5riday on my mind

So I have to tell you something.

I've found another blog-site. It's tumblr.

This is difficult, but I must be honest - things just seem to work with us.

I hope you can understand.

If you want to visit me, my new address is www.5riday.tumblr.com

So long Frankie-speak. I hope our paths will cross in the future.

Love xx

Market Knowledge

 I had this story posted on www.shegoes.com.au about a month ago. I'm only adding it here now because 1. I'm really lazy and 2. Well, I didn't want my own blog to think I'd forgotten it....
So here it is - Enjoy!

Ask any op-shop lover and they’ll tell you London’s markets are treasure-troves. And you should believe them – once you step foot into one of these super-sized trinket boxes, you’ll never see Balmain’s weekend markets in the same way. These markets are the havens of hoarders, hagglers and trendy-types alike; lining streets with all things vintage, crafty and kitsch.
During my time in London, most of my weekends were spent roaming about the city’s best known markets.  I went out and visited spots with world-class reputations and consulted my trusty Lonely Planet Guide for tips on sites that were a little less notorious.
So here are my thoughts on a few that stood out:



Camden Lock: Biggest. Disappointment. Ever.
People rave on about this market, and like most things with phenomenal reputations, it did not live up to the hype. I was expecting Neverland and what I got was more like Jamberoo. Sure there were nice stalls, but I saw the same nice key-rings and nice printed tees over and over again. It was huge, kind of dirty, and way too congested.
Best Buy: A virgin Pina Colada that came in a pineapple with a mini umbrella poking out of it.

Portobello: Maybe it was because I loved Notting Hill, but I got a fuzzy feeling in my stomach when I saw the stalls set in front of those brightly-coloured houses. I half expected to see Hugh Grant strolling to the tune of Ain’t No Sunshine as I perused the vintage books and cameras.  And the food at this market made me never want to leave. There were home-made pastries, fresh fruit and veggies and exotic dishes from places like Morocco, Thailand and Spain.
Best Buy: A turquoise pendant from Afghanistan.

Old Spitalfields: There was once a woman who married the Eiffel Tower. If I were to marry a public site, it would be Spitalfields markets. It’s creative, unique and quirky, and you can walk around without being hassled every five metres – all the makings of a perfect partner. This is where artistic-types gather, and you can find some really inspired pieces by truly talented people here. I day-dream about exploring this Wonderland – and it’s in Brick Lane so you can head out for a drink in the uber-cool area afterwards, too.
Best Buy: A leather Indiana-Jones satchel and a necklace with a bronze pig-with-wings pendant.

Camden Passage: If this were a Facebook page, I’d be a fan. Actually, there probably is a Facebook page out there somewhere that I should find and ‘like’. Camden Passage is a small market in the back streets of Islington and is mainly made up of vintage clothes and pretty-but-useless ‘things’ that I always seem to find an excuse to buy. It’s great for an afternoon stroll, and The Breakfast Club café has great food/coffee/brownies/everything.
Best Buy: Three beautiful, vintage silk scarves.

The men who don't fit in.

 I read Truman Capote's In Cold Blood months ago now.

And it is a story that has stuck around in my mind since... In particular, one poem keeps popping up in my thoughts. That's a pretty clear sign that it has had a fairly profound influence over me. 

So in realising this, I thought I'd go ahead and share it.

I hope you find it as moving as I did.

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
 A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
 And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
 And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
 And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
 They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
 And they want the strange and new.

Frankie Goes

Frankie is now a contributor on the wicked travel-writing site, She Goes.
I've got to admit, I feel a little bit spesh seeing my name splashed across the home page of a website I've been a fan of for yonks.

So here it is ya'll - the first of many, I hope!

Frankie's first submission on SheGoes.com: Mid - Year Resolutions.

bit.ly/fanCta

Ode to the Witty

I've always admired witty people; those who can pull out some perfectly crafted, sharp line on call. It's kind of an art-form, wit. And it's definitely not something that can be learned... To always be "on the ball" as they say, is an awesome talent. You have to be completely balanced and totally aware of what's going on around you. I can't carry a cup of tea from the kitchen to my bedroom without pouring it down my front.

I think I've developed a bit of a complex about this. I so want to be that person. And every time I realise something has slipped past me - which has happened more times than I'd like to admit - I want to kick myself in the face.

I've often listened silently as these marvellous creatures work; observed as they construct their verbal masterpieces, all the while exuding this aura of, I don't know... knowingness, I guess it must be. I stare, blank-faced, probably drooling out the corner of my unmoving mouth - in awe. I think nothing is so impressive as someone who has their wits about them.

Meet-cute

Ever had a day, or even just a moment, that felt like it was out of a movie script?

I know I've had a ton. I've had experiences that were "so Seinfeld," or right out of Sex and the City. I swear, I've even had a few days that resembled Twilight.

The other afternoon a 'friend' of mine - who i'll leave unnamed simply because this story is a little embarrassing - was coming home from uni and as she walked down the congested street, she saw four or so bright blue tee-shirts up ahead. She didn't need to read the branding on their shirts to recognise who they were. Passersby were gravitating in the opposite direction with their heads facing the ground, and would fling their phones to their ear as soon as a blue tee-shirt stepped toward them with an extended hand. They were charity workers, recruiting advocates for their cause. My friend, picked up her uni reader and glued her eyes to the text, reading one line over and over, glancing ahead only to stay aware of the human traffic rushing about her. She passed the first three tee-shirts unnoticed, but just as she went to past the last of the four, a hand was shoved in front of her chest and an English accent asked "Hi, how are you today?"

Fuck

She took the English hand. And turned to face its owner, saying a sloppy "Hhhyeah i'm good," as she tried to think of an excuse to leave. The guy asked her if she knew what the largest killer of children in Africa was. She didn't. He explained that is was diarrhoea, as a result of unclean water, and went on to tell her about the sub-standard living conditions of these children. Mid-way through his speech she looked up at his face and noticed he had these beautiful, clear blue eyes. Maybe three minutes later, she was signing up for daily donations.

Pen and Paper

I had no speech, so I wrote.

I wrote until the pen ran dry and my mind was quiet.

John's Mother

Today I saw the mother of a school-mate who passed away about three years ago. She was washing her car. This was the first time I'd seen her since John's funeral, and until today, every time I had walked past their house I'd imagined her as the broken woman I saw on that grey day in January.

Ignorant as I know I must sound, it always surprises me to see how resilient our bodies are when it comes to grief. (I say bodies because I won't even pretend to have a clue about what is going on in her head.) I'm talking about physical functionality, here. I mean, when you've lost your only son, how on earth do you get out of bed the next morning? How do you step one foot in front of the other?

In my ignorance I've always imagined that when hit with something as destructive as that, everything just stops. And so watching John's mother today, I was mesmerized.What was she thinking? It's very likely that it could have just been that the car looked like shit and needed a clean. Maybe her days are clouded with visions of John and his mess of blond curls. Or maybe not... I really don't know. I never will. But I'll always think of her as I walk down that quiet street in Burwood where a young boy with a skateboard once lived.

Places I have been.

Top Ten

I've always liked a good list.
When looking for places to see, places to eat, films to watch, music to listen to (etc.) the first thing I want is a top ten list. I want someone to say,
"Here you go. This is what the best ten ____ is. Trust me, cos I know my shit."

So I'm going to give you a top ten list: the top ten places I saw when travelling through London, Dublin, Cork, Galway, Paris, Amsterdam, Sicily and Rome. And you should listen because - well, I know my shit... (not really, but I've got some worthwhile opinions : P). I tried to steer clear of the regular touristy spots cos - well, they're so touristy.

These are in no particular order - it was impossible for me to choose one over the other. And I plan to write you a proper lil entry on each of these, so don't fret at the brevity of this list.

1. Monmarte Hill, Paris.
- Not only for the reasons listed in my last entry, but because EVERY SINGLE patisserie was a god-send. Pain au chocolat had a crust that broke to pieces under your teeth and a centre that although was golden with butter, was fluffy and light. And the chocolat, oh that chocolat - it was dark, rich and gooey. You didn't even care that after eating one you were left with golden flakes of pastry on your shirt and clinging to the corners of your mouth - you'd probaly go and pick every last flake and cram in into your mouth. To quote Peter Mayle, 'It was like eating the sun'. It was warm and rich and light with a smooth, dark centre of creamy chocolat. It was gooooooooooooodomgIcoulddroolnowonthetable.

2. Isola Bella, Taormina - Sicily.
- Because Sicily is the most beautiful place in the world (yes I'm going to make that gutsy statement). And Taormina is the most beautiful part of Sicily that I've seen SO FAR.
This place makes you believe in a higher power.

3. Brick Lane/Spitalfields Markets, London.
- This place is the essence of cool. As uncool as it is to say that, it is so true. There are small boutiques with vintage clothes and one-of-a-kind handbags, there are grungy bars that look like abandoned warehouses, there are original market stalls with organic/spice-infused/gluten-free (trendy) foodstuffs...and of course, there are those 'wicked cool', 'troubled' characters with purple hair, army boots and bull nose-ring piercings to go with it all.

4. Red-Light District, Amsterdam.
- An eye-opener. A must. And places actually have red lights.

5. Il Colosseo, Roma.
- This was the most profound historical sight for me. And although it's an obvious one, it is so for a damn good reason. I looked up at this place, and just felt the history seeping out of its travertine walls.

6. Brighton Beach, Sussex.
- Imagine crashing waves a la the opening scene of Grease and a long-stretching pier with milkshake stalls, toffee apples, fairy floss and claw vending machines aplenty.

7. Chateau de Versailles, Versailles.
- Marie Antoinette lived here. As if that doesn't catch your attention? If not, it is the epitome of grandeur in architecture and design - the hall of mirrors will make even the most avid hater of consumer fetishism wish she/he was of 'noble birth'.

8. Aran Islands, Galway.
- Hire a bike and get lost here. You will never want to be found.

9. Blarney Castle, Cork.
- It's beautiful. It has a great story to it. And it comes with that Irish humour.

10.  Notting Hill, London.
- If I had to live anywhere else in the world, it would be here. Notting Hill - Portobello Road especially - is a charming, colourful (literally and figuratively) and lively area. Plus, you can visit the Travel Book Store and Hugh Grant's blue-now-painted-black door from the movie.

So there you go. My top ten. I'm actually pained that I have to stop at ten cos I have at least another ten I could rave on about...but I won't. Top twenty just doesn't sound as good.

Monmarte Hill

I have always wanted to see Paris. Not unlike most people who have been enamoured with the sight of Le Tour Eiffel lighting up the night sky.

But now having seen Paris; having walked its streets, tasted its food, smelt its scents and encountered its people, (not the nicest...) I have to say it is not the romantic scene out of classic Hollywood that most imagine. Yes, the architecture is spotted with sculpture so detailed you can see the veins bulging out of the arms of France's most revered. Yes, the croissants melt in your mouth like butter in a frying pan. And yes, the sight of the Eiffel Tower is almost an hypnotic vision - just try not to squeal when it sneaks up on you from behind the buildings surrounding it. But, I think that this French city has been so romanticised by Hollywood, and maybe even by our own naive assumptions, that the place itself simply cannot live up to its reputation.

When I stepped off the plane I half-expected to hear Nature Boy sounding in the background, while Parisian youths, wearing striped t-shirts and black berets, cycled along tiny streets with fresh baguettes sitting in the small woven baskets at the rear of of their push-bikes. Instead, I was met by a sea of Algerian men shouting out in French while waving fluorescent Eiffel Tower figurines in my face. Across the road from the Moulin Rouge was a Starbuck's store. And the only berets to be seen were those, often brightly coloured ones, worn by Aussies sporting I heart Paris t-shirts.

I did not fall in love with a tall, dark and handsome man with a strong jaw-line, a thick head of hair and a love of cooking. I did not 'discover' myself or experience a cultural revelation... but that is not to say that there was no magical allure to the City of Love. I just did not find it in the city centre with an eclair in hand; I found it in the red light district.

Historically, Monmarte Hill was home to the majority of Paris' many artists as it was cheap and boasted broad-spanning views of the city. Today, it is much the same. The top of the hill is filled with Parisian artists offering to paint the portraits of passing tourists... I discovered this place on a warm afternoon in July. It was crowded; so packed that I couldn't stand still for thirty seconds without feeling hot flesh rubbing up against me. I sat on a vacant piece of sidewalk and watched on as one particular artist tried to charm passersby. 'Bonjour! Shalom! Hello!' He'd jump out in front of unassuming tourists and tell them they 'had a great face for characature'. He proudly wore a rounded belly and his white Santa-Clause beard covered most of his creased face. I watched him for a good twenty minutes. When I stood to leave the artist market he was still searching for a subject...

I walked along one of the hill-top's narrow streets, toward Sacre Coeur. There I found myself a comfortable piece of grass, planted myself on it, and stared out onto the panorama of Pari. And that, was pure magic.

Making the trek to London-town: It ain't all tea and scones...

So for those thinking flying is no biggie, to you I must say: think again. Having just spent 23 hours sitting upright with knees rigid and the air, stale I can honestly tell you that flying half-way across the world is not the awesome adventure some may believe it to be.

Our first leg was from Sydney to Dubai. We sat for 14 hours cramped in our economy class seats, eating our single-serve economy-class meals and staring, with heavy eyes, at the small screen in front of us. A three-year-old kicked at my chair and wailed in discomfort as his ears popped - a cliche I'm oh so glad to have realised. Relly had made the wise decision to brave a foreign breed of chilli-sauce the previous night, and had been battling to keep the dragon in the pit of her belly at bay ever since... Needless to say, her face had turned a pleasant shade of grey and she was not exactly up for a game of I-spy. My head felt like a dead weight and my eyes stung from exhaustion, but my body simply would not let me sleep, and the wide choice of new-release movies on the ICE Entertainment System did nothing to make up for the crappy feeling of being stuck, groggy, stiff and bored, in the same place for an entire day.

I tried to watch Alice in Wonderland and avoided eye contact with the over-confident Roman guy named Flavio to my right. Relly slept.

When we arrived in Dubai, Relly and I did our best to lose the Roman as quickly as possible.We were excited to wash up and stretch our legs. Instead, we stepped out into 45 degree heat, in a desert, and without any time to even was our faces. We were hurried into boarding straight-away. Then had the pleasure of sitting and waiting as air-traffic cleared for one and a half hours. But the time did pass, slow as it was, and once those nine long, long hours were over, and we finally stepped out into the sweet London air (which was freezing), the sting of tired eyes and the cramps from uncomfortable seating were forgotten.

I walked out of King's Cross Station, looked ahead, and there it was: London. We were on the other side of the world. And no amount of sleep-deprivation could have sedated the buzz I was feeling.

Kissing My Bed Good-Bye

This is the second-last night I will have in my bed for almost two months.

It feels really strange.

I've never really liked my bed. It's too small, my feet poke through from underneath the bottom of the blankets and it screeches everytime I move. But tonight, I'm looking at it, nervously anticipating what it will be like not to sleep in this bed I've slept in almost every night of the past ten years.

The whole idea of not being in the house every night, while exciting as hell, is still a little scary. And although I've been planning this trip for months, it kinda feels like it's crept up on me. It seems as though a couple days ago there were thirty days to go, and now there are only two. I'm sitting at my desk writing a list of all the things I need to pack, trying to decipher whether I should bring five tops or six, or if one cardigan is enough. Man, I'm unorganised.

I think when planning these kinds of things a lot of us tend to get over-excited about what we may, or most-probably will not need. I catch myself thinking, 'Should I bring floss and tissues?' Or something equally lame - and then I have to remind myself, 'Frankie, you do know they have toiletries in England; if you forget to pack your panty-liners, you won't have to resort to tearing up old t-shirts.'

It's funny, really. I'm sitting here, knowingly freaking myself out over frivolous crap like my travel-sized GHD and not even thinking about what's going to happen when I step off that plane. 'So...this is London, Heathrow. Cool. Where do we go now?' Maybe a part of me doesn't believe I'm actually leaving. Who knows. Let's just hope when I wake up Tuesday morning, BEFORE the crack of dawn, to make my way to the airport, that this little part of me get's a clue and starts to pay attention.

The Girl with the Draggin Poo

I was sitting on the 45-minute train ride from home to uni, perusing through my readings, pink highlighter in hand. The muffled voice of the train driver announced that our next stop will be Wynyard. I looked out my lower-level window and watched the suits file out onto the platform to my right. This was when it hit. An aggressive blow of urgency pressed onto my bladder. I squeezed my thighs together and bounced up and down on my seat, trying hard to convince myself that 'I don't really need to go that badly...'

The train-trip crawled along, and after what felt like an eon, we pulled up at my stop. I barged through the crowd of fellow commuters and burst into the first free cubicle I laid my eyes on, sliding my uni reader atop the bathroom's hand-dryer before unbuttoning. As I went to squat down, I ran my eyes over the toilet bowl and saw a wet turd the size of a small hamster, clinging to the side of the bowl. I began to dry-gag, but it was far too late, my pants were already on their way down, and my bladder had sensed imminent release - there was no way back. 

Two minutes later, and 1kg lighter, I stepped out of the cubicle...power-walking away from the scene. Maybe twenty-metres away from the cubicle, I noticed my hands were a lot freer than earlier on. I looked in my bag, checking to see if I had put anything I may have previously been holding in there. 

Nothing. Then I realised. And a pang struck the pit of my stomach. 

The hand-dryer.

I turned back around, retracing my speedy steps to that damned cubicle. I prayed it would be empty. It wasn't. 

In the minute or so I waited for whoever occupied the loo, I ran a long list of lines through my head. 'Hey, was there a book in that bathroom? It was gross in there hey?'

'Were you just in that disgusting bathroom? Yuck ay? Um, was there a book in there?'

Eventually a petite asian girl walked out. She saw me waiting outside and approached me saying, 'Was that your book in there?' 

I laughed, too loudly, 'Oh yeah! I thought I'd left it on the train!'

She just looked at me, straight-faced. 

I could feel her judging me, thinking, 'You are fucking foul.'

I desperately wanted to justify the situation to her. But there was no use; there was no way I could change her mind. To her, I will forever be the girl with the draggin' poo. 

 

He Ain't all that and a Bag of Coffee Beans.

Cafe owner: Didn't you like my soup? You didn't finish it.

Frankie: No, I did. It was great, just really filling.

Cafe owner: What? You should be able to handle that (looks Frankie up and down) You're a good eater.

Frankie mentally punches cafe owner in the face.

***

I've been thinking about all the different things I could say about my little encounter with Mr. Cafe owner over there. I could go on a rant about how offensive his words were. I could talk about how upset he made me, and how a couple hours later I was at the gym counting the calories I'd burnt. I could say stuff him, I'm fabulous and curves are in fact the new black. I could talk about how he vaugely resembles Mr. Mole in Thumbelina, and how he ain't exactly a 30-inch waist himself.

But none of that really makes a difference to my afternoon. 

Or to whoever may be reading this.

 ...So, I won't

 

Let's try this one more time.

Hello...

Is there anybody out there?

*blows dust off from blog*

Yes, I have once again been consumed by the evil thing that is third year university. And as a result, my poor, poor blog has suffered immensly. I'm sure it has looked around at all the other blogs that have been filled with witty prose and brightly coloured images, wondering, 'why can't I have all that?'
'Why must I sit here, alone, unnoticed and unchanging?' Before letting out a deep and lenghty sigh.

But cheer up ol' blogzy, you're faithful friend is back!

And you can hopefully find solace in my decision to give you a little bit of a face-lift. Well, not so much a face-lift... more a botox injection (i'm not snipping off anything, just ironing out the crinkles).

Some how it is now June and my trip over the the Motherland is fast approaching. And i've decided that I will try, if internet-cafe's permit, to document as much of it as I can on here. Frankie Speak is going travel.

I'm going to be travelling about the UK, as well as popping into a handful of European cities, with my fabulous, feline-loving friend *Relly Rose.

We're going to be running amuck for 7 weeks, trying to do as much as we can without running out of money. So, expect this space to be crammed with stories on two 20-something year old girls getting lost (both figuratively, and literally, i'm sure) in the loaded streets of Europa in summer.

Everything is sexier when it's foreign.

Watch this space ;)


xx Frankie

Sweet Treats

At the close of the night I find little more comforting than to sit, warm and complacent, with a Mint Slice in one hand and a Jam Fancy in the other. An indulgence such as this can seldom be compared.

Baby Geniuses

I couldn't face this Monday. I was totally unprepared for its arrival, and so decided to turn my back, and avoid it all together. So now, I am staring at the screen of my laptop, listening to Eric Clapton's Running on Faith, while trying to convince my brain to tell my hand to push the keys on the keyboard, and write the essay I have due tomorrow. Instead, my brain told my hand to click on the internet shortcut and log into blogger. 


I'll just treat this as my warm up for what I'm actually meant to be doing. 


So, for a uni assessment (no, not the one due tomorrow) I'm writing an article on being a kid in the digital age. It's something I'm pretty interested in, having worked in a daycare centre for the past 2 years. I've spent some time observing the young kids I encounter and have noticed quite a significant difference in how they act compared to how my sister/cousins/friends and I acted at the same age. Now maybe I'm basing this on a biased opinion on 90s kids compared to millennium bubs, but I really don't think I am. 


Kids today are smarter, they break down information faster - but they also grow tired of things quicker. They're exposed to things earlier - sometimes too early - and consequential to this explosion of stimulation and knowledge, their patience is close to non-existent, and their ability to entertain themselves with a simple game of Mummies and Daddies is lacking. 


I was taught how to use a Nintendo DS last weekend by a 5 year old. She let me play on her brother's console. He is three. This little girl was putting together puzzles on the little interactive, LCD screen. When I asked her if she liked playing with real puzzles, she said, "Nah, I like playing with them on here."


Tell me you don't think something is not right here.

Auburn afternoons

I have to say, I feel bad for not having written on here in a little while. I feel badly for robbing myself of my weekly therapy session, and so, do believe I deserve a slap to the wrist.

So, autumn has crept up on us, and I've just decided that it is my favourite season. It's just so pretty - yes my decision will be solely based on aesthetics. I find autumn distracts me; I get drawn in by its charm and begin envisioning romantic scenes. The colours of autumn are seductive; they make me want to stop and lie under some huge deciduous tree, forever. Possibly with a book in hand and Bloc Party's Blue Light playing softly in the background, or something...

Love is...on the train?

I witnessed a reunion the other day. And it was probably one of the most effecting moments i've seen.

I had just stepped off a train and was walking out of the station onto the street. There was a girl walking ahead of me, heading down the steps at the station's exit. She would have been close to me in age - somewhere between 21 and 24. She was fairly short, and she was wearing a loosely-fitted black dress. As she stepped off the last step and onto level ground, a tall, thin man donning green cargo pants, a backpack and a full beard ran to her side and reached out to touch her arm. The girl was startled by the touch felt; she gasped and jumped to face him. Her face changed as she recognised who he was - she was trying to hold back tears. Then she burried her face into his chest, and stayed there a long while. He spoke no words, but just held her tight and ran his fingers through the back of her hair. He then took her hand, and walked her home.

Although a relatively insignificant happening, seeing this seems to have (momentarily) dissolved all my cynicisms about love. There it was: plain, real, and beautiful. And there, standing amongst the other nameless commuters, I was comforted by the realisation that this is what it's all about - finding someone we know will run to our side, hold our hand, and bring us home.