. And yes, that woolly coat does make him look fat.

The quirkiness of Tree-Elle Retreat is just one of the numerous features that makes it stand out from many of the other self-contained options in this remote region of Western Australia. Nestled between Denmark and Walpole it is a bit of a hike from Perth, but truly worth the effort, which you are sure to agree with as soon as you roll through the front gates.

Upon entering your charming chalet, you will be greeted by baking bread and a kitchen that is sure to inspire greatness, even if it is just to smear jam all over that warm bread. A well-stocked pantry includes plenty of ingredients to whip up a breakfast that you will want to linger over out on the porch. The cupboards are bursting with matching crockery, cutlery and appliances and a stacked slow combustion stove is just waiting for you to flick a match over. Upstairs are bedrooms adorned by king sized beds and dreamy linens. The decor cleverly reflects the soft hues of blues and greens hovering outside.

Just in case you contemplate never stepping of your chalet, think again because outside is where the magic lies. Overlooking the Irwin Inlet are 28 acres of grounds that include a help yourself vegetable garden, a silver birch forest, groves of apple, fig, plum, peach, mulberry and orange trees, formal gardens, and in my opinion the greenest grass in the entire state. Its a common sight to see the other guests wandering around the grounds with their baskets full of fresh produce. While others can be found lounging in a secluded corner bathing in the transcendent light which casts an ever changing colour.

The whole family will rejoice as the kids are free to safely run amok while the parents retreat to the coffee nook, an ingenious idea as guests can help themselves to freshly ground coffee, a range of teas, many naughty delights, and, on occasion, impromptu tea parties. Although the farm animals are contained within enclosures, the kids are encouraged to interact with the chickens, geese, ducks, peacocks, turkeys, rabbits, guinea pigs, sheep, lambs and miniature horses. Even the bulls look as though they might tolerate children although their curly horns may prove to be a sensible deterrent.

No-one would argue that Tree-Elle caters well to children although not at the expense of romance. The grounds are large enough to ensure there is plenty of space between each of the five chalets and the day spa will relieve any tension caused by the sounds of children playing.

If you get the urge to explore beyond the cosy property then across the road is Denmark Dinosaur World, and just a few kilometres away is a plethora of natural wonders like the Valley of the Giants, and Walpole-Nornalup National Park which offers beaches, Circular Pool, lookouts, bushwalking, and fishing. In close vicinity are some outstanding wineries, like Forest Hill, Somerset Hill Wines and Bartholomews Meadery, and there are many restaurants including Greenpool, Old Kent Winery for sweet marron, and several cafes. The towns of Denmark and Walpole are a short drive away and Albany is approximately an hour by car.

Tree-Elle Retreat offers a great deal to its guests, not just in accommodation and facilities but also in its location in one of Western Australia’s most spectacular regions. Rates start at $290 per chalet and one of the most frequent comments in the guestbook was that no matter how long they had booked for, it was never long enough.

It’s no wonder Eve was able to tempt Adam with an apple, especially if it was WA grown. Of all the fruit she choose why not a pear, a name associated with derriere heavy women? We assume she selected an apple the colour of passion and as she bit into its crisp flesh; its juice glistened upon her lips. A pear wouldn’t have had the same affect, now would it? Putting aside the notion that the apple was merely a metaphor for Eve’s womanly charms, the apple could be given credit for the fruits of her loin, and hence the life-cycle of the human race began.

The cycle of life continues as the Perth Market Authority (PMA) is buzzing with the bounty of Mother Nature. The PMA is a key player in the marketing and distribution of fresh produce in the state and its tenants include wholesalers like Ethington’s and Quality Produce International. Buying direct from the growers, the wholesalers guarantee freshness to their buyers, who include supermarkets and independent local produce outlets. From start to finish the process is seamless and standing in the PMA at this wee hour of the morning, the operation is as slick as the air is fruity.

Buying direct from the wholesaler Quality Produce International (QPI) supplies a range of international and local fruit and vegetables state-wide. In the upcoming season of autumn, QPI sources its apples and pears from growers in the Perth Hills like Karragullen Produce and Avon Arret in the south west region of Donnybrook. The hills region extends the apple and pear seasons by an extra two or three weeks, however this could be affected by future plans for urban development in the area. QPI distributes to supermarkets such as IGA and Coles, and independent outlet like Limes, Scutti Taste of Europe and E-shed markets in Fremantle.

Apples and pears are available for most of the year, however there are some key factors involved in selecting the best quality fruit. Pears should be light in weight and coloured lime, except for the brown-skinned Bosc variety. They should be uninjured, firm, not misshapen and most importantly their taste should be sweet and juicy with a buttery texture. The Bartlett and Packham varieties are very popular and Corella’s are ideal for both cooking and eating raw. Pears are best stored in the fridge as they deteriorate quickly and they should be handled as little as possible. Perhaps that’s why Eve selected a more robust fruit for her grand seduction.

The number of varieties of apples is extensive from the very munch-able sweet Jonathons to the generic Granny Smiths ideal for eating and cooking. Regardless of whether it’s a Pink Lady, Fuji, Sundowner, or a Golden Delicious, they ideally need to be firm, clean skinned and smooth and are grown best in plenty of sunlight and good soil drainage. No wonder Donnybrook is known as Western Australia’s apple capital and Australia can claim to be one of the world’s healthiest apple-growing environments due to our low pollution levels and lack of pests and diseases.

The benefits of fresh fruit are widely documented, not only in aiding the health of Australians but also in securing the future of the fruit industry both domestically and internationally. Given the fleshy price of a single apple in Singapore, the benefits of exporting are obvious. Also clear to the PMA is their support for the Crunch ‘n Sip policy applied to over 300 Western Australian schools, that have breaks in the classroom specifically to eat fruit and vegetables and drink water. One school who is dedicated to Crunch ‘n Sip is the Subiaco Primary School who run a fresh produce stall on the school grounds every Saturday morning. In this fast-food nation, the health of our youths may still be salvaged. And the hence the cycle of life continues.

From market to kitchen, the obvious cooking choices are to use apples and pears in desserts and sweets, and salads. Pears are a good match with nuts and cheese either on a platter or try filling pears with gorgonzola and serving chilled. Apples go well with pork, game, and seafood, and apple cider is a common ingredient for simmering in, like chorizo sausage. Any kind of fruit can be added to a tagine, including apples and pears, and pears can add the sweetness to a Chinese sweet and sour sauce.

Both apples and pears are pome fruit and are similar in cultivation, propagation and pollination and apart from the visual differences; the flesh of a pear contains stone cells. The pips of an apple contain traces of cyanide making Eve’s wily ways even more of a dangerous temptation. Lucky Adam didn’t overindulge on the pips.

A tamer version of this was published in Fruitwest Magazine Summer 2009/2010 – this is the uncensored racier version.

Peace man!

Many a tear and blood has been shed over the tumultuous past of Sri Lanka. It’s of no wonder then that the isle of serendipity is in the shape of a tear. But this tale isn’t about the 25 year war or the tsunami. It’s about a quest for a decent cup of coffee in a land of tea bushes.

Despite holding countless culinary charms, Sri Lanka isn’t exactly prized for its cafes. I stopped asking for an espresso which was usually presented as a pot of brewed coffee, much like you serve tea, and instead asked a simpler question of, “Do you have an espresso machine?”
Many a waiter would mumble, “No, sorry Madame,” or those not wanting to admit this oversight would offer, “It’s broken, Madame.”

After an outing, our driver asked us where we would like to go next. “Coffee?” I suggested.
“I know a place. The best coffee in all of Sri Lanka!” We pulled up in front of a spice garden.
I asked once again, “Coffee?”
“Yes, yes, you go now for coffee!” the driver ordered.

The owner of the Spice Garden lurked in the carpark as we alighted the van. With betel-nut stained teeth, he launched into a spiel about the medicinal benefits of cardamon, cinnamon, and aloa vera. And as he filled my hand with coffee beans plucked from a tree I felt hopeful at the thought of a rich, dark espresso beneath its quivering crema. At last, we’re lead into a hut and I start to twitch at the thought of my fix.

We’re guided to a bench and I look around for the illusive espresso machine. All I could see was a line of jars and once again he launched into the plants’ miraculous powers. A man appeared with a tray of steaming cups and I discovered with much disappointment to find them filled with spiced tea. As I politely sipped the tea my head began to spin with spices, red teeth and the oppressive humidity.

Before we knew it, my husband was shirtless with “natural” hair removal cream smeared on his leg. As oil was dripped onto his head, hands appeared from behind him kneading what smelt like cooking oil into his back. I narrowly missed the same fate of having oil poured onto my dark, shiny bob, which was already greasy with the humidity.

While saving my hair, I suddenly felt masculine hands tug on my bra-straps and then plunge into my back muscles. The smell of oil and chemically-burnt hair filled the thick air. Another hand appeared waving a tissue to wipe off the cream from my husband’s leg.

With our therapy finished, we’re catapulted into a shop and potions are thrown into a bag with abandon. No matter how many items we removed the bag remained full. It’s burgeoning contents was shoved towards us. Then we were handed the bill. The shop went quiet as our driver and the owners of all those hands and red teeth circled us with what I imagined to be menancing stares. I can only assume that the reason we paid over twice the amount of our hotel room had something to do with the contents of the tea or the massage oil.

We were almost home-free until the owner blocked our path and whispered, “Come with me.”
We blithely followed confident that he couldn’t rip us off any further as he presented us with a “special” plant. His cocaine plant. He sidled up to my husband and suggested he could benefit from the plant’s aphrodisiac qualities. Outraged, we stomped back to the van. The driver pulled away with a greedy twinkle in his eye while his passengers sat silent minus their dignity, money and most importantly a caffeine fix.

Later that night our potions are lined up on top of the TV. A programme called Jailed Abroad is being aired. An English man reccounts his eight year imprisonment in a Colombian jail after being drugged while 8 kilos of cocaine was placed in the lining of his backpack. There were conspiratory looks exchanged across the room.

The next morning at check-out the potions remained in the same position as the night before. Sailing past the TV with with our suitcases, neither of us looked back.

Duck embryo anyone? Bottoms up!

Check out Ivan Man Dy at Old Manila Walks on the Big Binodo Food Wok tour visit www.oldmanilawalks.com

Check out Lonely Planet’s advice on what’s off-limits when taking photographs while travelling. http://www.lonelyplanet.com/travel-blog/community/?p=1559

Not only do I not recommend taking photos of illegal two-up games, but also photographing family members outside of the US Embassy can result in men with guns becoming irrate.

http://www.asiangeopassport.com/weekender.phtml

It's so hot that I wonder if I might morph into one of the sidewalk woks

I have a confession. What has lead me to Manila’s Chinatown isn’t entirely the food but more so the Big Binondo Food Wok tour that we’re about to embark upon. But to be more precise it’s whose steps I’m retracing. And so my fascination with the rock-star of the culinary world, aka Anthony Bourdain continues, much like his own obsession with pork products. As our delightful tour leader Ivan Man Day,who I might add has taken on celebatory status in his own right, whisks us through the markets I’m secretly thrilled at my quasi-meeting of Bourdain by one degree of separation. I try hard to not grill Ivan but I do establish that I’m not the only one gushing as he regales just how professional, intelligent and well-researched Bourdain is. Taking my idol’s lead I put aside my dreamy thoughts and focus on the food as much as one can while trying to not to melt on the spot. It’s not even worth mentioning how hot it is except to say that I begin to wonder if I might actually morph into the one of the sidewalk woks.

Check out one of Ivan’s tours at Old Manila Walks http://www.oldmanilawalks.com/index.htm

A chanting woman singles me out and petitions prayers to Saint Nino before falling into a trance. Her haunting look leaves me wondering what she prayed for long after the event

Magellan’s Cross looms above, a larger than life relic to Christianity on Cebu, one of the 7,000 islands in the Philippines. Click on the linkHolier than Cebufor the full article on religious diversity in Cebu as published in the Malaysian Airlines Inflight Magazine, Going Places November 2009 Issue.

Fedora tipped over blue

Seductive plucking of tune

Street-side superstar

Freo presents Ivan Zar

Blues legend Ivan Zar

In amongst the throng of bohemians languishing along Fremantle’s capuccino strip, I’m immediately drawn to the man sporting a suit and fedora in mid-night blue. Oozing 1960’s glamour evocative of the Cuban time warp, I learn his name is Ivan Zar. A master of blues, the haromonica and his unique metallic slide guitar his style is gutsy yet unassuming. Influenced by those he supported, Zar has run with musical giants the likes of B.B. King, Joe Cocker, Tina Turner and Mick Jagger. I ask to photograph him and he obliges with a heart-felt ballad. The performance ends with him warmly pressing his business card into my hand. And so I float away to join the doe-eyed groupie parade.

FACES OF FREMANTLE

Indian spice

Bright Young Thing

Zorro the sword eater

Unlikely lads

The punky bag-pipe player

Strumming along

The unthinkable has happened. Like a down-trodden wife, my beloved suitcase, has reluctantly been disgarded for a newer, shinier model. Clad in navy blue, she was the ideal size for a quick getaway or an extended trip, and very popular among family and friends. I didn’t mind, as I saw this as an opportunity for my suitcase to getaway, even when I didn’t have the chance to myself. Although well-travelled, she didn’t look too shabby considering her lifestyle.

My old suitcase represented the exciting prelude to an adventure. I loved her most of all, when she was sitting on my bed empty and open, and waiting for me to pack her. I wondered if she tried to guess where we were going by her contents’. Perhaps she got excited when I packed the bikini, or groaned unceremoniously when I packed the thermals. I’m sure she chatted with the other baggage at the airport, or on the plane, as they discussed their destination.

Now, I have a large, state of the art suitcase. My former friend was unable to accommodate the demands of family travel. She couldn’t handle my chic street-wear in amongst the nappies and teeny-weenie coordinated outfits. And I suspect, the updated version is also struggling with its owner’s lifestyle. I can tell it’s perplexed and worried for me. It’s questioning whether it’s worth disrupting my family to visit locations under threat of terriorism, natural disasters, health risks, and imminent discomfort. It’s concerned for my state of mind as I pack numerous books. In fact, I can imagine it challenging me to get through one book. As I fold an evening dress with matching lingerie and jewellery it’s amused…do you really think that’s necessary, it mocks me. I’m not sure whether I like this new suitcase.

After a recent adventure, my new comrade lays on the bed, exposed and travel-weary after our journey. So ok, it was right, I didn’t wear the dress or get through all of the books. But many new goodies take the place of where the nappies once sat. Much as family travel replaces our carefree pre-parenthood adventures. And as I embrace the enormous challenges that a child poses, changing one’s luggage is insignificant in comparison. Interestingly, I arrived at our destination minus the suitcase. Much like a naughty child refusing to eat their conflakes, it missed its flight. It eventually caught up with us some hours later, sheepish and apologetic.

I sometimes wonder what became of my former suitcase. Is she watching over us in heaven with Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travellers? Or is she in retirement,  in some secondhand shop collecting dust, and reminiscing like an aging movie star. I like to think that some free-spirit has invited her to accompany them on expeditions.  And this very minute, she is exploring the world.

 Around us, people farewelled loved ones. A Middle Eastern family dawdled. There were handshakes before a young couple vanished behind the gate and some of the remaining family lingered, waving to emptiness. An African man clutched his pregnant wife, until she too disappeared. A whimpering boy clung to his father until pried off his leg, leaving the child hysterically wrapped around his mother. The coffee machine at Dome continued to gurgle unaffected; it was just another day.

 Combined with my parents impending departure, normally I would have been sobbing after witnessing these farewells. I’m renowned for my tears at the airport and I’ve been warned several times already, “You’re not going to make a scene, are you?” I was sure the lump in my throat gave me the appearance of a snake who’d swallowed a rat. But the glint in my father’s eyes was infectious. He hadn’t been to bed for at least 24 hours, he bragged. My mother’s excitement was subdued at the realisation of having to spend the next few weeks joined at the hip with someone who was bouncing around like a little boy on Christmas Eve.

 I suspected my resistance to tears was also related to my trance like state at having been awake since 3.30am.

The madness of the Spanish Steps, Rome

 The following day, my parents were re-united with my sister in London. This was a huge responsibility for her considering my mother’s habit of frequently going missing at the local shopping centre; even though she visits it every Thursday. Apparently, her poor sense of direction is genetic, but thankfully it’s missed a generation, which is lucky for my sister and her looming role as tour guide.

 Being the oldest child, I felt it was my duty to hand out some tips. I tried to explain

High flyers on the London Eye

how there are no road rules in Italy. I gave strict instructions to not use the Tube without supervision under ANY circumstances. Otherwise, the only time we’d get to see them is on the news when they have the missing persons segment. They nodded with amused looks on their faces. What would I be like when my own daughter ventured out into the world without me? Ah, the irony of it as I was usually the one on the other side of the magic doors, both literally and figuratively.

After the farewells were over and my family scrutinised my face for signs of distress, I was deemed fit to drive home. At 5.30am I slunk into bed and awoke an hour later disappointed to find myself still in Perth.

STRANDED AT O’HARE

They choke the halls of Terminal 3
with their lush baggage
and tiny wheels scuffling the gilded tiles
Luggage carousels groan
under jaundiced light

It is 4 a.m. The rush to hail
taxies in fluttering snow
The dash to sulfurous stank
of motel rooms

Desperate, quick pace
of anonymous arrival

Some will meet lovers
blood flowing from their faces,
the last of their kind

Others sit sickly, nostalgic
with gravedigger eyes

There’s the Hasidic Jew
from the Lower East Side
barking into a cell phone

The Nigerian woman
stationary, raveled
waiting to reunite with her luggage
in Atlanta

Each walk past the caged
vessels of pupils
A blur of torn stockings
and fannypacks

The scaffolding of legs,
of potbellied tourists
in mutinous scurry

Lyrical and savage
the way only captives can do it

© Radames Ortiz

PROVINCETOWN NOTEBOOK

i

A Boston fireman and his drunken friends
eye me suspiciously, hold my
Southern drawl at arm’s length.
Then offer to buy me a drink
and make room at their table.
I tell them how I flew in a seven-seater plane
over the ocean then shared a cab
with a Norwegian to Pearl street,
a few blocks away from here.
They probe into things back home,
like Enron, the weather, that crazy
woman who drowned her
children in a porcelain tub.
Their weary faces and six
blinking eyes serve the moment
while I show them a picture
of my father when he was thirteen.
Tinted brown around the edges,
They hold his picture against
the agitated dark, laugh
at his checkered apron.
I admit it’s funny too, my
father standing in the kitchen,
holding a frying pan like a trophy,
against linoleum background,
brilliant in his infancy.
Then back to this shitty bar
with wooden stools and tables,
over-priced long island ice-ts.
Back to this fireman, his heated
breath, inviting me outside
for a cigarette, my cue to leave
to tease my way to the empty studio
and its cobwebs wrestling with flies.

ii

A dance beat breaks beneath
a constellation of stilled feet.
I am miles away from home,
surrounded by men, their hallow

chests, g-strings and sculpted hair.
Gay porno on television screens.
Legs open, all thighs and testicles.
I sip a rum and coke among those

who move like different animals
Their bodies slick with sweat,
coastlines of tampered stomachs.
No one dances in this place

where darkness smokes the eyes,
ancient ritual of genitals.
Bare torsos, ornamented wolf skins,
stone bodies locked in muteness.

I half-watch these men,
hearts shuddering out of control,
their locked groins—all
in communion with the flesh.

iii

To the sand dunes we go
climbing and sinking into
soft walls. Salt grains receding
like tide lines, leaving and returning.
The moon and those distant glowing
stars watch as we bury
our dead, our drunken ghosts
beneath sand castles and high weeds.
We lose each other in darkness,
me screaming your name, fear
of breaking bones, being caught and still.
You scream back, “Over the ocean
more oceans.”
There is no use and the hangover
clears the fog.
In the distance, you keep
surfing the edge of dunes
as I curl up in waves
of sand.
Between blue hills and headlights
a new world
passes
as I listen to a roar, an ocean:
my own dear pulse.

© Radames Ortiz

French Beauty

 “One is not born a woman; rather one becomes a woman.”  – Simone De Beauvoir

The French model wears a petticoat crafted from balloons. The model behind her flaps wings styled like a bird of paradise. Men sit rigid in their seats during this Parisian couture fashion parade, admiring these heavenly beauties.

Cameras flash, flattering some of the models and insulting others, who sneer at the audience. We are engulfed in wall-to-wall white balloons, as if we are floating in bubbles beneath the sea.

Model after model glides through the several small rooms used in this gala show which, appropriately, is called Walking on Air. With names such as Legs in the Air and Silent as the Air, the costumes resemble the palette of the sky and sea in moon colours, Milky Way mosaics, wave foam and gauzy sunlight.

Many of the outfits have minimal construction and appear to dance as models move to the weightless music of Bjork. Twenty or so of us mere mortals are squeezed into a tiny room reeking of stretched rubber from the hundreds of inflated balloons. A model draped in ivory and gold chiffon struggles to fit her enormous train of balloons through the narrow doorway. She blushes while tussling with her costume, which resembles a fishing net.

After the show I feel inspired to find my inner French girl. I know she’s in there somewhere. As otherworldly as the models may be, the average woman here possesses the same ethereal beauty, only with seemingly less effort. Or so they want you to believe.

There’s an institut de beaute on virtually every corner in the French capital, and I realise the beauty and grooming regime of these Parisiennes is not a luxury, it’s simply about maintenance.

Entering one of these shrines to glamour, I’m overwhelmed by the volume of cosmetics, potions, perfumes and hair and skin products. I fumble with my euros and French nouns and verbs before settling on a musky body lotion. Slinking back to the street, I pass a building with heavy wooden doors concealing closeted lives, much in the way a French woman’s mysterious allure remains classified.

Willowy frames sporting flirty sundresses saunter past, wafting expensive perfume. Breasts are unrestrained, yet their owners remain stylishly groomed, despite the uninhibited absence of underwear. Perhaps French women appear natural because they have learned to do more with less. Despite being the size of a pantry, her bathroom is a sanctuary that compels her to linger. This intimate oasis is an expression of her personal aesthetic. She applies religious care to her body.

I pass a mademoiselle, possibly one from the fashion parade. Green silk barely covers her slender frame. She prowls along the pavement until her beau revs up on a motorbike and nonchalantly nods towards her. She climbs aboard and zooms off, blonde tresses floating in the wind.

I’m left in her wake. Sweat drips down the backs of my legs in the summer heat. So much for being chic. I pause by a busker tying balloons and he hands me one in the shape of a poodle. A passing stranger with twinkly eyes smiles playfully as music drifts down from above. Dean Martin serenades us with Sway. With my pooch accessory, I sashay along the boulevard to join the passing parade.

THIS PARISIAN LIFE – PART II

 I love Paris in the Summer Time

 Paris, Summer 2006

 It’s 4.46 a.m. and a woman’s scream cuts through the thick air surging up into our open bedroom window. I suddenly sit upright in bed. The scream was cut short and I envisage she suddenly woke up, imagining her husband to be an intruder before realising her error. Maybe she saw a mouse. Perhaps it was a nightmare? I know she wasn’t murdered because she did it the following night and several times after that.

 The mysterious screaming woman would make a great story, I decide as I look out over the trees from my studio in the Perth hills. Fog rises in the distance and I imagine the mist spreading out over Parisian rooftops. Fantasies of living the French life distract me from the uncomfortable reality of living in a cramped apartment with a poor excuse for a shower. Maybe that’s why Parisians are so thin; they couldn’t fit in their apartments otherwise. I can imagine a gale blows through most of those lovely old buildings in the winter. There isn’t any air-conditioning to keep you sane in the summer heat either. I speak from experience after spending the summer of 2006 living in a little box. Boxes on top of boxes. Nonetheless, it’s painfully romantic.

Our apartment is quintessentially Parisian and perfect. I love that the parquetry flooring sags beneath our feet and that all the rooms have battered French doors. I take delight in that many of the kitchens in the building open out onto the central courtyard below, and the combined flavours of our dinners flirt with abandon.  I adore flinging open the wooden windows facing the street letting the still air out to play.

In the apartment upstairs lives a well-to-do family who own the entire floor. I know their young baby doesn’t sleep well and their son likes to bounce a ball after kindy. At 7.00pm their children have baths and later the parents sit down to a proper meal with adult conversation. She likes to wear heels and he wears a suit and carries a briefcase. I also know that the gentleman who visits in the afternoon isn’t her husband.

Most Parisians fill their apartments with books. The occupants of the apartment two floors below lovingly scatter their books about the floor, which they randomly pick up and flip through at intermittent intervals. Most don’t bother to make their beds in the morning. And despite looking so well turned out, many of the locals keep their homes messy. I figure they’re just too avant garde for housework.  The woman opposite us lives alone in a studio apartment and she often gazes out over the street. She dines with her plants and sometimes she just stands there in various stages of undress. I wonder if she cares she is being watched. But maybe that’s the point.

Mind you, her lack of clothing is understandable as it’s so damn hot there are people running around the streets in their underwear in preparation for the World Cup. Although these fanatics probably don’t need any encouragement for being semi-naked and when they’re not exhibiting themselves, they’re hanging out of cars, tooting horns and waving flags. The city has gone World Cup crazy. Or maybe it’s the heat sending people into a frenzy; intensifying the essence of this intoxicating city. The flowers are more fragrant, the food smells more flavoursome and the dog excrement is ripe. Garbage rots on the pavement outside our apartment window, souring our rooms. We’d close the windows but then we’d suffocate from the heat.

I have come to Paris to write, like so many before me. There is no shortage of inspiration and I’m like a sponge. I spend my days in class and wandering the streets; nights are spent churning out the words. Naturally, my desk is by the street and everyone’s windows are open with the lights on. I indulge in the ultimate writer’s pastime. 

THIS PARISIAN LIFE – PART III

We’ll Always Have Paris

In the distance the Eiffel Tower peers at the Luxembourg Gardens. Sunrays speckle across the Peter Pan statue standing guard over grounds resembling a Monet painting. Birds coo while dancing around nannies, mothers, and their dawdling little ones. The clock on the Luxembourg Palace chimes eight times as I select a bench next to a group of giggling school girls. At first, they are uncomfortable by the intrusion, until I start writing in my notebook and they return to their chatter.

A sleeping vagrant rousing from his slumber disturbs my scribbling and I gaze across the playground at the little girl on the slide. Her mother announces it’s time to go and she obediently climbs off the equipment. If that was my daughter we’d be having an intense “discussion” by now. I don’t call it bribing, merely an incentive. My cherub has unknowingly signed up for the Incentive Program.

I’m in the French capital to attend a Creative Writing Workshop, and I have my family in tow, Stephan my husband Paris, our daughter.  Paris in Paris. It was time the two met anyway; and opportune as Paris celebrates her third birthday by visiting the happiest place on earth, aka Euro Disney. We traipse onto the RER and during the journey we explain to birthday girl that Euro Disney is like a very large park. We alight an hour later at the appropriately named Marne la Vallee/Cheesy station and head straight for Fantasyland which is geared up well for the little ones.  

We patiently wait in line to watch Paris spin around in a teacup for a bit, visit It’s a Small World and board a steamboat. We lunch at the Lucky Nugget, a colonial style ranch complete with a buffet lunch and a honky tonk band. Various Disney characters wander between the tables terrifying the kids and Paris spends most of her birthday lunch gripped onto my neck like a cling-on monkey until she asks, “When can we go to the park?” Realising that Paris’ interpretation of a park doesn’t necessarily include Sleeping Beauty’s castle, we locate some swings and a slide.

Eventually we board the train and collapse into the first seats we find – only this time we have an additional family member. A Pooh Bear balloon about twice the size of an adult who bops along to the rhythm of the train causing many a raised eyebrow from passing Parisians.  

Pooh Bear turns out to be a fun housemate. He floats between the rooms, and despite his size he manages to regularly sneak up on the unexpected. Late one night we surprise each other when I walk in on him in the toilet, after my husband hid him in there as a joke.

Just as we have been watching our neighbours in the surrounding apartment buildings, I imagine they are wondering who our houseguest is, especially when we have flung open all the windows and Pooh Bear drifts around in the breeze.

As wonderful as the cool air is, I worry about Paris being around the open window with only a petite lacy balustrade between her and the street four storeys below. Naturally, the windows are a magnet to a small child to watch the world go by and I wonder what precautions other parents’ take. Perhaps Parisian children are too sophisticated to indulge in such juvenile activities like climbing onto forbidden things.

I try not to fret about the window situation whilst I’m in class. But given Stephan’s track record for losing things, like our apartment keys and his wallet, I have panic attacks from time to time. I imagine her being left on the RER endlessly travelling between Place d’Italie and Bobigmy Pablo Picasso. Of course this is coming from someone who never manages to work out the complicated spaghetti system of tracks and resorts to using the bus on almost every outing.

Our visit coincides with summer and before leaving Perth I had an image of floating about the city in chic sun dresses. However, I lack the panache to pull-off the sweat encrusted look whilst pushing a pram along the quivering pavement. There is little relief as no-where is air-conditioned except for the occasional cinema or shop, so we visit the swimming pool. This eye opening experience includes unisex change rooms where there is no place for inhibition. Nonetheless, I learn a valuable tip: never, EVER wear a strapless bikini top while caring for a small child in a wave pool.

We cool off in the evenings by the River Seine, where we join the locals picnicking, busking and strolling; except for the ones who have vacated to their country chateaus to sip Rose under cool grape vines. The temperature is so intense that our lives are consumed by it – but the heat hasn’t sapped my cherub’s boundless energy. I savour the city through her eyes. And at last I have found Paris.

Earthly Pleasure

A black diamond in the rough. Jagged edges craving to be sliced over innocence. An egg, a potato, handmade pasta, a slab of steak, shimmering risotto, a supple scallop or a sliver of asparagus. Your earthly pleasures are to be inhaled, caressed, consumed, and devoured. You are without gender, curvaceous like a woman and yet renowned as the seed of the earth. A fungus, so intense in scent and flavour defying even a flame, which merely reduces to a mushroom ambrosia. Alluring in your mystery, a temptress to the next conquest. Shyly hiding in the ground waiting to be sought after with the vigour of a lover who can’t resist. Even after the act of indulgence is over, insatiable yearning follows.

The more traditional mode of transport in Broome

“My name is Roger and I’ll be your guide today. Welcome to the Mango Tango Tour,” drawls our driver as he caresses his white Harley-Davidson trike, our mode of transport. We climb aboard the curvaceous blonde and hit the highway to sip wine at a mango plantation.

This is our second trip to Broome and I can see why so many travellers get as far as Cable Beach and never leave. It’s peak season and nowhere feels crowded. All is serene … except for now.

As we speed along I rename the tour the Mango Jitterbug. I wonder if my face will ever return to its normal configuration and decide to spend the rest of the tour smiling, just in case my expression is frozen. But after passing a truck full of livestock, I learn a closed-mouth smile is essential. It’s also a good idea not to wear a skirt unless you want to distract the driver of a 10-tonne truck as it hurtles towards you. And, believe me, wearing contact lenses, white clothing or sticky insect-magnet lip-gloss is not advisable.

Pulling off the highway, we enter an oasis of mango trees. After we’ve picked out gravel and insects from our teeth, we approach a hut to sip wine, port and liquor coaxed from mangoes. We speculate that this was possibly the same mango plantation we considered buying years ago. But back then I had to admit that we didn’t know anything about mangoes. Now our hostess confesses she doesn’t have a clue either and sends all the fruit to Berry Farm in Margaret River to be turned into preserves, beauty products and beverages.

Hand me that wine bottle, please; commiseration is in order. Especially considering the modest price tag of the plantation back then. But a mango smoothie cools my mood and we climb aboard for a tour of the town.

Roger dishes out recommendations on the best places to buy pearls, eat fish and chips and drink beer. After a photo shoot at the port, we head back to the Cable Beach Club Resort.

With shaky legs and our pulses racing, we clamber off the Harley. It no longer matters that I can’t get an appointment for a facial at the booked-out day spa, as I’ve just received an unexpected exfoliation. Laughter lines have been sandblasted into my face. I’m hooked. Broome, vroom.

http://www.broomeharleytours.homestead.com/

The harpist serenades us as lady-boys shoo away flies with white cloths, or are they merely surrendering to the scorching heat?  Celebrating our daughter’s sixth birthday, we’re having lunch at No Problem Restaurant in a wooden structure suspended on stilts over a mangrove on Mactan Island, one of the 7,000 islands in the Philippines.

We’re sampling the traditional dish of Sutukil, a term derived from three words Sugba (SU), Tuwa (TU), Kilaw (KIL) meaning to broil, boil and marinade.  Judging from the sour look on our cherub’s red face plastered with her waist-length hair, I decide this cooking process isn’t just applied to the food. One of our pouty chaperones gushes over my husband and attentively offers him advice on which condiments to use. This information is well received although noted that it is only dished out after I have already tucked into my fish without the correct relish. Apparently, we’re in an ‘authentic’ restaurant but I can’t help wondering if the locals are also treated to such royal treatment. Perhaps its because we’re dining with a celebrity, who is clearly not enjoying the cultural experience.

Pre-pubescent boys swim around us demanding money and we’re warned by the staff to not succumb to their demands. So I take their photo instead and I’m quite rightly rewarded with a rude finger sign. In the distance the pink Hilton towers waver in the sweltering distance like two flamingos perched on the edge of a watering-hole. From this angle the hotel seems to sprout from palm trees and makeshift wooden huts. Perspective is an important element in the Philippines as its wealth is unevenly dispersed, just as obviously as the Hilton jutts out from the flat and undeveloped plain.

Returning to our hotel, the staff greet us with waves and calls of, “Paris, Happy Birthday!” Our cherub graciously handles her celebrity status with shy smiles for her adoring fans. Yes, Paris is staying at the Hilton. After enduring the heat through lunch we head straight for the pool.  Not unlike her famous name-sake, the birthday girl seeks out attention by targetting unsuspecting lone children and stalking them until they succumb to her irresistible charm. We look on with relief as she laughs and frolicks and seems healthy despite yesterday’s scare.

The previous day, we had toured the nearby major island of the gritty Cebu. Fighting nausea as the jerking van wound around along narrow roads up to the mountain top, Paris whispers in my ear, “Promise not to tell Daddy, but I swallowed a coin this morning.” I immediately betray her confidence and she pleads with, “But I was hungry and you WERE still asleep.” Exchanging nervous glances and swallowing our negligence we agree that ablution-watch won’t be that difficult since the hotel bathroom has a glass door, and the throne takes the prime viewing location from the bedroom. Although our room is well-appointed with a curious touch of the art deco era and offers views of the Camotes Sea from the 18^th floor, I find the exposure of the toilet questionable. Who really wants to see their travelling companions do their ablutions? However, given our cherub’s impending bowel movement, perhaps the interior designers were onto something.

The remainder of the day passes by with endless cuddles, cakes and a thoughtful mango basket from the tour guide from yesterday.  I smile remembering her advice that mangos might help with “the situation.” After Paris blows out the candles on the third cake from her special day, she asks, “Mummy, am I Paris Hilton now?”

Time to defrost this winter

Ten Reasons to Frolick in a Winter Wonderland

 As winter hovers over Australia, many of us are dreaming of warm and exotic destinations. Before sinking into the winter doldrums, consider a holiday close to home or even plan ahead for a snow encrusted adventure north of the Equator. Yes, it’s going to be cold but there are ten excellent reasons the woolly weather can be liberating for a fashionista while on holiday.

Want to read on? Contact the author at cjenner@jenamo.com.au

Crazy traffic in Hanoi

It’s downtown Hanoi and holding hands we take our first step onto the tarmac to cross the street. We don’t look left or right, but instead directly ahead and, careful to not make any sudden movements, we steadily walk in a straight line as though we are being tested for drunken behaviour. Given our mad jaunt onto the road, doubting our sobriety would have been perfectly reasonable; that is, anywhere else in the world except for Vietnam. The traffic parts like the Red Sea and, as quickly as it opens, the gap fills just as rapidly as water flows into a jagged stream. It’s as though the city has given birth to a million horns and every newborn is crying at the same time to be fed. I wonder how anyone knows who the horns are meant for.  I long for a Vietnam I have never been introduced to, and sadly never will. Where are all the gliding ladies on bicycles?

Want to read on? Contact the author at cjenner@jenamo.com.au

- Malcolm Cowley, Exile’s Return: A Literary Odyssy of the 1920′s

A typical Parisian cafe

The market place

Advertisement for Cambodia BBQ on the side of a tuk-tuk...so many Australian animals on the menu!

Although many travellers come to Siem Reap to explore the marvels of Angkor Wat and the neighbouring temples, it’s the cuisine that leaves many staggered for words.  With an array of international tastes well catered for like Thai, Vietnamese, Indian and French, The Old Market area is a popular spot to sample traditional Cambodian cuisine, or also known as Khmer cuisine. For the uninitiated, Khmer cuisine is noted for its use of prahok, a type of fermented fish paste,  and other popular ingredients include coconut milk, lemongrass, tumeric, tamarind, star anise, cinnamon, and ginger, just to name a few.

To sample Royal Khmer Cuisine, visit the popular Angkor Palm located on the main drag, Phasar Chas. To sample several dishes at once order the platter, and either dine inside the contemporary interior or lounge out on the terrace beneath the colonial arches for some prime people watching opportunities. Another gem of a dining spot is The Passage, where you’ll find the Khmer Kitchen, which is a low-key cafe very popular with the locals. Also in The Passage is the Cambodian BBQ, where you can try a traditional Khmer BBQ cooked with a large range of meat, like snake, crocodile, kangaroo and frogs legs, plus the normal selections like beef, pork and chicken. For a taste of typical Cambodian charm, Angelina’s Art Cafe serves delicious coffee and french pastries with an infectious broad smile, and at night this cafe transforms into a bar.

As the name suggests, The Old Market area features a compact fresh produce market to tantalise your senses. The adventurous might like to start the day as the locals do by ordering breakfast from a street stall. Try the om bok, which is rice flakes pounded and flattened and then served as a cereal with sugar, young coconut juice and tiny sugar bananas.

For the budget conscious, Cambodia only accepts US currency from foreigners. Although this may seem unfair, the number of street urchins on the streets will give you an idea of the ongoing hardships the locals have had to endure. Most of the street kids are too polite to cause any angst but if you opt for sidewalk dining, watch your bread rolls as they often disappear before you’ve even noticed. Not need to fret as you will be rewarded with a cheeky smile.

The Passage

Men sit rigid in their seats during this Parisian couture fashion parade, admiring these heavenly beauties.

Cameras flash, flattering some of the models and insulting others, who sneer at the audience. We are engulfed in wall-to-wall white balloons, as if we are floating in bubbles beneath the sea.

Model after model glides through the several small rooms used in this gala show which, appropriately, is called Walking on Air. With names such as Legs in the Air and Silent as the Air, the costumes resemble the palette of the sky and sea in moon colours, Milky Way mosaics, wave foam and gauzy sunlight.

Many of the outfits have minimal construction and appear to dance as models move to the weightless music of Bjork. Twenty or so of us mere mortals are squeezed into a tiny room reeking of stretched rubber from the hundreds of inflated balloons. A model draped in ivory and gold chiffon struggles to fit her enormous train of balloons through the narrow doorway. She blushes while tussling with her costume, which resembles a fishing net.

After the show I feel inspired to find my inner French girl. I know she’s in there somewhere. As otherworldly as the models may be, the average woman here possesses the same ethereal beauty, only with seemingly less effort. Or so they want you to believe.

There’s an institut de beaute on virtually every corner in the French capital, and I realise the beauty and grooming regime of these Parisiennes is not a luxury, it’s simply about maintenance.

Entering one of these shrines to glamour, I’m overwhelmed by the volume of cosmetics, potions, perfumes and hair and skin products. I fumble with my euros and French nouns and verbs before settling on a musky body lotion. Slinking back to the street, I pass a building with heavy wooden doors concealing closeted lives, much in the way a French woman’s mysterious allure remains classified.

Willowy frames sporting flirty sundresses saunter past, wafting expensive perfume. Breasts are unrestrained, yet their owners remain stylishly groomed, despite the uninhibited absence of underwear. Perhaps French women appear natural because they have learned to do more with less. Despite being the size of a pantry, her bathroom is a sanctuary that compels her to linger. This intimate oasis is an expression of her personal aesthetic. She applies religious care to her body.

I pass a mademoiselle, possibly one from the fashion parade. Green silk barely covers her slender frame. She prowls along the pavement until her beau revs up on a motorbike and nonchalantly nods towards her. She climbs aboard and zooms off, blonde tresses floating in the wind.

I’m left in her wake. Sweat drips down the backs of my legs in the summer heat. So much for being chic. I pause by a busker tying balloons and he hands me one in the shape of a poodle. A passing stranger with twinkly eyes smiles playfully as music drifts down from above. Dean Martin serenades us with Sway. With my pooch accessory, I sashay along the boulevard to join the passing parade.