He came back with the perfect gift – a navy blue Kathmandu vest. Warm, snug and super practical for someone who walks early in the morning (when there’s that nip in the air.)

As he was wrapping the vest he quickly said, “oh and they were on sale, so I got us a couple too.”

Hmmm, not quite sure if ‘his n hers’ polar fleeces was a fashion path I had planned to navigate anytime in the next few decades!

I sort of forgot about it yesterday amidst the buzz of the birthday party until I found mine hanging in my wardrobe last night. It was all uber outdoorsy with nifty stitching details, cleverly concealed pockets and an irritatingly smug functionality going on. Being a sale item, there wasn’t much in the way of colour choices so mine was a deep magenta – a really practical, never-get-lost-in-the-bottom-of-the-rucksack-or-on-the-trail-of-kilimanjaro kind of colour.

I popped it on over my gorman pants and singlet and, while I wanted to hate the shapeless, sausage casing design, I couldn’t help but be surprised as warmth spread right through my middle. It was toasty but had the freedom of a singlet, it was cosy in the way it fitted around my neck and, when I looked in the mirror, damn straight I looked like a swedish trekker.

I also liked, just a little bit, that the tag hanging from the vest proudly declared ‘for the outdoor enthusiast’.

So, not a total dud purchase I suppose, but just need to make sure I don’t wear it at the same time ‘he’ is wearing ‘his’.

After moving to Japan for work, Yokohama became home. I had a local train station, Tokaichiba, where I took the Yokohama green line daily to Shin-Yokohama for work.

In the evening I could choose from four jogging routes I had mapped out, and I visited the same fruit and vegetable stand for grocery shopping. My hairdresser, ‘Hair Ash Make’ was in the bottom of my apartment, opposite the phone booth where I spent hours on the phone to friends and family, hearing about life back home while simultaneously watching life in my new city whiz by. I began to recognise the same faces in my neighbourhood, in my apartment building and on the trains and, for a year, my face may well have been one they recognised as well.

It’s quite surreal when the routine you have created for yourself in a new country comes to an end. While my first few days in Japan were, without a doubt, the slowest passing of my life, I eventually developed patterns and routines that, carved out in isolation from anything familiar, became deeply ritualised. That said, when my visa came to an end, the tug of the unknown next phase outweighed the pull to remain in Japan and I excitedly packed up my tiny apartment, anticipating the melding of worlds when my Japanese experiences collided with my return to Australian life.

When I left, I never really considered what it would be like to return to Japan no longer a resident – without a key to an apartment, buying daily instead of monthly train tickets and having lost the ability to recite the order of every single train station on the local line. I didn’t consider the strange feeling I would have walking along the same footpaths around my old neighbourhood – the same person walking, but at a very different pace.

There is a certain smugness that is easy to fall victim to when you adopt a new homeland. It is a kind of superior attitude that stems from living in a foreign country without being considered a tourist yet remaining an objective outsider relative to locals. I think this notion, unwittingly, had a profound impact on my ability to connect with Japan when I returned as a tourist.

My return embodied the sensation of knowing that I should feel connected to this place from having lived here, possessing a natural sense of orientation and familiarity with the city, yet feeling an overwhelming sense of removal at no longer being attached in the same way. The sense of empowerment derived from being able to call a city – that is worlds away from what is familiar – home, really affected my ability to experience Japan as a tourist. It was like traveller’s purgatory, a kind of limbo where experiences aren’t really new, you know them extremely well, but you feel like you are seeing them through different eyes.

I greatly believe we travel under the guise of whoever we are in our own lives at that time. When you live in a city, you don’t stop and take in the things around you as you do as a tourist. In exchange, as a resident, you are part of the greater ebb and flow of life, you belong to a community, you give and take in a way you can’t as a temporary visitor. I felt nostalgic when I returned to Japan. I missed feeling that same link to places I had felt when I lived there. Hopping on the shinkansen for a weekend in Kyoto, jumping on the express to Shinjuku for an afternoon shopping, riding my bike into Machida for ramen… I wanted to get back the spontaneity of not having a timed holiday, being open instead to the randomness that arises from life without a departure date.

As I had no intention of removing Japan from my ‘next trips’ list I had to find a way to reconcile my past experience of the country with my future ones…. learn to balance the impossibility of simulating what has been, while still using it to inspire what comes next.

I found the best way to do this was through the relationships I had made whilst living in Japan. Reconnecting with former colleagues, housemates and friends was an affirmation that my experiences were definitely very real and I was still the same person, just returning at a different time.

Bridging this gap through human connection refreshed my experience. Together with friends, I could recall hilarious karaoke experiences, reminisce about awful work meetings and also learn everything that had transpired in their lives since I left. They filled in the gaps that had made my tourist experience feel hollow, and slowly dissolved the resident/tourist dichotomy…

After living in Japan for 16 years and working at Tokyo’s seafood mecca, Tsukiji fish market, Greenfield has truly absorbed the Japanese reverence towards seafood and similarly enlightens his patrons through his preparations. For Greenfield, food transcends unfamiliarity; it is an intimate exchange between people and represents the most fundamental shared experience.

On our visit to Jamon, we sat at the sushi bar and as we were the first diners there, got a chance to get to know a bit more about Charles. He exudes the vibe (and I’m not sure whether it’s contrived) of a man you want to tread carefully with, emanating that artistic temperament that can occasionally grate, but, when on the same page, is both inspiring and educating. The slicing of fish, the placing of garnish and the rolling of rolls all seem to have a cathartic effect on Greenfield, one that makes you feel a sense of relief that he has found his outlet.

Our meal opened with a shared dish of salmon belly sashimi alongside thicker slices of upper flesh salmon. This was accompanied by fresh kelp salad sprinkled with sesame seeds and two plump little Kumamoto oysters with ponzu sauce. The taste was fresh, clean and smooth. The contrast between the different salmon cuts was surprisingly apparent and the salad offered a cleansing and refreshing finish.

Following this, two large Coffin Bay oysters were passed over speared onto slices of firm nashi pear. Encouraged to eat it in one go, it embodied waves of briny saltiness, pure sweet crispness, and unbelievable deliciousness.

We then had a dish of another 6 Kumamoto oysters and compared these with two large Sydney Rock Pambula River oysters that were very young in the season and, in contrast, had an inky quality to them. Our exploration in oyster varieties was brought to an end with a restorative cup of dashi broth containing a large fresh floating scallop. The fleshy scallop had such a wonderful texture, firm without being rubbery, and was an excellent indication of how carefully Greenfield selects his seafood.

Out next were slices of marinated octopus, the smoothest and firmest king dory sashimi and wonderful futomaki rolls of scallop and fragrant shiso leaf. There were dashi-poached shiitake mushrooms filled with salmon roe, fresh asparagus spears, and tiny slices of oshinko – crunchy Japanese pickles.

As Greenfield prepares each dish for his customers on the spot, there are brief breaks between courses that allow for reflection, drinking and a chance to watch the next creation emerge. Whilst we drank cups of chilled Takashimizu sake and tall glasses of Sapporo beer, Greenfield would occasionally pass over a few bits and pieces to nibble on between breaks.

When slicing fresh bonito, he snuck a sliver our way, and while watching him painstakingly wipe down his workspace yet again, we munched on some hastily passed over flash fried bonito skin – a perfect accompaniment to cold beer

As we were starting to feel a teeny bit full, the dishes became more elaborate. Bonito tataki atop a bed of wakame paired with thin slices of bonito sashimi. Wonderful southern style freshwater eel, sitting atop rice and wrapped loosely in nori, offset with slices of fresh cucumber drizzled in a sweet soy sauce.

Thick slices of dense tuna sashimi alongside tuna futomaki rolls, and, recognising my favourite, a couple more Kumamoto oysters thrown on to round off the meal. Thinly sliced nashi pears made up our final dish; cleansing and refreshing they beautifully signalled the finale of this extraordinary dinner.

Quite honestly, it was one of the most memorable dining experiences I have ever had… From the wall projector flashing scenes from the Anime film, Tonari no Totoro (My Neighbour Totoro), to the beautiful glass jewel-box exterior of the restaurant, which serves as an occasional reminder that you are still in Melbourne, Jamon truly is an intimate and special dining experience. We arrived for dinner at 7.30pm, and left at a quarter to 11 – amidst bows and ‘arigatos’ from Greenfield and Jamon’s waitress, Chi-san.

Whilst it’s not the kind of dinner you want to have all the time – like in Japan, sushi is for special occasions – it is definitely one you truly must experience.

For me, La Paz marked the beginning of my travels in South America and, quite honestly, from the moment I stepped off the bus, I don’t think I have ever been to a place that felt such worlds away from my home of Melbourne, Australia. The landscape, the people, the foods and the language were all part of a place that was so wonderfully foreign and fascinating; it became purely intoxicating in its uniqueness.

My friend Emma and I arrived in La Paz in late November after an 8-hour bus ride from Arica, Chile. I had taken a shuttle from Arica airport to meet her after flying from Santiago that morning, and as the bus turned into a dusty little side street, I spotted Emma waving furiously from her hostel doorstep. After months of planning, countless emails, and hours of late night phone calls, here we both were, reunited in this little town in Northern Chile.

Dashing over to the bus terminal to make our departure time, it was hard to believe we were actually together in South America. Emma had spent a few days in Santiago, whereas I had flown virtually non-stop from LA to make it to Arica in time – and was feeling pretty ordinary. The bus trip to La Paz was, needless to say, a bit of a blur, but I remember crossing remote, dry and seriously mountainous terrain. It was the kind of landscape that absolutely dominates the vista, truly shaping the way its inhabitants view the world, and introducing us to the rugged plains of the Bolivian land.

Sitting on the bus, we started thinking about our trip ahead… we had quite the adventure before us – two weeks in Bolivia, some time in Peru via a stay on Lake Titicaca, then Cusco and the Inca Trail before 10 days in Colombia. I was leaving Emma in Cartagena, Colombia for home, and she was headed by boat to Panama and through Central America. Reflecting on the road ahead, we suddenly mounted the crest of a hill in El Alto, to catch our first glimpse of La Paz below.

It was truly the most incredible site. We felt like the rulers of a kingdom, surveying their land from this great height… scanning the basin of the valley we saw the heart of La Paz surrounded by thousands of homes hugging the slopes. Stacked behind one another without a plot of land to spare, these houses saturated the gradient of the hills, clinging to the land like the seats in a grandstand.

We had over a week to spent in La Paz before we planned on heading down south through Cochabamba and Sucre and eventually arriving at the salt flats in Uyuni. The time literally melted away as we immersed ourselves in the constant ebb and flow of life in this bizarre pocket of the world.

We spent a day hiking Chacaltaya, a mountain range not too far from La Paz, where there was a thin layer of snow underfoot and some of the most beautiful views I have ever seen. As preparation for our upcoming trek to Machu Picchu, we thought this walk would be a great introduction to exercising at high altitude, it was. It really hurt. We were literally gasping with each small step, it was such a strange sensation to be struggling to keep up doing something that wasn’t really strenuous at all.

The altitude has such a powerful impact on newcomers to La Paz. For me, I felt initially as if there was a constant tangible weight pressing down upon the city. Of course, this disappeared as I spent more time there, but it was such a strange feeling, one that added another diverse layer to the city.

On one of the days we decided to go horse riding through the Valley of the Animals, an area south of Bolivia. We walked our horses along rocky ridges and rode through villages where school kids ran alongside us, chatting and sometimes throwing stones to spook the horses.

The surrounding landscape was heavily dominated by colours of deep ochre and muddy clay, contrasted with bright lines of washing drying in the hot sun. Churches and homes had been built into the hillside, binding civilization with the land and creating communities that were seamlessly cohesive with the surrounding environment. Whether we descended deep into the valleys or mounted the peaks of hills, the ever-present mountains were always visible to help navigate the way home.

The city itself was far too easy to lose yourself in. Wandering through the narrow streets criss-crossed with crazy overhead wires and dotted with tiny crammed shops and stalls, we were forever finding something different at each corner. In La Paz you can spend hours walking without a map, and whenever you think you may be lost, all you have to do is walk downhill. Without realizing it at the time, I think this simple orienteering aspect of the city added something very freeing and liberating about our time there. Typically in a new place, most travelers maintain a general idea of where they are, but in La Paz, knowing that up meant heading out of the city and down took us into it, injected our experience with a sense of pure, unbridled freedom.

While the characters of Berendt’s book seem less significant when contrasted with the city’s own fascinating history, ‘Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil’ has been one of the biggest tourism drawcards for Savannah. The young woman featured on the cover, an image of Sylvia Shaw Judson’s ‘Bird Girl’ sculpture, had to be removed from its home in Bonaventure Cemetery after avid fans of the novel threatened its very existence. It now stands in the Telfair Academy of Art, a simple figure of a girl in a plain dress holding out two bowls, exuding an intensity and serenity that belies her tiny stature.

The location where much of the novel’s plot took place, and where Clint Eastwood’s 1997 film adaptation was shot, the Mercer-Williams House, is as graceful and striking in reality as on the pages of the book. A rosy brick façade partially obscured with creeping green ivy and a heavy iron fence affords Monterey Square a glimpse at one of the most beautiful homes in Savannah’s historic district.

Passing through the carriage house, now home to a gift shop and starting point for house tours, the home’s rear is rendered in a creamy plaster and opens out onto a private garden. Heavy gold mirrors hang on the deep porch beneath lazily circling palm leaf fans, reflecting the garden’s mossy pond and fountain. Upon entering the house, the extent of Jim Williams’ vast antique collection greets visitors as they take in the long diamond patterned hallway lined with 18^th century paintings and 19^th century furniture. Nanking china rescued from the 1750 ship wreck and bought by Williams at a Dutch auction comprises much of the display china, with many of the signature blue and white vases transformed into stunning lamps. An apricot-walled dining room houses a wonderful rococo chandelier presiding over a fully laid dinner table, with Murano wall sconces offering further illumination. Colour is one of the home’s outstanding features, with walls painted in bold aubergines, cornflower blues and warm gold shades, and Williams’ artworks, statues, light fittings and furniture wonderfully married to each room’s distinct ambience.

A visit to the Mercer-William’s house provides an insight into the world beyond the facade of the many grand homes that line the squares and leafy streets of Savannah’s historic district. Unlike the city of Charleston, which I had visited on my way down to Savannah, much of this city is private, with less homes open to the public and fewer tourists wandering through the streets. Perhaps it can be attributed to the winter season and the chilly weather, but I felt a certain abandon throughout Savannah that was absent in Charleston.

One refreshing feature of the city, however, is the ever present Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD) – a college literally shaking the foundations of what may otherwise have become a city in decay, and filling the cafes and streets with keen design students in retro duds. Parked bicycles clutter the sidewalks and students roam the many SCAD buildings throughout the city, breathing new life into a subdued town.

Economically, Savannah has never regained its antebellum prosperity, however the efforts of conscientious townsfolk have ensured much of the city’s significant architecture has been saved from demolition and carefully restored. For this reason, the city is a pleasure to visit and affords a historic glimpse at a period when the Southern colonies reigned supreme. Wandering amongst the plots at Bonaventure Cemetery, just how wealthy James Oglethorpe’s Savannah became is evident in this elegant and graceful burial ground for the town’s elite.

Almost suffocating on the masses of Spanish moss, the crumbling gravestones reveal their former glory of trumpeting angels, singing heralds and flying doves. Family plots, demarcated with decorative iron fencing, are festooned with enormous statues, dripping vines and bright red roses.

As the breeze blows through, parting the weeping willows that hang down onto the river, the final resting place for so many Savannians is both peaceful and eerie. Perhaps the memory of the sacrifice of freedom to create such a place is a haunting factor, perhaps Berendt’s Minerva still roams the plots at night… there is certainly something undeniably uncanny yet alluring about both the cemetery and its city.

One of the distinctive elements in Miyazaki’s films is his unique interpretation of the shoujo figure – a Japanese word that translates to ‘little female’ but alludes to the stages between childhood and adulthood. The shoujo of Miyazaki’s films exhibit values reminiscent of a simpler Japan, embodying nurturing qualities towards the environment and animals as well as the cultural attitudes of respect and community spirit. In addition, they are typically strong, independent and empowered young women who face the most trying circumstances, usually alone, and exhibit a strength that deeply contrasts their innocent and vulnerable appearance.

One of my favourite Miyazaki films: Nausicaa, Of the Valley of the Wind…

The first few snippets of a city are not usually enough to form a well-balanced opinion of what it has to offer. A visit to Seattle’s Pike Place Market however, provided an early summation of the cultural diversity, eclecticism and beauty that Seattle is in bountiful possession of. The market’s fresh seafood, ripe fruits and vegetables, dumplings, tempura, curries and gourmet sausages offer shoppers a cornucopia of culinary delights from all over the world. The real crowd pleaser of Pike Place however, would have to be the stalls proffering enormous crustaceans caught in the surrounding waters. The fact that much of this fishy booty is brought in by the Alaskan boats often featured in ‘The Deadliest Catch’ gives you a sense of the scale of the catch being sold.

The significance of the maritime industry to Seattle is quickly ascertained by the prominence of boats lining the harbour, the many cruises and water tours, and the high level of urban development that exists along the shore’s edge. Beautiful historic piers and public boat landings stand on Alaskan Way, providing the city with an eternal link to its waters.

Nearby, the recently completed Olympic Sculpture Park skirts the northern shores of Elliot Bay, offering visitors a picturesque sanctuary to absorb the beauty of the distant Olympic Mountain ranges. The contemporary sculptures in the park work wonderfully well to engage the nautical and natural elements within the city, while simultaneously reinstating the edgy, innovative vibe Seattle is renowned for.

A visit to the Seattle Public Library, a spectacular Rem Koolhaas structure unveiled in 2004, affirms the creative slant for which Seattle is synonymous. A stunning glass structure that affords readers downtown glimpses through criss-crossed steel and geometric beams, this central library ensures bookworms in Seattle are the luckiest around!

Moving forward from the ingenious Belltown grunge kids of the nineties, Seattle has bred widely successful businesses as quickly as Starbucks churns out it’s frappucinos. Google and Amazon’s headquarters are located on the banks of the Fremont passage, Microsoft founders are Seattleites and aircraft giant, Boeing, found its start here. Perhaps it’s the cleansing quality of near constant rainfall, or the refreshing characteristics gleaned from the mountains, lakes and oceans of the Pacific Northwest… there is an undeniable link between nature, ideas and innovation akin to the very essence of Seattle.

As a relative new comer to the United States, I have been struck by the literal truth of the nation being just as it’s name suggests, a united group of individual states. Being Australian, I am no stranger to the diversity that arises within nations; my own homeland embraces multiculturalism, championing it as the very essence of Australian life. However, after the short flight over from my adopted home of Los Angeles, that sensation of the weird abruptness of air travel really hit me as I was transplanted into a totally different world. In the space of several hours I left behind the autonomy of LA and found myself standing in the stockyards of Fort Worth, Texas, where fresh taffy is served in barrels, turkey is eaten on Flintstone-sized bones and rhinestone belts, Justin cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans come in almost any size.

The cities of Dallas and Fort Worth are linked via the I-30, with just thirty miles of highway separating these two distinct parts of Texas. With Fort Worth suggested as a good day trip destination, I chose to spend my first day exploring honky-tonk town, before scooting across to Dallas.

Fort Worth was put on the map during the great open-range cattle drives of the late 19^th century, when over 10 million livestock were herded through the city on the Chisholm Trail. While today the only cattle trampling the city are for tourist enjoyment (twice a day, 10am and 4pm), the town retains an authentic and genuine affinity with its Wild West heritage.

Maverick Western Wear, found in the Fort Worth stockyards is the place to get outfitted in real deal cowboy clothing. Here, shelves line the walls supporting hundreds of neatly stacked denim jeans. Head right and rows and rows of cowboy boots greet you, from soft-soled, pastel-coloured baby sizes to the toughest, heaviest, blackest variety. Fashion racks strain under the weight of paisley, plaid and denim shirts, and eyes cannot help but gravitate towards the shimmering wall of rhinestone belts.

“…Like a rhinestone cowboy…” was all I could think.

The stockyard district of Fort Worth is divided from downtown by its distinctive cobblestone paths – that, and the strong livestock smell that permeates the streets. Crossing over to bitumen however, a very different side emerges.

I stopped off at the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, a landmark structure consisting of striking angles, steel beams and impressive walls of glass. Whilst the grounds surrounding the building are made up of beautiful lawns and an incredible stainless steel sculpture of two trees with interlocking branches, it was the ambience inside the museum that has stuck with me. The abundance of glass in the building’s design allows natural light to flood the building, creating unusual shadows from the steelwork and letting the environment outside appear to exist within. A wide shallow pond surrounds the northeastern side of the building, producing beautiful reflections while emanating a serenity that echoes off the interior’s high ceilings. Although the museum occupies a vast space, all the exhibitions have been curated to allow viewers to appreciate and absorb the beauty of the space as well as the art.

Ready for a refuel, I headed out for an early dinner at Joe T’s – Fort Worth’s Tex-Mex institution. Grateful I had arrived early, as there was already a line snaking out the door, I was seated at an outdoor table amidst an unexpected luscious green oasis. The sun was still high and the air hot yet the outdoor area was cool and refreshing. The restaurant has only two menu choices, enchiladas or fajitas – served with enough sides to ensure you will never leave hungry, and an extensive drinks list. The margaritas were explosive, as was the salsa, and the food (I went with the enchiladas) was fresh and delicious.

The following morning, I began my Dallas explorations in the city’s Uptown area, a beautiful, stately pocket where I gambolled for a couple of hours, absorbing the charming houses that lined the leafy streets. Although the downtown skyline hinted at how close the business district is, I felt I was strolling through a country town. Rambling weatherboard double and triple story homes with wide wrap-around porches and wonderful wicker outdoor furniture encapsulated my expectations of Southern style architecture. Breezy, softly slamming screen doors and the occasional stray cat belonged to a world far from the buzz of LA… it was nice to slow down.

After spending some time paying homage to Dallas’ tourist attractions – the dizzying aerial views from the Reunion Tower, the JFK memorial and the iconic Old Red Courthouse, I hopped on a free tramcar bound for the city’s West Village.

McKinney Avenue cuts through the heart of this district and is lined with restaurants, bars, shops, and, as it was Saturday evening, throngs of people. Feeling thirsty, I dropped into ‘Urban Oasis’, a decadent poolside cocktail lounge at the hip Hotel Zaza for an indulgent vodka fruit concoction.

With the unique Dallas skyline twinkling at me from my cushioned pool-bed, I reflected on the last two days and a warmth washed over me – nothing to do with the potency of my drink! The two cities possess an alluring blend of old-world values and edgy cosmopolitanism, the right ingredients for a wonderful visit and a beautiful place to live. While I don’t think I’ll sit on a Texan long horn again, I do think I will return… if only for another taste of the glorious funnel cake at Cowtown Coliseum!