The next morning the long bus trawl continued, with the after effects of Hurricane Michael tearing through the country and causing delay after delay- including at about 7pm when we were only half an hour away from our destination, charmingly uprooting a forest and depositing it on the road. This pushed our arrival in La Ceiba back to 11:30pm, a fact which cut through my fog of exhaustion and hunger to worry me just a little- La Ceiba doesn't have a great reputation at the best of times and midnight sure isn't the best of times. Made it to my hostel with little fuss though (a kind local on the bus gave me a lift so I wouldn't have to solo taxi) and collapsed into bed... only to be woken an hour later by my dormmates, four incredibly drunk (and therefore piggishly rude) Brits who chose to ignore that I was there and continue the partay. I pulled on an eyemask and put on my headphones, only to be woken again when they left at 4am. Back on go the headphones and eyemask, and back to sleep I go. However my drunk comrades had left both the light on and the door wide open, and as the front door to the hostel didn't lock... yeah we all know where this is going. 6am had me waking up to a Honduran guy leaning over me in my top bunk, my phone and watch in his hand, which he dropped as I woke and smacked his arm, then begun a safety lecture to my befuddled self about leaving my door open etc. He offered to sleep in the room to keep me safe (!! yeah no buddy) and then when he finally left he camped outside my now locked door and knocked every 5 minutes or so despite my shouted pleas to go away. I climbed down from my bunk to see my bags had been gone through, and my stomach dropped to think of my laptop camera etc but somehow he missed these valuables and instead took my sunglasses, and a handful of spare plastic bags I had... this little baby laptop was in a dry bag and far enough into my pack to not warrant discovery, thank goodness. A terrifying and terrible start to my island holiday, but really I'm grateful it wasn't worse and that I woke before my phone, passport, wallet etc disappeared with this gent. I jumped in a taxi and headed immediately for the ferry terminal, ready for the Caribbean and to be done with La Ceiba. 

Oh, Utila. A week of diving, eating, reading, sleeping, more sleeping, sunsets and sunrises, morning coffees and evening storms. I initially planned to take advantage of the free accommodation offered by my dive shop, but with a plague of mosquitoes, a dorm room that doesn't lock and the recent shenanigans of La Ceiba I broke down and moved to a hotel across the road- air con, private room with a deadbolt, a balcony for watching the sun set and the peace I needed to relax and rest. With a good night's sleep under my belt, I was ready to tackle island life, and begin with exploring the dive sites around the island. Everyone at the dive shop (I dove with Paradise Divers) was extremely lovely and welcoming, and I had a great time messing around with these folks for a week- mostly Spanish speakers which was a fun challenge, though interestingly the main language on the island is not Spanish at all. There have been centuries of Spanish and English fighting over the Bay Islands (of which Utila is one), which has led to a fascinating linguistic landscape. While the official language, and therefore the language taught in schools, is Spanish (we are still in Honduras after all), the locals speak a creole, or a crazy hybrid of English and Spanish which is fiendishly difficult to understand (despite me supposedly being able to speak both of these languages). Often locals seemed to have thick Scottish accents to my ear, and even when they switched out of creole to Spanish or English this accent persisted and by golly did I have a time trying to understand what they were talking about. One of the divemasters was from Argentina, and by comparison his rapid Argentine Spanish was clear as a bell. 

The diving itself on Utila to my eyes is not much to write home about- but the lifestyle and people more than make up for it. As do baleadas, a local flatbread spread with beans and avocado, pickled onions and salsa and lime and pure deliciousness. That being said the reef is quite healthy, though there aren't so many soft corals, and we saw a few turtles and some ocean critters I've never seen before which was exciting. There is a great shipwreck you can explore, weaving through the cabins and following fish as they dart around the ship's wheel, and a dive site called Labyrinth which is full of swim-throughs and caves you can squeeze into which was great (if a tiny bit nerve-wracking). The water is the warmest I've ever been diving in, with no need for a wetsuit, and those trademark Caribbean colours were brilliant under a strong sun. 

My very last night on the island an enormous storm rolled through, and sitting on my balcony because sleeping in that thunder was not a thing I really felt engulfed in the storm- what a farewell. 

My return to Antigua, Guatemala, was far smoother than my journey to Utila, taking a shuttle with a lovely British guy and having enough space to lie down and nap most of the 13 hour drive. Tomorrow I'll fly to Mexico City, with only five weeks of travel left and so much to do in that time I feel I'll be home before I know it. The day is just beginning here, and shall be fittingly filled with indulgence, as last days should be- coffee and food and sitting in Parque Central watching the world go by. 

Tales from Mexico to follow, 

​Lucy x

(Hike volcanoes, help kids)

​Hola from Quetzaltenango, or Xela, the second biggest city in Guatemala. Home has been here now for almost two months, time which has disappeared into a blur of 48km hikes, 3:30am alarms, pondering the chances of procuring good chocolate (nigh on impossible), sunrises over Lago Atitlan and sunsets over volcanoes. And volcanoes erupting, and talking about volcanoes, and watching volcanoes, and me being so excited over a particular eruption that a trekking client decided to film my reaction rather than the volcano erupting right in front of her. Yeah. I kinda like volcanoes. 

​So where better for me to have found myself than guiding for Quetzaltrekkers, a wonderful non-profit organization that takes people to see volcanoes (and other arguably also cool stuff), encourages me to talk their ears off about subduction zones and stratovolcanic formation, and then uses the money they pay for this to almost single handedly fund a school for 180 students and a hogar abierto (open home)(which provides housing, board and social services) for a further 20. With so much confusion in tracing funds in other aid organisations, I'm proud to be able to tell any one who hikes with us that all of the money they give us (minus our operating costs) goes straight to the niños. I also find this useful to remember when my alarm jolts me awake at 3:30am to catch a sunrise over Lake Atitlan, or when I'm slogging up and up and up on Tajumulco, the highest point in Central America at 4222m of elevation, or when my knees threaten to explode after said up and up and up. I could talk about Quetzaltrekkers all day, but instead if you wish you can read more here: https://www.quetzaltrekkers.com/xela/ (and also you can book treks there come and hang out with me in Guatemala)(really you should it is excellent). I've learnt so much living here- in school in Australia Latin American history does not feature heavily, so I arrived woefully ignorant of the history of this region. A nasty civil war, a string of terrible leaders, a GDP whose main contributor is money sent back from Guatemalans working illegally in the States... I have never been more aware of how lucky we are in Australia to have the lives that we do. I pass street art every day that talks of countering violence against women (a big problem generally in Latin America), I watch the drunks on my corner drinking rubbing alcohol, I read the terrible stories of teenagers being shot by the Frontier Patrol in Texas as they try and make their way into a country that as a whole doesn't want them and where they will be exploited and paid far below minimum wage for the decades it takes to justify them making the journey in the first place, and my heart hurts. It has been such a balm to meet the people who have chosen to make their lives here and to make the purpose of that life to be to help in any way they can- from the excellent Australian lady who owns a vegan café I end up at most days I'm not hiking and uses this café to fund a project rehousing street dogs, to my fellow volunteers who have put their other lives on hold to help out in this small way for as long as they can manage- both at QT, the school, and at medical clinics.

​It is a really neat feeling to arrive at that feeling of 'home'- whether its my favourite veg vendor in the market giving me free spinach, enthusiastically describing the location of my favourite café or pupuseria (pupusa are Salvadorean and they are just the tastiest) or simply sitting in the sunshine in Parque Central awaiting people I'm about to lead on a walking tour, there's nothing quite like realizing you've got yourself settled in, and that you can navigate the cobblestoned streets with a big bag of homemade bread in one hand and a stick of vegan chocolate icecream in the other, all the while chattering away to a fellow QT guide aka my family here. It is such a wonderfully unique workplace- firstly we are all volunteering so while we work hard (though play harder) we aren't getting paid for it, secondly there is no 'boss' or authority figure so we all make decisions together, and finally we all live in the hostel attached to our office- so we spend almost every moment of every day together. There is no quicker way to build a family and it has been such a privilege to hike/dance/cook/laugh with this excellent and inspirational group of people. We've frozen together at sunrise at 4222m (though warmed by hysterical laughter watching a slow motion video of my roommate hopping around in her sleeping bag), got 'fancy' (costumed up) for a night out on the town, spent many hours playing zombies with the hogar kids and collectively sucked at football on a weekly basis (with a few exceptions)(also I managed a header this week so maybe I'm set to be the next soccer star)(really though the hogar kids beat us soundly). 

As well as my people here, our hikes are also show-stoppers, and while I don't relish crawling out of my sleeping bag at 3am I have lost count of the breath-taking vistas I've seen in this country. Off the Pacific coast of Guatemala the Cocos and Caribbean tectonic plate are colliding, resulting in a subduction zone- which then results in high silica, high viscosity lava. What this means for Guatemala is a near perfect line of textbook stratovolcanoes (ie the mountain cone everyone pictures when you say 'volcano'), some of which have quite the explosive history. One of these explosive babies is Santa Maria, who looms over Xela and last erupted in 1902- one of the three biggest eruptions of the 20th century. These days a series of vents on her south-west side are the only sign of activity, but with Santiaguito erupting on average every 45 minutes it is strikingly obvious that all sorts of geological shenanigans are still at play under the surface.  One of my favourite hikes to lead is to the Santiaguito mirador (mirador meaning 'seeing place'), which involves only a few hours of hiking, breakfast in the sunshine, and potentially up to 3 volcanic eruptions. My most recent jaunt up to the mirador was with a client I'd previously hiked up Tajumulco with, a violin teacher from the UK. We had a great time extolling the virtues of various classical composers (generally in complete accord, with the exception of Bartok)(as soon as piano pieces are described as 'percussive' you can pretty much count me out), and enjoying the sunshine, though a definite highlight was in the last 5 minutes up to the point where we would sit and break our fast and be on eruption watch. As we begun to round the final corners I saw what at first glance appeared to be a cloud, but with its low altitude and dark colour had me wondering, "You know Richard that kinda looks like it could be RICHARD RICHARD THAT'S AN ERUPTION PLUME QUICK QUICK LET'S GO" and then had me sprinting off towards the volcanic eruption. Yes, towards. Did I mention I really like volcanoes? (We caught the end of an epic eruption, despite the cardio Richard was stoked). 

​Trekking to Lago Atitlan (a super ancient, super big volcano) is also a pretty great part of most weeks- 8 hour days on the trail, my favourite dog in all Guatemala, Teddy, a temescal (traditional Mayan sauna) and topping it all off with a 3m jump into the lake. My first temescal was quite the experience- it is essentially a large pizza oven, that you crawl into, naked. Chances are Teddy is patiently watching you, as are a small gang of Guatemalan children, and your fellow guide (with amusement) as you question whether we really are going to just crawl into this small super hot unlit cave-thing. After a long day of hiking though and in the chill mountain evening air, there really is nothing better than stripping off while gazing at dusk-lit mountains and then emerging 15 minutes later the colour of a lobster and shiny with sweat. Then you get to enjoy bringing groups of clients up the little hill to the temescals and watching their faces as they see the giant pizza ovens for the first time, reminiscing about when you too thought it was all a bit Hansel and Gretel-ish.

​I've been spending 4 or 5 days a week on average on our hikes at the moment, and the wear and tear of my body is certainly starting to make itself known. Double knee braces feature heavily, both of my big toenails are black, my tan lines are truly out of control and I'm pretty sure my hiking socks will need to be burnt at the end of my three months here. I've begun day dreaming of Mexican beaches, which is absolutely directly where I will be headed after this. This girl needs her salt water. 

​And ps- after a month in Mexico and a few more weeks in the States, I'm coming home. Australia- you better be ready for this. 

I'm sure there'll be more amusing slow motion videography to stave off hypothermia before that though,

​Love, Lucy.

(Lyrics by Jenna, our excellent yoga teacher- who dabbles with excellent song writing too. Whatta woman)
 
Nature demands attention here. The rain is pelting down so hard as I type this that I can’t hear the click of my keyboard, and I long ago turned off my music as straining to hear it was a losing battle. If the rain were to ease for a minute or so there is a whole cacophony of sounds waiting to surge in and fill the aural deficit- birds and monkeys and crashing waves all vying for attention. ‘Here’ is the end of the road (literally) atop a rainforest laden hill in Punta Banco, Costa Rica. I’ve been volunteering at a beautiful place called the Yoga Farm this past month, filling my time with wonderful and inspiring people, various exciting allergic reactions, yoga (obviously), much amazing food (also obviously this is me we’re talking about after all), sun and surf and laughter and the most enveloping thunderstorms I’ve ever experienced. I’ve gone to bed at 7:30pm (more than once), woken to sunrise at 5am, ran up a steep hill in the rain for a sloth sighting, had my yoga practice interrupted by monkeys playing in the tree next to the yoga deck, learnt about permaculture practices and (repeatedly) not to touch my face while dehydrating hot hot (no really these are just dynamite) peppers.
 
The Yoga Farm is all about what the name suggests: yoga, and farming. As a volunteer I was really able to dive into both my yoga practice and farming- with every morning for me beginning with visiting my ‘ladies’ (the chickens), letting them out into the ‘pollo palace’ (pollo- chicken in Spanish), feeding them and collecting the bounty of eggs. I also spent a lot of time in the kitchen, creating vegan feasts out of whatever the garden/organic veg delivery (lugged up the hill on a horse) had to offer. Really, I just made about a thousand incarnations of banana bread (we have over 20 varieties growing on the farm!) with the occasional savoury dinner thrown in. Deciding that one Sunday brunch would be smoothie bowls led to one of our greatest yoga farm family bonding experiences- making coconut milk from scratch. Making enough coconut milk for 12 people is no mean feat, especially when between us our experience was limited to say the least. The collection of the coconuts for the milking became a friendly competition between two wonderful couples- Team Mexico (Mau and Nuria) and Team USA (Drew and Ashley). They each dragged 8 coconuts in a sack up the hill (a solid 10 minute walk straight up), after scouring the beach for appropriate candidates, smelling the ‘belly button’ of the coconut to ensure they hadn’t gone mouldy. After lunch we stood around considering these coconuts, picking one up to cast upon the concrete to no effect and realising we really didn’t know what we were doing. Rhami (the Brazilian surfing contingent of the family) came over wielding a machete, and with a gentle shrug and a, ‘guys, watch me, I’ll show you,’ made quick work of 1 of our 16 coconuts to be opened. We thought getting into the nut would be the hardest part- golly, we were wrong. The next few hours had us trying to scrape the flesh out with spoons, butter knives, bigger knives, our fingernails... while I grated the hard-won booty in preparation for squeezing and milking. After about an hour of this I remembered we had a VitaMix at our disposal, so grating became blending and everything proceeded much faster (relatively). In the end we had litres of delicious, fresh, coconut milk, and were feeling pretty darn proud of ourselves. This pride was deflated somewhat when I was recounting our exploits to Christie (half of the awesome couple who manage the Yoga Farm) and around the point when I was explaining how we’d spooned the flesh out and grated it she shook her head and sighed guiltily, saying, ‘Oooooh I thought it was you I showed the coconut scraper to!’ Yeah. Turns out we had made the process quite a bit more involved than it needed to be, and our imagined YouTube tutorial on how to make coconut milk was quickly abandoned. However, the smoothie bowls were delicious, blended up with frozen banana, dehydrated coconut and star fruit, granola- all made/grown on the farm.
 
Getting my Spanish up to speed has been about as efficient a process as the coconut milking- after spending almost the entirety of last year in Russia I throw Russian words out there almost as often as Spanish. Anna (a gorgeous human who cooks breakfast and lunch) and I have almost the same conversation every day-
Lucy: “Ahhhh today it will rain?”
Anna: “Every day, every day...”
... and when we deviate from that script it pretty quickly devolves in me chattering away and Anna waiting with a smile on her face to see if she can extract any meaning from my ramblings. I had a particularly great conversation with Jesus, her husband, when I went horse trekking with him and a cherished visitor from the States- Jesus asked me who had ridden more (not me) and who spoke more Spanish (me) and the proceeded to tell me that then I had to ride Momo, because he likes to roll on the beach and you have to firmly tell him no in Spanish so he doesn’t casually crush you... the irony being that while I understood the rolling danger I also understood that it would be my more experienced riding partner who would be taking Momo... so much for my superior Spanish. When it became clear I was to be Momo’s rider I yelped and cried, ‘But Jesus! I didn’t even understand it was me! I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT HORSES’. Flash forward to about an hour later when we are navigating narrow muddy chutes (it would be generous to call them trails), Momo is alternately slipping on rocks and sinking knee-deep into the red mud, I’m white-knuckled and honestly spending a lot of time with my eyes closed, I’ve just repeated my ‘NOTHING JESUS, I TOLD YOU I KNOW NOTHING’ and we come to a log across the trail. So we limboed. On horseback. Just straight up laid down flat across our horses’ backs, sucked our stomachs in, and shimmied under this fallen tree (please note we are still in the muddy chutes at this point). The chutes became a river, and we precariously picked our way down said river until we reached the ocean- I practiced my anti-rolling phrases many times but luckily they were not needed, and we all made it back to lunch in one piece.
 
This has been a truly excellent month. I’ve never seen such vibrant nature- from ‘lazies’ (sloth in Spanish translates as ‘lazies’ which I think is super cute) hanging in the tree next to the kitchen, giant ‘forest beetles’ (actually just ginormous cockroaches but I think ‘forest beetle’ more befits their elegant nature), to casually brushing a scorpion from my leg while watching a storm at night, then turning my head light on to see what exactly was just loitering on my leg and almost jumping off the yoga deck (cue more yelping). I’ve observed a boa constrictor sleeping in a coconut palm, followed a baby tarantula along its jungle path, shoed giant toads from my bedroom and ushered a crab from my sink. I have many bug bites, strange rashes, awkward tan lines (yeah my hands got sunburnt horse riding it’s a great look), but also a treasure trove of new experiences. I’ve met such inspirational people, spent a lot of time in a hammock with a ukulele, enjoyed Disney singalongs and Latin dance lessons and tide pool lazing. I’m so grateful for my time here, and to the Yoga Farm for hosting me and my new Yoga Farm family. This week has me returning to San Jose, the capital city of Costa Rica, for a few days of street art and eating (easily the best burger I’ve ever had awaits me I’m already dreaming about it) before flying up to Guatemala at the end of the week to begin my three month tenure as a trekking guide in Quetzaltenango- as Quetzaltrekkers (the organisation I’ll be volunteering for there) puts it- hiking volcanoes and helping kids. There’s nothing like the gentle mocking laughter of children to sort out second-language kinks, so hopefully my Spanish can gain some traction in this Russian-dominated brain and I’ll stop hopelessly confusing myself and everyone else.
 
The storm has finally eased (a few hours later) and lunch beckons- before an afternoon of chill and chess and reading and ukulele... a la every afternoon here. This tropical life makes my heart sing (and aggravates my heat rash which is just swell).
 
Hasta luego-
Lucy

 As I’m writing this I’m perched in a vegan café, sipping on an almond/walnut mylk blend latte, enjoying some Arcade Fire, awaiting my wild mushrooms on sprouted rye with cashew ‘cheese’, and really, you could be forgiven for thinking I’m back in Melbourne. It’s my last day in Vancouver, and my overwhelming impression of what I’ve seen of Canada in these past three weeks is that there are far more similarities between here and Aus than differences. I spent my first week  pretending I could speak French in Montreal, and then moved across to Jasper for a wedding between some dear workmates from my ski season in Japan, hung around there for a few weeks then stopped over in Kelowna to see another friend (and to eat my weight in vegan goodies) before finding myself here in Vancouver and heading to Costa Rica tonight.
​
Montreal was an absolute treat of a city- I visited a friend I met many moons ago diving in Malaysia, and we managed to recreate our travel vibe from those tropical days- lots of delicious food, lots of walks, and lots of hanging out in the sunshine. Staying with Gen and her family was so peaceful and luxurious, a time filled with laughter and delicious food. Montreal was just really settling into spring, and as the trees exploded with green buds every man and his dog took advantage of the beautiful sunshine. There is something so celebratory about a city that has just endured an incredibly cold snowy winter, a feeling I don't encounter so much in Aus. We got on board the celebration train, and enjoyed a huge thrumming drum circle in the park, vegan poutine by a river, vegan icecream by the pool (yes my time in Canada heavily revolved around my stomach), and much walking up hills and around the beautiful European-esque architecture of old town. I really loved the vibe of Montreal- it is awesome to hear people effortlessly switch between French and English, the street art and architecture are both beautiful  and there are outdoor terraces for every café so you can better enjoy the newly minted spring weather. Montreal was also where I finally managed to see a raccoon- despite my best efforts to find one in the U S of A and being told these 'trash pandas' were everywhere, I had sadly been disappointed until one evening when Gen and I went on our nightly raccoon patrol, and lo and behold, there was a raccoon just loitering in an archway of someone's garden. I forgot to breathe, almost cried, of course didn't manage to document the cute little guy at all, and provided much entertainment for Gen with my excitement stupor.

 The wildlife adventures only continued once I moved across to Jasper, Alberta. As you're driving along the highways you'll often come upon what at first glance looks to be a car accident, but what is actually just everyone pulling off the road every which way in order to gawk at some creature or another. I saw moose, elk, multiple bears, long-horned sheep, a coyote lazily jogging on the roadside and more types of ground rodents than I ever knew existed. I went 4 or 5 days into my time before I saw a bear, and was worried I'd leave without catching a glimpse, but as my Canadian friend said, 'Once you see one, the floodgates will open.' Golly, was she right. In 24 hours myself and the new co-manager at the wilderness hostel I was volunteering at had 6 bear encounters- from stumbling upon a black bear friend while simply trying to open the hostel gate, having potentially the same bear foraging for hydraulic fluid (?!) by our dumpster, to me lying on a bench outside the hostel chatting on the phone and glancing off to my left to see (potentially still the same) black bear ripping up grass about 10m away. We named this resident bear Boris the Gardening Bear, though still carried our bear spray and bear horns around with us in case Boris took more of an interest in us and less of an interest in the dandelion shoots (and let me tell you I retreated inside quite fast when he appeared mid-phone call).

​I really enjoyed my time in Jasper- from my friends' beautiful lakeside wedding to my week in the forest with no running water, enjoying vegan delights at a quaint café in town to racking up 15km hikes and finding snow still on some mountain trails, it was a delightful mix of catching up with friends and being out amongst the nature. Canada feels like New Zealand on steroids- the mountains are bigger and sharper, the lakes bluer (but just as cold, I can attest after an afternoon of cliff jumping), more snow and definitely more wildlife to be aware of. My bus out of Jasper left at an early 5am, but this dawn timing meant my drive to Kelowna was peppered with wildlife sightings- we stopped for a big black bear to make his leisurely way across the road, then slowed for elk and then again for a lone coyote loping along. Kelowna was also beautiful, though less striking than Jasper- more rolling hills than jagged Rockies. I was so grateful to be able to drop in on a friend from NZ exchange days (and after that an Aus summer flat share) and to be able to catch up on the last few years of our lives while basking in the sunshine by the huge lake, and of course while enjoying awesome food- we happened upon a once-yearly vegan festival and enjoyed pizza, brownies, tempeh, granola, energy bars, cheesecake, pulled jackfruit burgers, tacos... not to mention the multiple varieties of vegan Ben and Jerry's we had stocked in her freezer.   

My time in Vancouver has been plotted around food and some little errands to run before flying out tonight- really hard to believe I'm about to embark on a four month stint in Central America. Here come the tropics, and trotting out my university Spanish, and more fresh fruits than I know what to do with. 

Hasta luego amigos,

Lucy.

​PS- Top photo gallery in Montreal, bottom is Jasper and surrounds. 

I had mixed feelings rolling into the Big Apple- places of hustle and bustle aren't normally for me. I immediately took the wrong train on the subway, after the ticket machine tried to reject my Australian credit card, and had to lug my backpack (aka all my worldly possessions which can be quite unwieldy) up the crowded stairs I'd just fought my way down, and I feared my assumptions about New York, New York, were all too true. The next few days were chaotic and crowded but really showed me how wrong I was- I discovered a city bursting with green spaces, amazing vegan food, the Natural History Museum and avocado toast food trucks (Melbourne I can't believe you're not onto this yet).

​Firstly, and most importantly, the food. I was super lucky in that the friend I had stopped by NYC to see is also vegan, and so within the first half an hour of being together I had a list in my phone planning out all my meals and several snack stops for the four days I would be in her hood. I made the gross error of describing bagels as merely 'rolls with holes in them' and after being heavily chastised I made my first breakfast stop a neighbourhood bagel company. I completely aced the ordering process ("Hello, I want a bagel!" (yes that is a direct quote)) and my first everything bagel, toasted, with tofu cream cheese, was acquired... and a world was changed. So. Very. Delicious. A bagel, as it turns out, is everything I want in a food- dense, chewy, with tart tofu cream cheese slathered on, still cold despite the heat of the toasted bagel. I moaned and groaned, took pictures with both my phone and my camera, almost cried, definitely caused concern amongst my fellow diners, and then went back every morning after. That wasn't the end of the culinary delights by a long stretch of the imagination- then there was a pecan pumpkin vegan donut ate in the sunshine by Times Square, a vegan café near the Natural History Museum with an in-house DJ and a Philly cheese steak melt creation of pure genius, a visit to my friend's partner's work, a fancy vego restaurant which offered up such delights as dosa with coconut yoghurt and a roasted half cauliflower which again made my world anew... and the list really does go on. Vegan ramen, vegan pizza, amazing coffee... I tremble at saying this, but Melbourne- New York has pretty much got you beat (maybe not yet on the coffee front though you can keep that crown a little longer). 

​When I wasn't eating (which to be fair was not that often) I was pounding the pavements and jostling with the crowds, seeing what was up in this huge city. Times Square was very reminiscent of Shibuya Crossing in Tokyo, with people and screens being busy in your face everywhere you look. Spring was just blooming across the city, so the trees were freshly green and cherry blossoms abound. One of my favourite mornings was spent riding a bike through Central Park, listening to Ella Fitzgerald and enjoying the sunshine on my bare arms. Temperatures climbed to around 30 degrees which I'm told is quite unusual for this time of year, but I enjoyed the heat bouncing off the pavement and the sultry evenings spent outside. I found shade and coolness quite quickly when walking through downtown NY, by Wall Street- the skyscrapers there feel quite closed in and the sun disappears quite early in the day, though luckily you're only about a five minute walk from the water where you can gaze across at the Statue of Liberty or walk up and across the Brooklyn Bridge. In the same part of town is the World Trade Center memorial site, which is filled with the green of trees and grass and people solemnly watching the water pour down the sides of two huge memorial fountains on the site of the two towers.  

New York really has something going on at all hours of the day, and something for everyone. People watching is a rich pastime- I sat next to a guy on the train with a beautiful sequined gown, who was on the phone organising what sounded like an accounting consultation (eh numbers aren't my strong suit), saw hipsters that wouldn't look out of place on Brunswick St clutching their coffees in one hand and their phones in the other, overheard a debate about which high-end furniture store was really the most 'in' at the moment, and watched a little kid take on someone the age of his grandpa in a chess match in Union Square Park. In general I found the subway-vibe to be quit boorish, especially around rush hour- the best of humanity doesn't come out to play in crowds that's for sure, and I felt quite disheartened after I saw a short Asian lady hip-and-shouldered off the stairs so some suited guy could get home just that bit faster. Riding a bike in NY is also quite the experience- within my first five minutes of crossing onto Manhattan Island I had two cars cut me off, one altercation with a pedestrian looking at her phone so intently she forgot to look at the road at all, and one instance of a runaway food delivery trolley careening down the bike lane. 

New York, New York- what a city. I spent only four full days there though after just that I was ready for my peace-and-quiet bus ride to Montreal, armed with a bagel for the road and some intense sandal tan lines, practising my French as Quebec loomed. 

Too bad I've not that much French to be practising. 

​A bientot, 
​Lucy

New Orleans, Louisiana. A city of porch swings and porch sits, of music spilling from every bar door, of sunshine and greenery and voodoo and of the sort of roads/pavements you would expect to find on a small tropical island with quite a small road building budget. As a friend said to me when I tripped over tree roots protruding from the sidewalk- 'Nature always wins here,' and when you build your city on a swamp there are going to be quite the nature-related consequences. While the swamp tries to shake the city atop it free though there is sunshine and warmth and a people who are ready to celebrate at the drop of a hat. 

​My lazy weeks in NOLA passed in a haze of late nights and glaringly bright days, as my friend that I was there to see is a professional musician (and a phenomenal one, you can check her and her band Rebel Roadside out here) and describes her schedule as 'vampiric'. I have never met such a concentration of incredible skilled and talented musicians as I did in New Orleans- the passion, drive, and sheer skill is both inspirational and kinda intimidating. It is a true smorgasbord of musical offerings- be your taste bluesy singer-songwriters, or you're a dead-set trad jazz aficionado, there is something to suit every proclivity (except maybe my love for country pop) playing every night somewhere in New Orleans. And then the next day when you manage to drag yourself from bed, there is a plethora of quaint cafes with great coffee (yes turns out that is possible in America after all who'd've thunk) and vegan treats, and rivers to sit by and read, and huge parks with huge oak trees whose limbs dip into the ground and back out again just begging to be climbed.  New Orleans reminds me in a lot of ways of Cairns- the same blanket of humidity, and the same verdant abundance. Jasmine curls around fence and windows, perfuming the air with its heady scent. There are turtles sunning themselves on rocks seemingly all over the place, and you could spend an afternoon just watching the hijinks of squirrels in City Park (still no raccoon spotting though, sigh). 

​And when the city gets too much as cities tend to do, you can jump in a car and blast some tunes and road trip right on over to Florida, where white white sand and rolling waves await. Alison and I took such a mini-break, and just relished being able to sit on the sand and totally relax... which lasted all of ten minutes, until I saw the first kite bobbing around in the air at the very far end of the beach. My book was dropped, and I was half-jogging towards the horizon almost before I managed to communicate where and why I was suddenly hustling away, leaving a bemused Alison in my wake. I helped a few guys launch and land their kites, enjoyed hanging out and talking shop, and then even got to go for a blast on one of the guy's gear which was absolutely fantastic. He was a good foot and a half taller than me and a quite a big heavier so his gear was certainly too big for me, but I hunkered down and held on and rocketed around with a huge huge grin on my face.

All too soon our beach days were over, and it was back to the Big Easy we went- in time for the New Orleans Jazz Festival, one of the biggest events on the calendar and also one of the biggest tourist drawcards. The city exploded with colour as people decked out their houses for the big event, and more and more people poured in every day. My friend lives in the neighbourhood adjacent to the venue for the Fest, and hosted some gigs on her porch- so I spent three nights watching her amazing friends and her amazing self playing for people coming and going from the Fest, dancing in the street as the night fell, still in a dress because it was just that warm. Her neighbour's 9-year-old daughter made me a necklace of two copper hearts entwined and brought it over to me on my last night, as the closing band for the porch gig series filled the night with soaring guitar and soul-wrenching vocals, and Alison turned to me with a knowing smile and said, 'New Orleans isn't going to let you go you know.'

I think she was right. 

​However my immediate plans were already set in concrete, so I left on a bus the next morning with a heavy heart but the knowledge that having left, I can be on my way back. 

My second Greyhound journey was far more intense than my first, with a shooting in the Atlanta Greyhound Station as I was transferring and a sheriff bus search in the middle of the night. I had a seat to myself the whole way to NYC so curled up and slept for most of the journey, processing and resting and preparing myself for New York, New York, with jazz pouring from my headphones... 

​...NOLA ain't seen the last of me.

I've seen some things from the window of a Greyhound bus. I watched the night chase away the colours of a brilliant sunset in the desert of Nevada, then that same sun rise again over the mountains of Colorado, still snow laden in the springtime. My bus racked up mile after mile across the wide open plains of Wyoming, and trundled down abandoned back road streets of towns in Texas with names like Cactus and Amarillo. I found a vegan smoothie café in Rock Springs, Wyoming, opposite the McDonalds which was our intended lunch stop, tried the bus station coffee more than once (desperate times), listened to a truly delightful amount of country pop music through my phone's radio- and that's to say nothing of the people I met along the way. 

​Four sunsets, three sunrises, two overnight stays in Greyhound stations, one blissful hour watching two hawks glide thermals in tandem over the great expanse of nothingness in Colorado, and I had made my way from Reno, Nevada, to New Orleans, Louisiana. Along the way I had the mechanics of assembling/disassembling an assault rifle painstakingly explained to me, was told tales of a tame black widow spider that foiled a potential robbery by biting all five robbers on the ankles, was totally unable to contribute to a conversation about preferred varieties of marijuana (but nodded along all the same), shared a seat with a bona-fide cowboy (hat and belt and boots and all) who called me ma'am and explained all about chasing raccoons out of the calf pen with a 22.

My first night in the Greyhound station was at Salt Lake City, Utah. A beautiful city ringed by sharp mountains with snow that glowed in the greyscale night light as I pulled in at 2am. My connecting bus to Denver, Colorado, was scheduled out again at 7:30am, so I pulled my hat over my head and napped against my bag. Of course 7:30am rolled around, and then 8:30am, and then 10:30am, and my travel mates had all bonded over the extreme frustration that a delayed bus brings, especially when our bus was patiently waiting outside the loading door (and had been since 7am). What we lacked, evidently, was a driver. One was eventually procured but he was pronounced drunk and a further replacement called for. This bus was the express bus for Denver, which means that almost everyone was in the same position as me of catching a connection out of Denver pretty soon after arrival. We watched and waited helplessly as it became obvious none of us would make our connections that evening, passing the time playing cards, bemoaning the system, trialling bus station coffee and napping in the queue we'd formed so optimistically at 7am. Eventually the bus pulled away around midday, by which time I'd heard all about who really killed JFK, the dangers of working as a roofer, and (multiple times) the solemn vow to never, ever, take Greyhound again. 

​As we tracked along the bottom of Wyoming I was absorbed by the beauty of the open space and the isolation. I spent many hours daydreaming myself into a ranching life on these desert hills, with but my horse and dog for company. And also with my massive ute (in the US utes are called trucks, which I feel is justified as these vehicles are true beasts and dwarf our working vehicles at home). We soon crossed the border into Colorado, with scenery more or less unchanged but occasional mountain ranges lacing the horizon. A McDonalds stop prompted a bonding session between my seatmate and two young guys a few seats behind me on the bus, who looked about 19 and were dressed for a hipster day out in Melbourne (one still had a retainer), when one of these lads announced to the bus as a whole, 'Wow, McDonalds feels like such a buffet after jail... the dollar menu never tasted so good!' My seatmate embarked on a detailed description of the food in female prison, and after they all realised they'd just gotten out a few days ago and all been in on drug charges a true friendship was born (this was about the time I started nodding along). She went to sit back with them and bond further, and at the next stop my cowboy sat down, with 'excuse me ma'am, would you mind if I sat here?' and a tip of his hat. 

​The drama that began with the delay was not yet over- at the afternoon truckstop stop one of the young African American guys travelling on board was kicked off the bus after supposedly looking like he was going to steal something (?!) and then sitting on the bonnet of someone's car. The entire bus was up in arms, the police were called, phone cameras were filming and I just sat very quietly in my seat. From my very quiet sitting position the whole situation seemed vastly unfair, but it also looked like the bus driver was bound by protocol from the moment the clerk at the store made a complaint. The bus was unsettled, we were four hours late, and then when we finally arrived in Denver the bus door wouldn't open. At this point we were all spending the night in the station anyway, so I was more amused than anything else, but the disquiet of earlier in the afternoon quickly escalated into a riot. Some guy had his gun out, people were shouting and swearing and one guy was having trouble breathing, the emergency windows were popped and a heap of people climbed out of the bus while the driver just kept throwing his body weight at the stubborn door. The cowboy tried to calm people down but in the end just wearily sat back down with me, while someone else was yelling for 'someone to bring the goddamn jaws of life.' 

Once we were free of the bus and re-ticketed for our ongoing journeys, the 'support group from the bus journey from hell' (so called by the same guy who had been telling me all about who killed JFK) found a corner and holed up for the evening. I rolled out my hiking mat and properly went to sleep! At one point one of the guys woke me up to go and collect my meal voucher (Greyhound's apology for the inconvenience) and as I lay back down said to me, 'you're safer than at your Grandma's house here, we're all looking out for ya.' 

I slept like a log. 

​The morning brought Denver to Dallas, and the Texan utes (even bigger than the Wyoming ones), the huge Southern churches (lots of them look like mansions, these huge sprawling estates), the warmth and sunshine. I wandered the bustling downtown Dallas streets and the ghost town backroads of Amarillo, then it was back on the bus to watch the transformation into gator territory- the swamps of Louisiana. Everything became much more green and wet, as we traversed serious swamp land through Baton Rouge (where I was told by a New Orleans native 'not to be so friendly in Louisiana, it's different down here') and started seeing signs for all sorts of food that I had never heard of before (gumbo? crawfish? po-boys?). As my fourth sunset faded to night we arrived into New Orleans, and I was swept up by Alison (a wonderful woman I met climbing in NZ), into the music, the humidity, the liberal paradise that is NOLA. 

​The tales of this city will keep for another day.  
Until then, 

​Lucy.

(I'm convinced one need look no further than 'The Lion King' soundtrack for all wisdom in life)(and also for amazing into-the-mountains-we-go road trip sing alongs).

​In what has come as no suprise to anyone, I am yet again no-fixed-addressing out here in the big wide world. I managed a whole four months of summer back home in Aus, and it was probably only two weeks into this that my mother found me perched on the couch with the South America Lonely Planet clutched in my hands and a somewhat guilty look on my face. The rest of that time disappeared into a blur of sleep deprivation and extreme gratitude for my mother's production of bulk salads as I buckled down to work two jobs over the busy tourist season, coming out the other side with no skin left on my fingers and definitely no glowing summer tan (loss) but the funds to take off again for at least the rest of the year (win). 

​For those who have browsed through my New Zealand blog entries, the photo gallery at the end of this entry is probably quite familiar- yes, I am back in the land of the long white cloud. 2018's meanderings have been crafted around touching base with dear friends from adventures past, whom I haven't seen from as recently as a spring goodbye in Moscow last year, to as long ago as when university finished up in Auckland five years back. I've started out in New Zealand, and next week will make my way to the United States and Canada, before Costa Rica and Guatemala to finish up the year. 

​What a totally different feel this trip already has to my move to Moscow, which saw me sobbing and holding onto my mother for dear life (I feel no shame)(but somewhat guilty for the emotional trauma this inflicted sorry Mum), telling myself over and over that I was making the right move for career and life yada yada. This time, there were no tears, and instead of arriving to airport detention (visa issues - need I say more), I arrived to a huge hug from a friend from Bali surfing days and Cocos sunsets, the lovely lovely Chris. What followed has been a multisports adventure of absolute awesomeness (extreme physical exertion = holiday in my book), with surfing on the South Coast, hiking around the home base of Wanaka, blasting around alpine lakes on Chris's kite gear (she really is the hostess with the mostess), long chats over much tea and delicious food and just really enjoying ourselves. I took a weekend off from all these fun times to visit a friend from Melbourne Uni days, who I was on exchange with in Auckland and has now permanently relocated to NZ (and acquired the local accent too). Rose's partner was away working, so we had a girl's weekend that looked a lot like the 'girls on tour' hijinks Chris and I had been up to- we went rock climbing, mountain biking, swimming, and canyoning, all in two days and with multiple breaks for snacks. What a treat for me- especially after a summer of work and not even being able to find anyone at home to go on the AquaPark with me (an inflatable obstacle course on Lake Mulwala), it has been amazing to have these awesome ladies to play with who also think that swimming across glacial white water to hike/climb up vertical forest paths and then abseil down waterfalls sounds likes a great day out. 

​It has also been really interesting to see how the South Island has changed- Wanaka is so much busier than when I was here 4 years ago, and driving up the west coast the damage that the recent cyclones has left in their wake is all too obvious as the road works lengthen your journey painfully. The little spot on Lake Hawea I went kitesurfing alone last time I was here is now constantly thronged with campers, and many of the hiking trails that used to be tiny little single tracks are now heavily trafficked and wide landscaped gravel paths. It will be interesting to see how both of these facets of life in New Zealand continue to change as more years trundle by (increased tourist flow and increased instances of nature-going-wild). It is still amazing though how quickly you can leave the crowds behind, and this weekend we intend to do exactly that- Chris's partner is a glider pilot and based a little further to the east of Wanaka, amidst lakes with super consistent strong wind (I'm sold), long rolling hills and apparently amazing sunrises. We're heading up there to camp and kite (windsurf for those two) and hike and eat and laugh and it will be a great way to finish up my time in NZ, before the States (California, specifically) beckons mid next week. 

​Stay tuned for American musings to come (and if anyone has any idea how this whole tipping thing works please send immediate instructions).

Peace, 

​Lucy.

Hello my friends,

Golly, what a year. First I must apologise for my long absence from updating y'all as to my movements- as you'll see, it has been quite the year and for most of it I was so absorbed in self-preservation that I just didn't have the energy to reach beyond my own existence to write a little something here. I hope you'll forgive me!

The last time I wrote I was fully embroiled in a Russian winter- a winter which lasted right through to a blizzard in late May. As winter deepened, so did my sense that something wasn't right, and that my time in Russia was proving to be more destructive than the opposite. I won't unload all of that emotional baggage here (enough of you have already received that out-pouring on the phone or in person), but suffice to say that a tendency towards melancholy quickly spiralled into a deep depression that left me breathless and adrift. It seems so simple now, to simply leave- but at the time it took a difficult conversation with a dear friend in Australia to shock me into acting and admitting the misery I'd tried to keep repressed. Many alternate plans were considered and rejected- sticking in out in favour of the Masters qualification, moving in with some other expats to relieve the isolation of living in Russian 24/7... but ultimately I realised that the end wasn't worth the means and I needed to leave. 

I took my time in doing so- my parents and aunty came to play for a summery month, and we had a great time exploring Moscow, St Petersburg, and some other little towns on the way. I enjoyed using my Russian daily but also had the relief of being able to talk with my family in English, though really what I enjoyed most was having my family with me as I slowly pulled myself from the slump. We laughed, braved overnight trains, alternately froze and boiled in the throes of a Russian summer (or lack thereof), ate far too much Georgian food and spent an awful lot of time in Russian churches. After they returned to the land down under, I spent another month exploring the Russian wilderness, heading into Siberia for a few weeks by the shores of Lake Baikal. I camped in the shade of forest, on the sandy shores of the lake, and let sunsets and sunrises pass me by as I swam, hiked, played the ukelele and read book after book. Siberia is so, so beautiful and vast and while I can't see my future self living in Russia again, I can certainly see her returning to further delve into the glorious Siberian landscape. See my photo journal from this time here. 

I flew from central Siberia to Beijing, in China- returning to a country I had previously loved to study kung fu in the mountains for a few months. I've been wanting to try martial arts immersion for as long as I can remember, and with a few months before I wanted to return to Aus for my sister's wedding I had the perfect opportunity. What followed was 2 months of 6 hours a day training, double knee braces to deal with mountain running and everything shaolin being performed in a deep squat, very early nights and very early mornings. I met some fantastic people, learned so much and made it back to Australia the fittest I've ever been, and a long way along the path of undoing the chaos Russia caused internally. 

What next? I'm going to spend the summer at home with my parents, working a bar job I've used to save for many overseas adventures in the past, enjoying the hot hot summer and the peace that pervades my family home. I'm looking forward to seeing friends and family for more than the usual once-every-other-year catch up and rebuilding relationships that have seen far more absence from me than is fair. I've also begun the process of applying for my Canadian working holiday visa- with some of my closest friends on that side of the world and a marriage between two of them looming in spring of 2018, I think the time has come for me to journey over and see the Americas for myself.  

​Until then-
Peace,

Lucy.