With low expectations and the highest of optimism, Brussels was a sweet, sweet surprise. The cobbled laneways and worn fountains of St Catherine’s were our main playground and here, Brussels gave us a natural wine local, top shelf coffee and abundant dive bars to slurp the finest Belgian brews.
We took a scavenger hunt through the heart of the old centre, raising a glass to Manneken Pis and toasting the various gilded corners of the Grand-Place. We found priceless trinkets at the flea market and grooved to avant garde jazz in a canalside warehouse. We visited Tour & Taxis and dived headlong into the immersive world of Tintin and friends, and we chatted to the donkey, sheep and alpacas at the urban farm with regular pitstops at the nearby fire station.
Now as a party of three, the flavour of adventure has shifted. While we still manage to sniff out the city’s best cortado and natural wines, many of our days are spent scouring the neighbourhoods for kid-friendly cafes with a license to booze, or haunting the local library reading in Dutch, French and a smattering of English.
That said, we still managed to turn Bozar “after dark” into a kids disco of interpretive dance to the alt-noise beats, and the Jardin Hospice beer garden was our pre-winter favourite for grassy rambles and bocce. We sipped one of the hundreds of tap beers at Delirium, peering through the window at Janneken Pis (the squatting female compadre of the infamous Manneken Pis lad) and we skidded through the galleries of WIELS, devouring the video installations and rooftop views.
If Brussels is the slightly stiff administrative capital of the European Union, she still manages a generous dusting of cool. With an abundance of venues and clubs, the touring scene is awesome. We saw our hero Christine and the Queens explode on the stage of Cirque Royal, as well as fist-pumping to celebrate 30 years in the game of Kruder & Dorfmeister.
The Belgians have an air. Neither friendly nor dismissive, they are somewhat suspended. But the beauty of international Brussels is the multicultural mash. There are so many different flavours and feels.
We became addicted to NONA pizza and overdosed on Belgian fries. The op shops delivered some killer vintage threads and the flea market street pop-ups overflowed with delightful bargains, afternoon spritz and keg brews. The canals were ideal for a wander, and we discovered some wonderful parks complete with wooden castle-like structures and speedy hillside slippery dips.
Many days were grey and gloomy, but when the sun burst forth, she lit up Brussels from cobbled street to graffitied wall, throwing sparkles into her gritty heart.
May 2024
Before we reach her splendid edges, the throngs of selfie-chasing tourists indicate her proximity. But as is the case with all architectural wonders of bella Italia, she is so much more than a memory, than a postcard, than a figment of your imagination. La Fontana di Trevi is magnificent. On a Saturday night she is awash with people of all ages and it’s more stadium rock than peaceful fountain of sculptural wonder. Drinking in her glory is as gratifying as it is to watch the crowds scuffle for the ultimate snap, elbows out and cocked knees akimbo. But either way she is breathtaking.
Hurtling through Roma in a tiny taxi the window wonders are endless. From the colosseum to Piazza Verona, the Spanish steps and Villa Borghese, her eye candy is truly as delicious as her signature dishes: carbonara, arrabiata, cacio e pepe…wow wow wow!
As beautiful as she is, Roma is shrouded in chaos. Her motorways are a jungle of tiny cars and scooters, ducking and weaving and cursing with hot-blooded passion. Every wall or forgotten fountain is drenched with graffiti and her wild parks are a mess of dog poop and overflowing garbage bins, rusted gates and untended paths. She is a true metropolis, a pulsing beast of epic architectural feats, artistry of the highest realm and creative inspiration from piazza to laneway to fontana to museo.
She is overwhelming, but she is majestic. She is a bureaucratic nightmare, but she is a foodie’s paradiso. Her vino is exceptional, her public services are a disgrace. Her pulse is as infectious as it is contemptuous, and her elixir is true life. She lives, breathes and thrives with an urgency that is intoxicating. No matter the challenges she presents, her soothes are as effective as they are multiple. Aperitivo. Salumi. Formaggi. Pasta. Oh.
The emotions and feelings are more than just worn on the sleeve, they are immediately in your face in full colour. But we eat and drink as passionately as we drive.
Art infiltrates. Culture permeates. The rebel spirit prevails. And once you surrender to the rhythms of insanity and chaos, the passion overrides.
We lived outside the centre, but we made sure to visit the various neighbourhoods, to tiptoe through the iconic ruins and postcard sights. We ventured to the boho vibes of Pigneto, rambled through the gorgeous laneways of Trastevere and hit the boutique chic of Monti alongside the iconic ristorantes who absorb the overflow from the nearby Colosseo. We navigated the daily mayhem with joy knowing that any real challenges would be satiated by a delightful sunset aperitivo with either Campari or Aperol as our maiden.
In this gargantuan city of endless inspiration, we succumb to the Italian mantra with a knowing grin: la vita é bella.
March 2024
Montreal is the cornerstone of our love. And like all good love stories, M for Montreal kicked off in a balmy summer, down cobblestoned streets where rosé did flow and riverside cycles were plentiful.
A city renowned for romance, fine food and the juiciest of vin rouge, Montreal was an incredible backdrop to our heart explosions. We drank all the wine (especially Gamay), developed an obsession with Vin Papillon - a restaurant and wine bar that serves the most delectable thinly sliced ham, sprinkled with shavings of parmesan - and devoured the festival circuit with flair.
We hired city bikes to hurtle downtown from Mile End and swoosh along the river’s edge. We scoured the city’s best rooftops for sunset tipples and sweeping views. We jogged through Old Montreal to the port, jostled with the tourists and added a padlock to the bridge that leads to La Grande Roue de Montreal. We moshed with the kids at Osheaga, sashayed with the soul fans at the Montreal Jazz Festival and swooned over Patrick Watson at an old theatre in the Gay Village.
And again, just like all good love stories, central to this tale is delicious food and wine, decadently enjoyed. We ate bagels and cream cheese at Fairmount Bagel, gourged ourselves on Neapolitan style pizza in Little Italy and tackled a mountain of poutine on Rue Rachel. We sampled fresh game at Manitoba, got elbow-deep in fried chicken picnic mode care of Dinette Triple Crown, and traipsed from patio to patio for golden drops of rosé, Aperol Spritz and negroni.
We love Montreal for her Euro pizazz, her foodie delights, her arrogance and bravado. She knows good music, oozes impeccable style and her collision of French and Anglo culture creates a thriving cultural heart.
We never made it to Mont Royal park on a Sunday to see the tam tam players, but we traversed the city from Old Montreal to Outremont, Chinatown, Saint Henri and Le Plateau, revelling in the unique secrets of each neighbourhood crevice. Montreal, je me souviens.
August 2018
It’s a pocket of paradise, at the end of South Terrace, where the road dips towards the sea and South Beach sprawls out to an endless horizon, a great western sky where sunsets melt into pinks and purples, slackline walkers, splish splashing puppies and tinnie picnics.
The sand dunes are only ever sparsely speckled with sun bathers, the water consistently turquoise. The ladies stomp out their laps, striding through the ocean, slipping past the pontoon and onwards back and forth to the groynes. The combi vans line up along the beachfront, back doors tilted and dream catchers waltzing in the breeze. All westside warriors pause for magic hour, toasting each day with equal reverence.
We share the dusty trails with musos and hipsters, salt-soaked artists who worship an oceanic muse alongside long-bearded old timers who wear boiler suits for practicality not fashion. Time stands a little still here where bare feet reign.
The final junction before the beach strip is a mecca of tacos, mezcalitas, lattes and natural wines. The staff rotate between establishments as both servers and then customers, keeping the local haunts afloat in all of the ways. Third Wheel is our caffeine hit, Madalena’s our vino indulgence and La Cabana our Mexicana party roller. South Beach Hotel is the old faithful for pints and steak night, where a session on the sidewalk benches is a true simple pleasure.
When the sun touches this place, it is sparkles and magic dust. Light fills every crevice and dances down the street to the coastal sprawl. A prevailing sense of holiday engulfs the lazy streets of SoFre. People linger longer, smiles drift into each other and even as the Freo doctor blows her gales, such delight cannot be perturbed.
I feel South Freo in my fingertips. Whenever I return, I mark home with a barefoot ramble to the beach. And then I truly feel her, up through my soles, over my ankles and along my spine. She whispers in my ear and bounces my curls with salt-flecked joy. She is a special place, one that has restored and nurtured me, her spirit still coursing through my veins.
I lived there, in a gorgeous beach shack, with worn timber floors and rickety windows. The winters were bracing, but the summers were pure ecstasy, brimming with ocean spray and sandy toes.
Writing about a place where you have lived carries a higher stake, an urge for accuracy and a teetering feeling of keeping the secrets hidden while also celebrating those very haunts. But she’s not just mine, this golden girl, this sun-bleached paradiso, she fills the mugs and pints of so many.
Her mystique revolves around her far-flung location, her west coast best coast locale. And as long as the sun dips into the Indian Ocean to mark the day’s end, this little hub will remain forever enchanted, a safe harbour of dreams.
June 2020
The waves are gigantic, thrashing onto the shore in a mass of froth and churning currents. To the left is La Punta, the surfer’s point, dotted with black shapes, waiting patiently to catch a ride. To the right is a headland speckled with houses, arching over the sun-drenched bay. And at centre, are two sun beds, two orange towels and a pair of freshly cracked coconuts.
Our little slice of paradise might not be covered with the whitest of sand, but it is peaceful and wild. The one little unpaved street of La Punta, flecked with bars and restaurants, has everything we need from a swing margarita bar serving the smokiest of mezcal, to a Thai restaurant of rich and creamy green chicken curry and a sandy floor, and a hostel with a penchant for delicious toasties and reggae boops.
We rotate sun lounges, indulging in mounds of guacamole and tortilla chips, Coronas and coconuts. It’s a backpacker lifestyle and we slide easily into the horizontal.
As sunset beckons, the trinket traders roll in and I can’t resist a leather plaited anklet of shells for the ultimate gypsy trademark. The djembes come out, the dreadlocks descend, and we’re surrounded by beautiful bronzed bodies in a global village of soft smiles and kind eyes. There’s so much to love about this magical beach life.
A short taxi hustle from La Punta is the beach of 157 steps. A cosier bay, crowded tightly with surfers and baskers, Playa Carrizalillo possesses a gentler swell, a clearer wash of ocean more idyllic for a bob. We set up at an umbrella-ed table behind two lounges, reading our books and downing cheap cervezas wedged with juicy limes.
Overlooking the bay is Espadin, the restaurant we chose for our birthday celebration. A view to melt eyes, her menu is wonderful, the service, mezcalitas and lolling fans as splendid as we had hoped.
There’s a lazy hazy pace to the playa that is at once infectious. And after a few days we uncover more secrets including the insanely delicious coconut-encrusted fish of Pepe’s Fish Tacos.
These dusty trails with their howling strays and moonlit ways will stay with us forever ever.
May 2018
Flicking through the menu at one of Kazan’s top restaurants, Tatar Cuisine House, I’m unsure whether I have stumbled upon the greatest typo of all time, or whether this dish might literally blow my brains out. Page one of the “Nomadic Menu” is enough to quash anyone’s appetite: “BRAIN BLOW – fried beef brain, bell pepper, almonds, mushrooms with the additional mixed salad. Dressed with balsamic sauce”.
It’s 3.30pm in downtown Kazan and I’ve stumbled down Bauman Street - the city’s High Street - to find my way to this austere pectopah (restaurant). We worked up a hunger for Tatar cuisine after an exploration of Kazan’s hipster coffee shops and a walk in and around the spectacular mosque within the Kremlin walls. Rebuilt in 2005 after Ivan the Terrible destroyed the original, the mosque is Disney-esque in its resplendent bright blues.
Before strolling up to the Kremlin embankment, we unearthed two chic coffee dens – Neft and Gudini - who take V60 pours as seriously as my caffeine-addicted sidekick, revelling in the artistry of coffee.
As photogenic and magical as the mosque may be, the best stop on our self-guided walking tour of Kazan was at one of the quirkiest museums around. Comprised of memorabilia from the 70’s and 80’s, the Soviet Lifestyle Museum is two floors and a stairwell of collectables from the former Soviet era. A peep behind the Iron Curtain, it is a charming, wall-to-wall waltz down memory lane across two of the sassiest decades in music and fashion.
As ABBA rotates on loop with Russian pop stars from the 80’s, we scour the array of Russian babushka dolls of political personalities, multiple propaganda posters as magnets, postcards and drink coasters, not to mention a very hip selection of T-shirts celebrating Russian Olympic Games and the first Russian on the moon.
While the remnants of a triumphant World Cup soccer hosting linger in trinkets and city pride, Kazan abounds with delicious local treats and a surprisingly kewl café culture. But for us, it’s the stolen moments within the stony mosques and churches where you can find the radiant hush to ponder the collision of culture and beauty, that linger longest.
December 2018
As we skip into ATL on Pride weekend her epic mish mash of colour, culture, history and hip hop is a rainbow dream. We love this city. She is so much more than an aquarium and Coca Cola museum, despite the fact that nearly every local we ask recommends both as must-dos for the uninitiated.
An outpost of America’s hallowed South, Atlanta is deep fried chicken, manicured talons and hair. It’s yes ma’am polite, gentrification and hipster high, with a Midtown that features wall to wall churches and Fox Theatre grandeur. Yet, just blocks away towards Downtown, are streets strewn with homeless folk doing it tough as America’s fastest growing city continues to sprawl.
Atlanta is AFROPUNK. And we revel in the opportunity to be two white girls flailing in a sea of so much funk, punk and style, celebrating the awesome of the black artists who fill the stages and stomp the pavements at ground zero for this weekend festival that exalts the black experience.
Atlanta’s artistic heartbeat throbs loudly. The High Museum is the pinnacle of this as social Fridays brim with the city’s hottest. The murals are plentiful, the sociopolitical conscience fierce. Eddie’s Attic in Decatur is singer-songwriter delight and even karaoke night at The Local celebrates the city’s musical heroes from Outkast to TLC.
We ring in Christmas with Ceelo Green in a cruise ship-esque concert come gospel rising at Center Stage and stomp it loud in the warehouse club Masquerade’s Heaven venue. We also become obsessed with tracing the city’s Tiny Doors, from DIY artist hub Paris on Ponce, to Inman Park dive bars and onwards to Dad’s Garage comedy club.
The Belt Line is the epicenter of the ATL rebuild and reinvention with restaurants and beer gardens dotted along the cycle and stroll path. We speed along her on electric scooters, the icy autumnal wind in our faces, as we skid between Ponce City Market - a foodie and retail mecca – and Piedmont Park.
A melting pot of creatives and entrepreneurs breathe life into Atlanta’s kaleidoscope of curiosities. We tap an undercurrent of craft industries, unfurl a generosity that is as genuine as it is warm and even venture into the infamous depths of the Clermont Lounge strip club where the dancing ladies nudge retirement age.
She’s a wild ride, ol’ Atlanta, as big-hearted as she is bold: we want more.
December 2019
An English seaside town carries equal parts somberness and romance in its drab greys and salty hues. On the days the sunlight breaks through and sparkles across the pebbled beach, reflecting off the Antony Gormley statues, their backs turned from the shore, Margate is all romance.
Our arrival is christened with an obligatory rain shower just as we reach the headland beyond the bowling club. Rugged and ferocious, the storm blows across the sleepy town of quaint terraces, each with their own cutie name. We huddle back into our studio flat and watch as the rain drenches the mossy rooftops and terracotta steeples.
The next day brings all of the sparkles and we saunter seaside to the Turner Contemporary. The tide pulls back from the anchored boats, revealing their barnacled bottoms, and the crowds flock to the portside pubs for fish’n’chip classics and pints.
As predictable as the seagulls, the seaside town amusement park is bedrock, so too the multiple gambling arcades and slot machine squawks along the beachfront promenade. We weave in and out of the market stalls and stumble upon bric-a-brac gold in one of the many antique and curiosity stores.
We shimmy down cobbled lanes off the main drag and find local haunts buzzing with craft cider pulls, cheese platters and old timers clutching pints alongside bar stool riders with banter to spare. We find gorgeous craft shops that walk the tightrope between hipster and authentic and eventually sniff out espresso martinis with a view.
We visit the off-license on the way home, then skidding into the local wine shop for a gourmet spread and a more refined tipple. Night falls on the lonely laneways and the sea turns black.
By far the cosiest highlight is our Sunday brunch at Cliffs, the record store, café, yoga studio and hair salon. The jams are slick, the discount bin an endless bounty and the avo toast is as good as the granola. We sift records from funk’n’soul to Brit-pop and punk, nursing our coffees and ignoring the drizzle down the window panes.
We trundle our bags down the cobbled lanes back to the main beachfront for a long lunch finale. Suckers for seaside scenics, we’re once again close enough to sniff the briney goodness. It’s off-season so the boardwalk is sparse and the wind whips through the handful of wanderers, sprinkling us all with Margate magic.
April 2018
