Stories.
As soon as I walked around the corner, I knew something was wrong. I was so used to seeing her poking out of the parking garage to greet me, I noticed straight away that she wasn’t there. No, no, no, no, it couldn’t be, I chanted in my head, breaking out into a run towards the door. Maybe she was just moved to a different spot? I thought, fumbling my keys into the lock. She can’t be gone. She couldn’t be gone. Not now that we were just getting our relationship back on track.
Opening the garage door, my worst fears were realised. Frankie was not sitting in her usual spot. Nor was she anywhere I could see. I ran around the perimeter, my heart sinking with every step. She wasn’t hiding behind my car… or any of the other cars… she wasn’t even in the storage area… It was official. Frankie was missing. Stolen. Targeted for her looks, obviously. I guess it really is true; LA is a hotbed of crime.
Collapsing helplessly against my car, my mind thought back, movie flashback style; to the first time I met Frankie. It was love at first sight…
It was back in that magical winter of January 2011. The LA skies were blue and the gentle sun warmed my face as I walked along Beverly Boulevard. I was but a youngster back then, not yet 30 and looking at the world with the kind of wide-eyed wonder every recent transplant views their new hometown. I had not yet grown tired of walking the streets of West Hollywood, though the blocks were long and everything farther away than I thought; I had my trusty iPhone for a soundtrack and enjoyed how the streets changed depending on which track I played. From a gritty crime thriller to a quirky romantic comedy, this was my Hollywood movie and I was its newest star. Plus I didn’t have much of a choice about walking everywhere, having recently discovered that possessing no credit rating was worse than having a bad one, and with no magic number to your name, no-one would loan you a car.
Something caught my eye as I walked past a store window, and I found myself heading inside to look closer. I perused the racks of goods on display, and noting the high price of most, swiftly turned to walk out. It was then that I saw her. In the far corner, stacked behind flashier models, she sat patiently waiting. And I knew then, she was the answer to my current situation. Within ten minutes, she was mine, and I didn’t even notice the stares as we walked out hand in hand. Later, showing her off to my friend Chloe, she asked, “What is her name?” then suggested “How about Frankie?” I looked at her, then at Chloe, then back at her. Yes, Frankie… that suits her. Frankie the bicycle.
The next few months were a whirlwind of attending parties, events, celebrity interviews and red carpets. We were young and carefree; and if it was happening within a 5-mile radius, we were there.
I remember the good times – when we rode up to the Mondrian and were told no-one had ever ridden a bicycle to that hotel before; the look on the valet’s faces at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills when I asked if they could park Frankie for me; laughing as we turned up to film screenings out of breath and sweaty in stark contrast to the other, more glamorous TV reporters; those red carpets where Frankie held my heels in her front basket, and (mostly) concealed my modesty as I pedaled in my cocktail dress.
And, I remember the bad times. The introduction of Frankie to my new purchase, the Leashmobile version 3.0. The tears as I tried to explain that she was not being replaced, despite the Leashmobile being faster, less effort, able to travel on freeways, get valet parked, and possessing a trendy convertible soft top. The worried looks on my friend’s faces as they realized I have names for all my inanimate objects.
Two months of silence followed. I callously pretended not to notice Frankie’s fragile state as I walked past her to my shiny new car. She gathered dust in the garage, rain reduced her comfortable seat to crackling leather, rust formed on her basket, and I ignored it all. Until one day, I woke up. What have I done? I thought, as I tenderly covered her seat with a plastic bag and vowed to use her for my short trips. Suddenly, we were back on. We developed a daily routine of gym, café, home, and I realised how much I missed that feeling of the wind whipping against my face as I overtook frustrated drivers stuck in traffic.
Until that tragic day when Frankie’s lock broke. Thinking she would be ok untethered in my parking garage until I could buy a new one, I left her, exposed and alone. Oh, so alone. Perhaps I should have hidden her a little better, or taken her upstairs to my apartment, but the ten other unlocked bikes in the garage gave me a false sense of security.
Now, she’s gone. And I have been robbed of saying goodbye. Mainly, I feel bad for society. I search for Frankie in every bike that rides past, looking for that telltale plastic shopping bag on her seat. My heart breaks to think of her, probably being joyridden by a drunkard, ending up alone and on the streets, another Hollywood tragedy.
“Maybe she’s gone to a better home?” suggested my flat-mate. I hadn’t thought of that. The whole ugly incident had clouded my normally optimistic nature, so I tried to change my thinking.
Now, I like to imagine Frankie on a farm somewhere. The country air has healed her leather wounds, and an angelic blonde-haired boy is now riding her on quiet country roads, to and from his school. The boy has never known such joy in his short life, and his father, struggling on a single income since his wife passed away in a tragic accident, was reduced to driving to LA and stealing her, not knowing that if he had simply asked, I would have gladly given Frankie to the boy for free.
Yes, that’s it.
*****
Brad Pitt’s blue eyes looked into mine as I shook his hand and tried to remember how to breathe.
“Hi Brad! I’m Alicia from Australia, howsitgoing?” my words jumbled out and locked together in a rush of nervousness.
“Hi, I’m good.” He said in his familiar voice. “What time zone is it for you right now?”
Taking my seat on the raised platform, the lights felt hot on my face. Am I shiny? I wondered, glancing at the three cameras pointed towards us. My throat felt dry and I suddenly needed to pee.
“Um, I don’t even know!” I replied, in a voice higher than normal, “I came from London, and before that Paris, and before that LA, San Francisco, New York… now here in Mexico!”
“Ok Alicia we are rolling.” Boomed an American male voice from the sidelines.
I glanced at the clock in front of me as it began to count down from 6 minutes. 06:00, 05:59, 05:58, 05:57… I took a deep breath, rearranged my face into an expression that (I hope) looked self-confident, and asked my first question.
“So… Moneyball… it’s about sabermetrics. Not such a sexy subject matter?”
Brad laughed, his eyes crinkling and his lips revealing perfect white teeth. As he launched into his answer I had a sudden thought. It’s the first interview of the day, in the first batch of press. That means I could possibly be the first international reporter to talk to Brad Pitt about his latest movie. Brad Pitt. Brad Pitt is looking into my eyes. Screw all the celebrity gossip, the sexiest man alive titles and the paparazzi that surround him. This is the guy who I watched in Twelve Monkeys. In that scene in Thelma & Louise. In Inglourious Basterds. In Fight Club.
Suddenly I was transported back in time. It’s 1999, and a shy 18 year-old, Alicia Holdsworth, sits transfixed in a small cinema in Canberra, Australia. Images from David Fincher’s Fight Club flicker across her face, as she tries to soak in everything she can about the film. The smart script. The visceral violence. The quirky editing. She loves every second, and when the film ends she immediately wants to see it again.
Brad Pitt finishes his sentence and looks at me expectedly. I glance at the clock, 05:05, 05:04, 05:03… and mumble out my next question. Brad smiles, answers easily, his interview style much more relaxed and friendly than I was expecting. Not that I was expecting to ever interview him. Brad Pitt. Brad. Pitt. It’s one of those full circle moments, and one question keeps circling through my head… What is little Alicia Holdsworth from Canberra doing interviewing Brad Pitt in Mexico?
Two weeks ago I was running along the edge of the beautiful San Francisco bay, weaving my way through suited up young professionals on their way to work. I paused for a moment to snap a photo of the morning sun rising behind the Bay Bridge on my iPhone. When I reviewed the picture, I noticed a young brunette caught in my frame, her floral dress flapping behind her as she flew past on her bicycle. I wondered who she was, what her story was, and to where she was rushing. And then a thought occurred to me… who would I be if I lived here in San Francisco? What would my job be? What would my name be?
I’ve been fascinated with names, how they change your identity and affect the way people perceive you; ever since I changed my last name. Alicia Holdsworth was a timid film lover with big dreams and large talk of working in television, but was secretly not quite sure she actually could. But as Alicia Malone, I could reinvent myself, move to Sydney, and work hard from the ground up.
“TV is a hard job to get into.” Holdsworth agreed, but Malone answered, “I don’t mind hard work.”
“Your voice is not good for TV,” they told Holdsworth, but Malone replied, “I’ll take voice lessons.”
“LA is a tough city, how will you get work?” and Malone said, “I don’t know, but I’ll make it happen. I have to go.”
For a few years, Malone became my alter ego, helping me to fake self-confidence until I eventually had it.
But here in San Francisco, I decided I was Trisha. Riding my bike in my floral dress and sandals, on my way to a pitch meeting at the design company I worked at. I have no idea what design companies do, or what a pitch really involves, but for that day it was kinda fun. A few days later, Alice, a career minded young executive, pushed her way through the hoards of tourists in Times Square, careful not to let her Prada pumps get ruined in the process. I was actually wearing free Havianas, and was one of those tourists, but still, it kept me amused. In London I was Alex, a hipster from Shoreditch with cool hair. Paris, I became Alysia, a sexy and carefree writer eating a pain au chocolat by the Seine without a second thought of the calories.
In Mexico, I was back to being Alicia Malone, but pronouncing it in my head as Alee-sia Malon-ey, enjoying the way the Spanish-speaking people would say it. And with the clock counting down… 03:23, 03:22, 03:21… it was time to use my alter ego to trick myself into believing that interviewing Brad Pitt is a totally normal thing to do.
But I really saw the power of alter egos a week later in San Diego during Comic Con. Here was a place where people truly live out their fantasies, coming together to indulge in their unique obsessions, finding like-minded people, dressing up as their favorite superheroes, even acting the part in photos. For those four days, shy outsiders really did become Spidermen, everyday office workers transformed into Storm Troopers, and anyone could be Superman.
For many years, I’ve been intrigued by Comic Con. I had been hearing about it on television, on Twitter and in magazines, and had been warned several times how huge it really is. Still, I was surprised by the amount of people everywhere. 125,000 people showed up. And they were not just inside the convention center, where you shuffled slowly behind them; but there were people pouring out in the streets, stuffed inside bars, piling into restaurants, cafes and hotels. It was like nerd New Year’s Eve, and I have never seen so many pairs of glasses in one area.
I walked the streets of the Gaslamp district, feeling a mixture of wonder, anxiety, excitement and confusion at the snippets of conversation I was overhearing.
“Man, I played Gears of War for 20 minutes today, it was so sick, I didn’t even mind the four hour wait.” Gears of War? Huh?
“I saw this chick wearing the coolest steampunk costume…” Steampunk?
“I’m sooo buying a Tardis bobblehead…” That has something to do with Dr Who, I thought, as I walked past a Transformer ordering Starbucks.
I was beginning to realize no alter ego invented by me would make the Comic Con crowd believe I knew about comic books, video games, or anything remotely tech-y. But luckily I was there to cover the film events, and, readjusting my Big Lebowski T-shirt, that was something Alicia Malone knew a lot about.
In the press lines (a red carpet set up in a hotel ballroom) I stood for hours in the one spot, marveling at my stellar bladder control and unusual lack of hunger. The stars came thick and fast, an odd assortment of actors promoting four different films at once. There was Nicolas Cage talking Ghost Rider 2 next to Jessica Biel who was teasing her Total Recall remake. Aziz Ansari joked about 30 Minutes or Less, while Colin Farrell talked Fright Night, and next to him John Cusack promoted The Raven. I’d just spoken to Emma Stone about The Amazing Spiderman, when Channing Tatum approached, ready to talk about Haywire.
As I reached out my hand to introduce myself to Steven Spielberg, I had to swallow my girlish scream. Looking into his brown eyes, I thought of all the things they had seen. All the genius scripts they had read, the iconic moments they had filmed through a camera, and the movie stars they had seen. Now, they were looking at me.
The following day, Francis Ford Coppola’s dark eyes twinkled with delight as he finished talking about his latest creative project.
“Thankyou so much, “ I said, shaking the hand that had held five Oscars, “an absolute pleasure.”
“Pleasure,” he replied with a firm grip, “and that’s a very pretty necklace.”
As he walked to the next interviewer in the line, I allowed my smile to escape from it’s hold and briefly reverted back to Alicia Holdsworth, the girl who was excited to discover a book about The Godfather in her school library all those years ago. Silently, I congratulated that girl for a job well done, before taking Alicia Malone back to Hollywood.
*****
Music And Passion Are Always In Fashion…
“Look!” screamed my visiting Australian friend Lauren, “I think that’s Mischa Barton!”
I peered from the top of our double decker red sightseeing bus, and could vaguely make out the back of a blondish girl’s head, sitting at Starbucks. It could be Mischa Barton, sure, but it also could be one of another million blonde girls in LA.
“I love celebrity spotting!” said Lauren, getting her camera out to try and snap a photo. But just before she pressed the button, her attention was diverted to the El Pollo Loco fast food restaurant on the corner. The pre-recorded voice had just announced that Brad Pitt himself used to dress as a chicken outside this very restaurant, before he scored his big break in “Thelma & Louise”.
“…because this is Hollywood,” said the voice, strangely in an English accent, “where history is made on every corner.”
“Ooooh…” said Lauren, snapping a photo.
“What are you going to do with that picture?” I laughed, “When are you ever going to look at it?”
“I can’t believe you’re not excited by this!” She replied. “You love anything to do with movies!”
That was true, and a couple of months ago; I probably would have found this random fact about my neighborhood quite interesting. But now? The El Pollo Loco is just the dimly lit fast food joint that I ride my bike past and can’t believe that anyone actually goes inside of. Could it be? Four months in, am I finally becoming a local?
I first had that thought two weeks earlier, when I was at a café and asked for a salad to be made vegetarian, and the dressing to be ‘on the side’. Then, I went a step further and asked for the leftovers to be ‘boxed up’. They are all standard procedures in LA, but in Sydney, you would probably be labeled a diva, and definitely a cheapskate. I’ve also gotten better at customising my Aussie speak, saying ‘sweater’ instead of ‘jumper’, and being able to properly explain the phrase ‘…and Bob’s your uncle’. Though I refuse to pronounce my r’s or use a z in ‘realising’, despite this spell checker insisting I change it. You’ve gotta hold on to some things. Take that, red squiggly line.
Though my local ‘celebrity’ sights no longer excite me, I’m still amazed at what I call the “Kevin Bacon-ness” of Hollywood. Mention anyone’s name, particularly a celebrity’s, and you’ll get a story of how they know them.
“Denzel Washington? Oh my assistant’s sister is married to his agent.”
“Tom Cruise? Yeah my cleaner used to work for him.”
Apparently, you can connect anyone in LA to a star in fewer than six steps.
This concept was proven when I visited a beauty salon. In preparation for an upcoming trip to Brazil, I thought I should do as the locals do, so to speak. Holding a normal conversation with a beautician during this process is always awkward, but even more so if you stay silent. So, I persisted with answering the girl’s questions about my job and why I was in LA.
“So, who have you interviewed lately?” she asked.
“Umm…” I said, in between wincing with pain, “Jake Gyllenhaal for Source Code?”
“Oh he’s cute, right?” she said excitedly.
“Soooooo cute!” I replied, dragging out the o’s for full effect.
I began to tell her about the interview, how I thought of funny things to say in the hallway outside, but once inside the hotel room with THOSE EYES staring at me, I could only manage a weak joke about the last time we had met, whilst turning bright red. It was in Sydney, on the red carpet for “Love and Other Drugs”. I was first on the press line and once again, I thought I would be all sassy, so when Jake came over, I said, “Hi future husband!” in a loud voice.
“Really?” he said, “I don’t believe you’re not taken, let me see your left hand.”
At that, he looked up and straight into my eyes, and suddenly, I forgot everything I was going to say. Instead, what came out was… “Which one is my left hand??”
Yep, real cool Alicia, real cool.
“Oh my god, you love him!” the beautician exclaimed.
Not wanting to hurt her feelings by pointing out that I wouldn’t be in love with someone I didn’t know, I smiled and said, “Well, yeah, he’s my future husband!”
“That’s funny,” she said, “I’m waxing his mother in an hour.”
Of course, I’m in Hollywood. I forgot.
“I’ll put in a good word for you!” she said brightly, before adding, “Hey, I should take a photo to show her!”
I was thinking about how Jake is probably going to think he has an Australian stalker for realz, when a thought struck me.
“Wait,” I said, “A photo of my face?”
“Of course! What did you think I meant?”
“Oh nothing,” I said, relieved that was what she meant, not that she wanted to show Mrs G what a great job she did.
Lying on Copacabana Beach in Rio de Janeiro, I realised exactly why that particular beauty treatment is named after the locals. Tiny bikinis were all my eyes could see. Tiny bikinis and big booty. Really, it’s quite extraordinary how they all possess these butts, large, but perky somehow. I was mesmerised, also by the men and their tiny little speedos. Apart from the lack of clothing, one of the main differences I noticed between this beach and ones from Australia or America was their body confidence. Every one of them seemed to say, this is me, this is my body, and I’m happy with it. And though some of them maybe shouldn’t be so confident, I’ll gladly endorse any country that values curves over being stick thin.
But I wasn’t in Rio just to perve on the locals; I was there to perve on some beefy stars too. I mean…. conduct professional interviews with Paul Walker, Vin Diesel, The Rock, and the rest of the cast of “Fast and Furious 5”.
A week in Rio. I couldn’t believe it. This was my job? I had been flown to this amazing city to see a film and do some interviews? The entire time I was there, I had to pinch myself, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that had I never taken the leap to move to the US, I probably wouldn’t have had the chance to be there, right at that moment. The farthest I travelled for work while living in Sydney, was Adelaide. (Still exciting… shout-out to Rad-elaide! Woo!)
Reporters from all over the world had been flown to Rio, and I found meeting them endlessly fascinating. It was like we were the United Nations of press junkets, but of course, doing slightly less important work. We had dinners, tours, saw a soccer match and went on a helicopter ride, but one of my favourite moments came at the end, during the after party for the premiere. The reporters had fashioned some kind of dance circle, and we were taking turns going in the middle to perform our signature moves, when I looked around and realised the circle had grown to include almost the entire party. I was just thinking how this felt like a “dance battle” scene from a film, when I was pushed into the middle by a stranger standing behind me. I managed a half-decent robot, and returned to my place to think up my next move, secretly hoping Beyonce’s Single Ladies would play next. Suddenly, there was a flash of gold dress and red hair, followed by a huge cheer. I couldn’t believe what I saw, until I saw it again. It was the sassy American reporter Amy, winning the world by doing a backflip. She was carried out of the circle by a local, like a trophy herself, to cheers from the entire party. Just like a movie, I thought, grinning ear to ear, what a rock star!
Returning to LA, I was walking home, recounting stories from Rio to my Australian friends on their last night in America, when suddenly there was a loud whurr and a bright light.
“What is that?!” yelled Adrian, while Lauren gripped his arm in fright.
“Oh, that’s nothing, just a LAPD helicopter, probably searching for some criminal…” I replied.
“What?! That’s SO scary!” said Lauren, straining to be heard over the noise.
“Meh.” I shrugged. “Anyway, are you hungry? I know a great vegan place down the road…”
I guess I am becoming a local after all. Now, to befriend some celebrities…
******
Everybody’s A Dreamer, Everybody’s A Star, And Everybody’s In Showbiz, It Doesn’t Matter Who You Are…
“I thought I had finally met someone normal,” explained one of my new LA friends, “when he said he was a dentist, but…”
“Let me guess,” I interjected, “he was a celebrity dentist?”
“Yes!” she laughed, “With an agent and many TV appearances!”
No matter the industry, in LA, everyone you meet works in entertainment. They might be in accounting, but it’s the accounting department at Disney. If they’re an assistant, chances are they work for one of the big talent agencies. Chef? Probably a home chef for a celebrity. Personal trainer? Too easy, the only question there is how many movie stars have they transformed. Even our cleaner has a SAG card.
But I guess no-one really comes to live in LA unless they want to work in Hollywood in some shape or form, and I’m sure like my friend, soon I will be wishing to talk to someone, anyone who works in a non-related field; but for now, it’s just one more thing I love about my new home. Everyone is passionate about movies and television.
I’ve always been a film geek. Growing up I would watch as many movies as I could, taking full advantage of the ‘$7 for 7 films for 7 days’ VHS special at my local video store… back when those existed. I’d read books on Marilyn Monroe and Hitchcock, dreaming of the magical place called Hollywood where films came alive. In Year 12, not discouraged by the fact that I hadn’t been elected to the student council, I created ‘The Film Club’, nominating myself as the leader, even going so far as to make a badge with ‘Film Club Captain’ scrawled across it. Every week, I’d get up on stage during our school assembly to plead my case, lecturing the 700 bored students about why they all really need to see “Breakfast At Tiffany’s” with me after school on Tuesday. Eventually, the Principal called me into her office, and asked me not to speak anymore as I was taking up too much time.
And, unlike my friends, it wasn’t a Best Actress acceptance speech that I was practicing whenever I watched the Oscars. Standing in my lounge room, clad in my summer pajamas, I would pretend to be a red carpet interviewer, asking probing questions to the filmmakers about their movies. I’m still chasing that Oscar dream, but, a month ago, walking past the big tents set up on Hollywood Boulevard, I got chills up my spine and an excited thought that I’m now one step closer.
You feel a sense of history wherever you are in Hollywood, from the handprints outside the Grauman’s Chinese Theatre to the recognizable locations from films. So much of what I had read, seen and dreamt about as a kid, happened right here.
“That’s the diner from Pulp Fiction!” a friend pointed out, “And that’s where Biggie got shot!” Pop culture is everywhere, and this is the center for a lot of it.
Living in LA has allowed me to revel in my inner film geek. I devour books about my favourite directors, excitedly nodding my head in recognition when LA locations are mentioned. Hiking Runyon Canyon (or lying by the pool) is made more interesting by the film podcasts I listen to while doing it. NetFlix, US iTunes and the huge array of cinemas make all films accessible to watch. Revival theatres like Quentin Tarantino’s New Beverly Cinema play classic movies, film festivals are that much closer, movie stars walk the streets, you can actually meet directors you admire, and the Oscars happen RIGHT HERE. It’s a film lover’s heaven.
But as I rode my bicycle towards the New Beverly Cinema on my way to catch a Sunday afternoon double feature of Paul Mazursky flicks from the 60’s, wearing a plaid shirt, skinny jeans and sunglasses, I had the sudden, awful realization that I may actually be a hipster. But an authentic, passionate film loving one is not so bad, right? Right? Must remember to ask my Twitter followers.
******
I Will Never Say Never!
“Have you seen Jesus yet?” asked one of my new American friends.
“Um… I don’t think so…” I replied
“In that case, you haven’t.” she said, “You’ll know when you do!”
That prospect intrigued me but she didn’t explain any further, and while I was trying to figure out whether she was speaking in metaphorical terms, I started thinking about the past weekend. I might have never seen Jesus, but I have seen an icon of a different kind, one who possibly has more followers. Twitter followers, that is.
It was a bright Saturday morning, and I was peddling my way to the Four Seasons hotel in Beverly Hills, chuckling to myself as I wondered whether they would valet park my bike. Since getting my bicycle I had been eagerly exploring my new neighbourhood, riding to the gym, the movies, to cafes, friends houses, and even once up to the red carpet (I put pants underneath my dress, my heels in the front basket, a helmet carefully over my freshly styled hair, and off I went!)
I was starting to enjoy the varied reactions I got when I pulled up on “Frankie”, my beach cruiser. Most people think I am nuts when I reply to their offer of parking validation with a cheery, “No thanks, I rode my bicycle here!” But occasionally I get a “That is so cool!” or “I love your bicycle!” My favourite reaction though, is when I mention “my bike” and people say, “What kind of motorbike do you have?” As if I am actually badass enough to ride a motorbike. But that sense of coolness is quickly dissolved when I explain that it’s a bicycle. Without any gears. Nicknamed Frankie.
As I pulled up at the swanky Four Seasons Hotel next to a line of black, tinted window SUV’s (or 4-Wheel Drives, as Aussies call them), Frankie looked miniscule in comparison, and not quite as “pimp”, or “fly”, or whatever buzz word means cool these days. Locating the valet attendant, I smiled and said “Valet?” pointing to my bike, in what was supposed to be a joke. He scoffed and said “Bike parking, downstairs.”
Ah well, I thought while I locked her up, I may have been robbed of seeing the crisp-suited valet attendant riding Frankie down to the parking area, but at least they have a bike storage rack. Not like the super cool Mondrian hotel on Sunset Strip, where I had ridden Frankie to meet a friend for a drink, and caused all sorts of trouble when I asked if there was somewhere I stash her.
“We have never had anyone arrive by bicycle before!” said the wide-eyed manager, who was summoned when the valet guys didn’t know where to put it. Eventually the bellman agreed to store it with the bags, jokingly nicknaming me ‘bike girl’ for the rest of the evening. I cursed myself at the end of the night when I realized I had no cash to give a tip to him, for being so kind to such a strange bike riding person.
Back at the Four Seasons, I headed up to the lobby and located the check-in desk. Not for the hotel, but for the film I was here to cover. “Rango”, a cute, animated western starring a lizard with Johnny Depp’s voice, was having a press day, and I was to be involved in my first Hollywood print press conference.
Sitting in the ballroom, which had been converted into a pressroom, I checked out all the other journalists. Since this was a domestic press day, I was amongst a sea of American reporters. There were the seasoned professionals taking up the front row, their recording devices at the ready; the eager film buffs in the middle, chatting to each other, dissecting both the movie and the lunch on offer; the latecomers sneaking in the back, and me, who was too overwhelmed by all the food choices to grab anything but a Red Bull, and sat quietly sipping it in the corner. In the days that followed I would quickly get over this, and now can be spotted piling my plate as high as it will go while promising an extra gym session to make up for it the next day. As far as I can tell, an abundance of catering is one of the main differences between an event held in Australia and one in America.
I spotted a new friend, Hyla, an entertainment reporter on radio and TV here in America (who you can also hear and see in Australia from time to time) and we chatted for a few minutes before they announced the stars were on their way. iPhones, mini-discs, and old school cassette recorders were whipped out and placed on the table, most centered towards the space reserved for Johnny Depp. A few seconds later, in he walked, followed by director Gore Verbinski, Abigail Breslin and Aussie Isla Fisher.
The press conference began, and the cast was great, particularly Johnny who joked with the press, and dodged any strange or intrusive questions with the ease of a seasoned Hollywood star.
The microphone was passed around to reporters with questions, and when Hyla asked about his kid’s reaction to the film, Johnny mentioned how his daughters were far more interested in Justin Bieber than their father’s work.
“Are you a Belieber?”yelled the now mic-less Hyla
“A Belieber?” Johnny laughed, “I’ve actually never heard that one. That is my favourite. And you know what? Yes. I am a Belieber. I am. And I shall remain so.”
The conference continued as normal, until suddenly there was a commotion to the left of me at the entrance, and looking over I saw a very good looking boy, casually leaning against the wall, waving at Johnny, flanked by an entourage of beefy security guards and harried looking publicists. From nowhere, Justin Bieber had appeared. Maybe, like “Candyman”, that’s what happens when you repeat “I’m a Belieber” five times?
“We just established that I’m a Belieber!” Johnny said, shaking his hand.
“And I’m a big fan of you, so I had to come and support you!” Justin said, waving to the press, “Hey everybody!”
And just like that, Justin and his shiny hair vanished. Johnny and the cast quickly followed, and reporters scrambled to grab their recording devices and get back to their offices, in a race to be the first to get the word out that Johnny Depp beliebes.
Intrigued by the hullaballoo that surrounds him, a few days later I took Frankie down to see Bieber’s film, “Never Say Never”. I admit to looking slightly silly, being 29 years old and walking in alone to a 4:30pm Wednesday showing, but really, the young cinema attendant didn’t need to smirk as he handed over the purple 3D glasses. Justin’s favourite colour. I can’t believe I know that.
Justin Bieber makes me feel old. It’s the first time I haven’t understood a teenage phenomenon. Zac Efron, yeah I can see that he is cute, Jonas Brothers, sure I get their squeaky-clean appeal, but Bieber? Almost a year ago, Justin was due to appear on the Australian morning TV show “Sunrise”. A friend of mine, who works on the show, sent me an email to gauge the interest in this young kid.
Hey Leash, you know about this stuff, is Justin Bieber big in Australia?
Nah, I wrote back, I don’t think so. He’s big in America, but not really in Australia.
The day he was due to appear the police had to cancel the concert because so many fans had stormed the Opera House. It was official. I was out of touch with the teens.
A week and a couple more (Bieber-less) press conferences later, I was riding my bike back to the cinema, this time to see the slightly more highbrow Oscar nominated short documentary films. On the way I spotted a familiar face walking towards his car. Orlando Bloom. Seconds later, I rode by another person I recognized, this time it was Michael Patrick King, the creator of the brilliant “Sex and The City” TV show and yes, the disastrous second film.
I rode my bike a little further, and suddenly… there he was. On the corner of Sunset and Fairfax, there was Jesus. It was unmistakably him. He stood out from everyone else, dressed in a long off-white robe, with flowing hair and a beard, waiting patiently to cross the street, iPhone in hand. (Good to know he is up on the latest technology.) WeHo Jesus is apparently a legend in these parts, walking around the neighbourhood of West Hollywood spreading good vibes and being (as a fan Facebook page explains) “another guy in a dress” in the gay friendly suburb. He also likes himself some Starbucks, but hopefully he uses his powers to turn that terrible coffee into something drinkable.
In the space of ten minutes I had seen three very different icons, and it felt like it meant something. A sign of the apocalypse? With Bieber as the fourth horseman? Or just the fact that I am in LA, where everyone comes to be famous, even Jesus?
(For more on WeHo Jesus, check out this blog: http://www.isawjesusinla.com/)
******
This Bold Renegade Carves A “Z” With His Blade…
“Oh my gosh!” I screamed suddenly, making Kate jump, “A yellow school bus! I thought they only had those in the movies!”
“No,” Kate said, “They’re real. I used to catch one to school everyday.”
“Cool!” I said, my eyes full of wonder.
The most surprising thing about LA is that it looks exactly as it does in the movies. Every street is a familiar film location; every person an actor you’ve seen on screen but can’t remember the name of, and every situation feels like it was ripped straight from a movie. Kids really do ride on yellow school buses, teenagers do use plastic red drink cups at house parties, thin blonde girls with huge sunglasses carry gigantic Starbucks coffees everywhere they go, and I’m pretty sure somewhere out there, a frat party is happening.
Walking down Hollywood Boulevard I have to check behind buildings to make sure they aren’t just cardboard sets, and it doesn’t help that Spiderman, Marilyn Monroe, Charlie Chaplin and Maverick from “Top Gun” all hang out there. The last time I was on Hollywood Boulevard, I felt like I had stumbled behind the scenes of some bizarre movie. Flash Gordon invited me to his comedy show (who knew he was funny?), the Hulk walked awkwardly across the road, narrowly missing cars but not seeming too angry about it; and I realized Zorro lives two streets away after I spied him going into his home, costume and all. I don’t know why, but I do feel safer knowing I live so close to a masked swordsman.
But if Hollywood is really one big film set, then I’d be the bumbling extra, knocking over expensive equipment, accidentally getting in shot, and making the stars feel uncomfortable by being too earnest. While in Australia I am considered (relatively) normal, apparently in America I’m embarrassing, and stick out as a honky bit player amongst the professionals.
The scene: a classic Superbowl party, as seen in countless Hollywood TV shows and movies. Alicia Malone, a plucky Australian, comes up with the inventive plan of making her own jersey for the event, and also for an American football themed TV shoot. She grabs her flatmate’s Australian Olympic T-shirt, (which happens to have the same colours as one of the teams playing) and ingeniously customizes it with some sticky tape and a scrap of paper, on which she has enthusiastically scrawled the team’s name: “PACKERS!”
Filming done for the day, she hops on her bike, chuckling to herself as she imagines how she will be the hit of the party. From what Alicia has seen in the movies, she knows everyone will be dressed up, but surely no one else will have their own customized jersey.
Arriving at the party, she is greeted at the door by her friend and introduced to everyone gathered on the couches and floors around the TV. Not being able to contain her excitement, Alicia opens up her jacket and yells to the crowd, “Look, I made my own jersey!”
Fifteen pairs of eyes slowly turn to look at this strange new person. It is only then that Alicia realizes no one else is dressed up in any kind of ‘theme’. Somewhere in the background, crickets chirp.
Placing my jacket back on, I settled into a corner. This was almost as confusing as when an LA reporter told me that the robot (my signature dance move) would not be considered cool here, and another warned me not to take my shoes off in a nightclub in order to do the moonwalk. But… how did he expect me to do it in heels?
Thankfully everyone at the party was extremely nice and welcoming of the foreign invasion. After I revealed to the guy next to me that this was the first time I had seen an American football game, and I had no idea what was happening, he patiently explained (and re-explained) the rules to me. Which, it turns out, are a lot more complicated than they seem in the movies.
I tried to join in, making a few comments here and there, improvising as best I could. I thought I had redeemed myself when one of the guys I had barely spoken to came up to give me a hug goodbye. Excited, I jumped in there. Maybe he was impressed with my jersey making skills after all! But when he uttered a surprised “Oh!” I realized he had actually just been going for a handshake. Feeling myself going bright red, I did my best to act my way out of the gaffe.
“Umm… I’m Australian, we like to hug everyone!”
“Okay…” he said, seemingly unconvinced.
Well, we are a friendly nation. That was true.
Despite Australia and America being so similar, they can be quite different in many ways. The standard Aussie kiss on cheek maneuver is regarded as a strangely intimate thing to do to someone you barely know, and while my self deprecating humour is absolutely hilarious at home, here in the land of talking up your talents, they tend to take it seriously and just feel sorry for me. On the red carpets here, amongst a sea of tall, thin, hair-extension-wearing, tanned, slick entertainment reporters; I stick out with my short hair, pale skin, quirky sense of humour and embarrassing antics.
But maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. After all, here in Hollywood the sexy starlets may get on the Best Dressed lists and score the romantic lead, but it’s the character actors who get the interesting roles and take home the awards.
Or end up on Hollywood Boulevard dressed as Zorro.
******
On A Dark Desert Highway, Cool Wind In My Hair…
Hurtling towards the red light, I slammed my foot one last time on the brake. It was no use. I was trapped in a car speeding towards certain death. My mind slowed down as I thought about how I got into this situation.
When I first arrived in LA, I went for a drive with my friend Kate, and noted how strange it felt to be a passenger, while sitting on the Australian driving side of the car.
“I’m a bit nervous about driving in LA…” I admitted.
“Oh you’ll be fine, “ Kate replied, “Just get yourself a navigator and you’ll find your way around.”
I tried to pretend her advice made me feel better, when Kate suddenly turned to look at me.
“Wait… what side of the road do you guys drive on?”
“The other one.”
“Oh, you’re screwed!” Kate laughed.
And now, I was.
Two days ago my flatmate Rowan opened the front door of our apartment to find me sitting on the ground, looking dejected and staring at a half assembled IKEA desk.
“What… are you doing?” he asked, “And why are you doing it behind the door?”
“I started over there,” I pointed to his screwdriver at the other side of the room, “but now…”
I sighed, wondering how I managed to mess up what was supposed to be a simple task, and why it took me five hours.
“Oh Leash,” Rowan said, shaking his head, “Would you like some help?”
Thirty minutes later I had a perfectly assembled work desk.
“Somehow you put every single piece on backwards,” he said, “I’m kind of impressed!” His laughter stopped when I motioned to the other four unopened IKEA boxes.
Rowan sighed. “I’d better help you with your bed on the weekend.”
The red light was coming closer and I was not slowing down. Beyond the light, traffic was speeding in both directions. To my left, a sheer drop down to the freeway. To my right a curb and a hedge. Oh god, what will I tell Rowan?
Earlier today, Ro and I started the laborious process of putting together my Queen sized bed. IKEA always seems like a good idea when you’re in the showroom, looking at the finished pieces and reasonable prices. Less so when you’re on your hands and knees, holding several screws and trying to make sense of the instructions. After the mess I made of the desk, the chest of drawers and the nightstand, Ro demoted me to being his helper, in charge of handing him the correct tools. In my imagination I was a surgeon’s assistant, saving lives and dabbing his forehead with tongs and a piece of cloth. In reality I was just staring into the distance.
“Can you grab the metal mid-beam?” Ro asked, and I dutifully went to look for something beam-shaped.
“Um, it’s not here…”
After a couple of minutes of searching, we realized I had forgotten to pick up a vital piece of my bed, because it was in a separate box.
“Here, why don’t you borrow my car to go and get it?” he offered.
I hesitated. I’d been in America for about a month but hadn’t driven yet. The thought of being on the opposite side of the road scared the hell out of me (like patting my head and rubbing my stomach at the same time) but in LA if you don’t have wheels, you can’t get anywhere. Cabs are impossible to find, and I had tried riding the bus, but the last time I did that, I realized the seat was wet. And I’m not sure what it was wet with. But I had been driving for over ten years and have to do it sometime, so I decided it would be now or never. So with a “wish me luck” to Rowan, and his navigator set to ‘Australian’, I was off.
And I was going alright, up until this point, until the brakes had suddenly stopped working and I was faced with the possibility that I might die before I ever got the chance to participate in a dance flash mob. That simply could not happen. So, I did the only thing I could think of. Channeling my inner stuntwoman I pulled up the handbrake and wrenched the steering wheel as far to the left as it could go.
BANG. The car hit the curb and stopped.
“Are you ok honey?” a kind lady called out to me from another car.
“Thankyou,” I replied weakly, “I think I’m ok.”
Shaking, I got out of the car to survey the damage. The tyres were steaming and smelt of burnt rubber, but amazingly there wasn’t a scratch on the front of the car where it hit the curb. I grabbed my phone to call Rowan, this wasn’t going to be easy.
“Hi, I’ve had an accident…”
A man driving past offered to push the car around the corner and out of the way, where I waited for Rowan to come and find me.
“Do you need help?”
“Want to borrow my phone?”
“Will you be safe here by yourself?”
“Is someone coming for you?”
“Are you sure you’re ok?”
For a supposedly unfriendly city, LA’s citizens seemed very concerned for my welfare. In Sydney, they would probably drive straight past, yelling abuse and throwing inanimate objects at my head. But here, not a car went by without an offer for help, a phone, or company while I waited.
An hour later, Ro came to my rescue. He checked the car, drove it home, and the brakes were fine. He took it to the mechanic, they checked it out, and aid there was nothing wrong with the car.
“Oh Leash,” he said, shaking his head, “What are we going to do with you?”
The next day, I bought a bicycle.
******
Everybody Comes to Hollywood, They Want to Make it in the Neighborhood…
“Are you Australian?” the friendly supermarket check out guy asked me.
“Yep,” I answered, used to hearing that question daily, “I moved over a couple of weeks ago.”
“I love Australians! I love your accent!” That’s why I never mind the question. Sometimes I’ll even bung on an extra Aussie accent just to soak in the glow of being considered slightly exotic.
“How many people do you know here?” he asked
“I knew about three when I arrived, meeting more every day…”
“That was the same with me when I came over from Iowa… I’m an actor, “ he explained, “trying to get an agent.”
If New York is a ‘concrete jungle where dreams are made’, then surely LA is an ‘urban sprawl made of dreams’. The air in Hollywood is thick with hope and you feel the weight of expectation, that this day might just bring someone’s big break. And with good reason, because this is the ‘dream factory’; the place where check-out guys can become stars, washed up child actors can get a second chance, and anyone can transform themselves into who they want to be. And teams of plastic surgeons just waiting to help you do that.
Go into any café in LA, you’ll see screenwriters huddled over their computers, typing out their scripts, fuelled by Triple Grande Nonfat Caramel Macchiatos and free WiFi. Every improv acting class is bursting with bright, young, good-looking hopefuls who have left everything behind to try and ‘make it’. Even at my local gym, there’s energy in the air that is infectious.
“How are you guys doing today?” the enthusiastic spin class instructor asked my packed class.
I was expecting the shy silence that question is normally met with in Australia, but instead, there were spirited yells of: “Yeah!” “WOOO!” “Come on!”
Throughout the class, random “woo-ing” continued, and though at home I would have found it cheesy, here their eagerness made me smile, and pushed me to keep up with them… But I couldn’t quite bring myself to “woo” just yet.
Back when I was living in Sydney I would amuse my friends by talking in inspirational bumper stickers – “Life’s short, do what you love!” LA is a city of me-s. All highly motivated, inspired, and positive thinkers. Who love Australian accents. I have found my people.
On the way out of the gym, I spotted Liza Minnelli using a leg weights machine, a Biggest Loser crew filming Trainer Bob and his ever-shrinking blue team, and a dog wearing sunglasses. Everyone gets to transform themselves here, even the dogs.
I have decided to pretend I’m an actress in training for her next big role. The role of “Alicia Malone. Intelligent, Yet Cool, Hollywood Film Reporter”. That way, if my day only consists of going to the gym and lying by the pool, I don’t have to feel guilty. It’s part of my preparation.
After working full-time, producing and editing two TV shows, and hosting one; the change to freelancing has been quite dramatic, though I have been lucky to already have enough work to keep me going. I use the term “work” loosely, because for me, interviewing filmmakers and actors is what I love. It’s what I live for. I keep looking for the guy in the corner with the giant hook, who will surely yank me off this stage at some point.
But hook guy was nowhere to be seen as I sat staring into Sir Anthony Hopkins’ ice blue eyes, my mind recalling that famous scene in “The Silence of the Lambs”… “Hello Clarice.” I couldn’t believe I was looking at him, and he at me. He was a delight to interview, honest, with none of the fake “soundbite speak” you sometimes get in interviews. Same with William H Macy (“Call me Bill”), Kathy Bates, who used my name during the interview (it’s the little things), and William Shatner, who talked about Twitter and how it would be nice if people “actually were rolling on the floor laughing.”
Best not to mention the interview I did with “The Vampire Diaries” star Paul Wesley, a lovely young guy who was very easy on my tired eyes. I challenged him with the age-old (and very serious) question of “vampires vs. werewolves… who is sexier?” And he replied that vampires were because werewolves are too hairy and need man-scaping (or were-scaping, as the case may be.) I wanted to say something about how Australian men also need tips on man-scaping, but what actually came out of my mouth was… “Yeah, we’re hairy down under!”
I felt my face burning with heat as the publicists sitting in the background clapped. Worried he might think I meant Australian women are hairy, I added…
“I mean, I’m not hairy down under, the men are!”
Still, it was better than one red carpet interview I did, where an actor showed me his knuckles in readiness to do a “fist bump” greeting, and I said… “Oh, cool! I love fisting!”
Clearly I still have preparation to do for my new “role”.
Also needed for the ”cool” part of my role is a certain nonchalance towards the city. Heading out to a film screening one night, Hollywood Boulevard was a flurry of activity, so much so that my friend Kate and I had to squeeze past hoards of tourists to make our way to Mann’s Chinese Theatre. The street was blocked with lights, cameras, trucks, onlookers and people looking harried while wearing headphones.
I couldn’t see what was going on, but suddenly I was overcome with excitement. I grabbed Kate’s arm, and she jumped, shocked. My eyes widened, as I looked at her, squeezing hard and whispering, “We’re in Hollywood!”
Kate, a rare breed of LA born, raised, and still living here, laughed. “It’s nice that you’re excited! Don’t lose that!”
Scrap being cool. I hope I stay excited forever.
******
Oh The Weather Outside Is Frightful…
Trudging through the knee-deep snow, I realized I could no longer feel my toes. The ice-cold wind hurt as it thrashed my exposed face, and it was snowing so heavily I couldn’t see where we were going.
Looking at my friend Sian, I grabbed her icy hand and squeezed it.
“We’re almost there!” I shouted over the howling wind, “We can do this!” Though I wasn’t so sure.
My eyes struggled to stay open, to look through the barrage of snowflakes searching for any recognizable landmarks. People went scuttling by, appearing suddenly and then disappearing just as fast, as if they were traveling on the wind. This once familiar landscape was now completely white, as if it had been erased or liquid-papered out. I thought of a crackling hot fire, a warm bath, a cosy knitted jumper. Was there ever a time when I had been warm?
A huge gust of wind suddenly blew us backwards, and we fought to keep our footing, moving forward as if in slow motion. The snow cleared for a brief moment and I caught a glimpse of it. Our destination.
“There it is!” I yelled, and Sian’s face filled with relief.
We had made it. Our epic journey was finally complete.
Running through the door into the warmth, my fingers tingled as they began to thaw out. Brushing the snowflakes out of my eyes, I looked up and saw an abundance of colour.
“Welcome,” said the girl at the door, “to Anthropologie New York. Some of our clothes are up to 40% off today!”
I nodded encouragingly at Sian, whose snow-burnt face beamed.
“You’re right,” I said, “that is a sizable discount!”
The things we do for sales.
It wasn’t quite a white Christmas, but it was a white Boxing Day. Or a white ‘Day after Christmas’ as they call it in America
“What’s Boxing Day?” asked one of my new American friends in wonder, “Like, you do boxing matches on that day?” I laughed, but couldn’t remember why we actually call it that.
Growing up in Australia, Christmas always meant a family lunch of prawns, salads, and cold cuts of meat. A hot day, and a dip in the pool if you were lucky. When I was young it had struck me as odd that Christmas carols always mentioned snow, and Santa wore a woolen suit. Wouldn’t he be hot in that hat? In case he was, my sisters and I left a beer out for him. And biscuits, at my Dad’s insistence, though I always thought he should lay off the snacks.
It wasn’t until I saw a Hollywood film that all the Christmas traditions suddenly made sense. And being someone who has now made a career of reviewing films, I’m a little embarrassed to admit what it was. No classic Christmas tale like “A Miracle on 34th Street”, or any of the versions of “A Christmas Carol”. Nope, for me, nothing explained Christmas quite like “Home Alone 2: Lost in New York”.
Going to see the film in the cinema, I was already a fan of Macaulay Culkin’s work. A budding movie critic, I quite enjoyed the first “Home Alone”, particularly what he had done with that “after-shave scream”. Genius work. I was very much looking forward to this new installment, particularly to see how he came to be home alone for a second time. I was considering the possibility that his parents might not be cut out for the responsibility of having so many children, when the lights dimmed, the movie logos rolled, and, about 20 minutes into it, there was New York City.
New York had often been the setting for the films or TV series I watched, but I had never before seen it quite so magical. The white snow covering Central Park, the twinkling Christmas lights in the store windows, the madness of FAO Schwarz, people rushing everywhere getting their shopping done, and the Rockefeller Centre Tree. Never before had I seen such a beautiful Christmas tree, and in that moment, I vowed to see it in person.
Flash forward nineteen years and four visits to New York, and I found myself in the city for Christmas day. Late for meeting a friend and her visiting family, I rushed out from the subway and straight into the cold weather and hoards of slow moving tourists. Pushing through the crowds on 5th Ave, I took a turn down 47th St and… there it was.
Twenty five metres high, and just as wide, the tree was resplendent in its multicolored lights, posing for the hundreds of camera flashes going on around it. My eyes prickled with tears of joy, and I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to sing Christmas carols, give presents, and take hundreds of photos.
Sitting in that darkened cinema all those years ago, my face lit up by the screen, I wouldn’t have believed that my wish would come true. Anything is possible. The fact that I am here proves that.
Hurtling through traffic towards the airport, I held on for my life as the taxi weaved in and out of slower cars on the highway. By “slower” I mean still going well over the speed limit.
“This one is for all the ladies out there…”
“Sorry?” I shouted, a little too loudly in my panic to survive.
“So ladies, if you feel me, I’ve got something special for you…”
“Pardon?” I thought I must have misheard the taxi driver, because the only “lady” I could see was me.
“That’s right, uh huh, let’s take it slow tonight…”
It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t actually speaking to me; he was DJing the cab drive, a ride that quite possibly could be my last.
The driver sped up close behind the car in front, whipping out to the left just at the moment it looked like we would hit him. He proceeded to do this several more times, often almost hitting the car in the next lane over, and I attempted to stifle my screams at every near miss.
To take my mind off my impending death, I thought over the past three weeks in New York. Eating too much, shopping too much, the snowpocalypse, watching the ball drop in Times Sqaure, Broadway shows and bad movies, I am so grateful for my life. Now, if I don’t die in a horrible, fiery car crash; a plane will take me back to LA, where I will officially start my new one.
The cab driver found an empty lane and floored it towards the bright lights of the airport. Gripping the seat and the side of the cab, I imagined I was on a horse, racing towards my dream of living overseas. I’m ready. Bring it on.
******
I Hopped Off The Plane At LAX, With My Dream And A Cardigan…
Welcome to Los Angeles, the city the world watches…
I stared at the sign, bleary eyed. I’m here, I’m actually here.
“How long do you intend to stay in the United States?” The unsmiling Immigration Officer broke my thoughts, surveying my two suitcases and teddy bear with suspicion.
“Umm… five years? Working for Australian TV? I’m a film journalist?” When I’m nervous, everything has a question mark.
He paused, looked at my passport photo, looked at me, looked back at the photo, then back to me. I thought he may be having trouble recognizing the 2004 me, when compared to the 2010 me, so I tried to smile like I had six years ago to help. What would that young girl say, if I told her she would be moving to LA in the near future?
Seconds passed like hours until the Immigration Officer finally said the words I’d been dreaming about hearing for a long time… “Welcome to the United States.”
Holy crap, I was in.
The idea to move to LA occurred to me quite suddenly.
A couple of months ago, I was contemplating life while walking by the Seine River in Paris (as one does when in Paris… one also uses the pretentious term “one” whilst there), and I realized how much I enjoy interviewing filmmakers and actors. The rush of the red carpet, a whirlwind of glamour combined with the challenge of creating an instant rapport with a superstar. And equally, the sit down “junket” interviews, all eyes on you as you walk into a tiny hotel room filled with publicists, cameramen, sound recordists, makeup, hair artists, and… the star. You’re the tenth interview of the day and you have five minutes to get something interesting out of them, cover all the angles needed for your story, take control of the room but let them shine. Both situations are challenging, both can be rewarding when done right.
The only problem was, being based in Australia, the number of stars visiting is fairly low, and often tend to be the same people. I’ve spoken to Jack Black two times, Will Ferrell three, and I’ve been in the vicinity of Zac Efron so much, I think I have permanent hearing damage.
So, where could I go, where interviews would involve all the big names, and red carpet premieres would be a weekly occurrence? Where is the center of the film universe? Hollywood.
Within five minutes I had decided. Come December, I would pack up my life, move to a city I had only visited twice before, and where I only knew three people.
Of my five tattoos, three read “Dream”, “Explore”, “Discover”. It was time to live my ink.
Over the next few months, moving to LA became my story. An idea. Something I told everyone about, meticulously planned, but somehow never quite felt real. I was definitely excited; when I got my 5 year US visa I felt like kicking my heels up as I walked out of the consulate, but thought if I showed too much joy they might decide to revoke it.
But even as I moved out of my apartment, sold all my things, resigned from my job, and waved goodbye to my teary-eyed family, it didn’t feel like it was actually going happen. Walking through Sydney airport security an hour before my one-way flight, I still couldn’t believe everything had fallen into place and I was doing it. I kept waiting for something to get in the way, or someone to stop me… and then the security guard did.
“Hey, wait a second!” he said, and my heart leapt into my throat. I’ve just sold, quit, and said goodbye to everything, what would I do if I were turned around at this point?
“You look familiar,” he continued, “are you on TV?”
“Um, yeah a little bit…” I answered, relieved.
“Yeah, you’re the movie girl aren’t you, I’ve seen you on Foxtel talking to the stars!”
“Yep that’s me!” I said, my dread turning into pride. I never get recognized! This is kind of cool!
“I’m going to tell everyone that I saw you here… and that you were carrying your teddy bear through.”
Any sense of coolness I had suddenly left me. Damn. Here I am, 29 years old, and I take a teddy bear with me to Hollywood.
The next day I woke up, jet-lagged and confused about where I was. After such a hectic build-up, I had arrived, but had no work for a month at least, and not much else to do.
Just last week my To Do list was overflowing with dinners, meetings, coffees and organsing my move; now it simply read: Wash Hair. That only used up half an hour, so I called friend number two of three; my Paris writing pal Kate, and we decided to go for a hike up Runyon Canyon.
It was a beautiful sunny, clear day – the sky was so blue, the winter temperature so warm, I could almost believe I was still in summer in Sydney. Runyon Canyon is a popular walk through bush land, mostly up hill. It’s hard work and the results are obvious on almost every person walking up there. I’ve never seen so many abs on so many beautiful men and women; it was hard not to stare.
And they certainly didn’t look like they were working out. With their perfectly coiffed hair under caps and sunglasses, they glided up the steep incline without breaking a sweat in their designer outfits. Cut to me, bright red, and in my $5 “Flithy McNasty’s Ranch” T-shirt I bought because I thought it sounded like an amusing place to have pretended to visit.
In between our gasps for air, Kate and I were chatting away, catching up on each other’s gossip. I was in the middle of telling Kate what I’m sure was a brilliant story, when I saw out of the corner of my eye a big stick up ahead. I stepped on it. It was squishy. Are the sticks squishy over here?
“Leash! Don’t step on the snake!” Kate tried her best to keep her voice calm, but as soon as I heard the word ‘snake’, I screamed and ran as fast as I could, picturing a giant snake chasing me down the hill.
“It’s ok!” Kate said, “It’s just an LA snake, probably sunning itself before a meeting with an agent this afternoon!”
“Oh good”, I said, trying to catch my breath, “I’m used to Aussie killer snakes. They won’t stop until your dead!”
It would just be my luck that I would make it all the way to LA, only to be killed on my first day by stepping on a rattlesnake.
At that moment, Kate pointed to a girl hiking up towards us. She was wearing full makeup, workout clothes and… high heels. Snake protection perhaps?
Ahh LA… the city where girls hike in high-heels, everyone looks famous and wears sunglasses in the supermarket. Will I fit in? Or is it better to stand out?
******
Metro Hell
I’m sitting in an oven crammed full of French businessmen. It’s hot and dark, and it smells like Parmesan cheese. The odour resembles a stale Croque Monsieur, but I’m not in a kitchen. I’m trapped in a Paris Metro train, deep underground, trying to remain calm and figure out why it is not moving.
Eight stops ago, I jumped aboard an empty train. The Metro system in Paris is a cheap way to get around the city, and taking one of these underground trains gives you the chance to see the locals up close. Sometimes, as I was to discover, a little too up close.
Seven stops ago, a crowd of determined Parisians squeezed onboard. Suddenly wedged in scrum of sweaty businessmen, I could barely move. A drop of hot liquid rolled down my back. Was it my own sweat? Did someone spill their drink on me? A dribble of slobber from the guy standing behind me, perhaps?
Six stops ago, a tide of nausea threatened to overcome me. No, I refuse to be that girl. I won’t be the girl who throws up in a crowded carriage. I tried to concentrate on my breathing, but this only highlighted the stench of body odour, cologne and…Parmesan cheese? The tall businessman to the left of me looked over as if to say, “Yes, I smell like parmesan cheese, that’s totally normal. I like to rub it on my body every morning.”
If I do end up spewing on the subway, I’m aiming for that guy.
Five stops ago, I tried to distract myself by looking around the crowded carriage. Bodies, as far as I could see. Bodies squished together in intimate poses usually reserved for people you like. Or know. Or at least want to look at.
It was probably the most action I’d had for a couple of months. And it was with…Mr. Parmesan Cheese man.
I spotted a good-looking young French man across the carriage. How did he manage to stay so immaculate in this heat? He had perfectly coiffed hair, crème caramel skin, and an elegant suit. I wouldn’t have minded being wedged against him. At the very least, I could have asked him for some frizz-saving hair tips.
Four stops ago, I noticed a little girl with blonde hair, wearing a chocolate-stained pink t-shirt and blue leggings. She was impossibly cute. I smiled at her. She grimaced back. Probably thinking I was some kind of sweaty kidnapper.
Three stops ago, a load of passengers got off. In a fierce game of metro musical chairs, I stole the only available seat before Mr. Parmesan Cheese could get it. Small revenge.
Two stops ago, a familiar noise made me look up at the man sitting opposite me. The back of his iPhone was facing in my direction. Had that been a camera click? And if so, what was he going to do with a picture of my sweaty head? A passenger moved and I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Red face, shiny five-head, frizzy hair. I look like I’ve melted and been electrocuted at the same time. Expect the picture of me to appear soon on “Girls on the Metro who do not cope with heat well dot com”.
One stop ago, my mind raced with thoughts of fresh air. And a bed. A swimming pool. Maybe a bed in a swimming pool. With Mr. Perfect Hair fanning me…whispering sweet nothings…divulging French hair-care secrets.
My thoughts were broken when the train jolted to a stop. Parisians and Parmesan cheese went flying. The lights turned off.
Now I’m trapped in this dark metro oven, trying to decipher the announcement crackling over the PA. People groan. One guy takes his jacket off.
Five minutes later, a second announcement jolts me out of a micro sleep. More groans. Another guy unbuttons his shirt \and fans his chest hair with a copy of Le Monde.
I begin to lose sense of time. How long have we been down here? Ten minutes? An hour? Can I even remember what it’s like on the surface of the earth?
Finally, a third announcement: Jacket Guy puts on his jacket; Chest Hair Guy buttons his shirt; Kidnap Girl almost smiles. The lights come back on. The train begins to move. I feel like hugging someone. I scan the carriage for Mr. Perfect Hair, but within seconds we’ve arrived at my station.
With the metro still in slow motion, I wrench open the door and run in the direction of fresh air.
Outside, drunk with a sense of freedom, I stroll past a cafe and smell… a Croque Monsieur.
The cheesy stench makes me dry wretch. Damn you Mr Parmesan Cheese man!
*****
Airport Refugee
Clipboard Lady wore sensible heels. The kind I hate. The “what’s the point” kind, not quite heels, not quite flats. I knew I should have been concentrating on what she was saying to me in slow, careful French, but I couldn’t help looking at those hideous Air Europa enforced heels.
The guy standing next to me at the check-in desk was certainly listening to her, returning her apologetic words with rapid-fire explosions of French. After a month in Paris my grasp of French language was getting better, so even though I couldn’t understand everything he was saying, I slowly began to realise: I would not be flying to Valencia that evening.
Air Europa had sold our tickets. They must have felt bad, because they coughed up a ticket on the first flight the following day, a hotel room for the night with dinner and breakfast included, and 250 euros compensation. More than I had paid for the flight.
“Are you visiting Paris?” Scary French Man asked me on our way to the hotel shuttle bus.
“Yes, I love Paris, it’s beautiful.”
“No, it’s not.” he said
“Yes..” I started to say, but he cut me off with a swift…
“No. Paris is not beautiful. I grew up there, I live there, I know.”
Scary French Man peered at me from behind his glasses, his striped polo t-shirt buttoned all the way up, his empty looking backpack was now full of free mints, taken from the bowl at the check-in desk.
Whenever I meet someone who is very serious, I take it on as a personal challenge to try and make them smile.
I managed to find out that his name was Boris, he was mid-30’s, a lawyer, and was supposed to meet up with his father and brother in Valencia for a holiday. No smile.
I explained how I was on my way to visit an Australian friend, who had moved to Valencia after falling in love with a Spanish girl, being sure to enhance the romantic details. Still no smile.
I pointed out how we had actually made a profit on this trip, and added that I had always dreamed of staying at the Radisson hotel at the Charles de Gaulle airport. Nothing.
“We’re like refugees,” I said, “Airport refugees.”
“Yes!” he laughed, “I’m a refugee in my own country! They don’t want me to leave, they like me too much.”
Success! Thanks folks, I’ll be here all week, try the veal.
After that Boris lightened up. We ate our dinner together, where he coaxed me into ordering much more than I wanted to eat, to make the most of my free meal. And after dinner, he even gave me two of his stolen mints.
The next morning I bumped into him on my second trip back to croissant corner at the buffet, where I had been testing his eating theory. We ended up catching the same airport shuttle, and at security, he helped me by picking up my boarding pass, which I hadn’t noticed that I’d dropped.
“No, Alicia, no,” he said, shaking his head, “Does this bad luck happen all the time to you?”
“Oui, c’est la vie!” I said.
But then I added, “Actually, c’est ma vie!”
“Thank you for keeping me company,” Boris said once we had finally arrived, “Fellow refugee!”
I laughed and turned to exit the airport, but my eyes stopped at the sight of something familiar. A pair of black, sensible heels. And a clipboard. Clipboard Lady was working Valencia that morning. She looked at us and smiled, and we smiled back.
*****
Breaking Away From The Bucket
Things to do before I die:
1) Peer painfully through a scratched eye at the Eiffel Tower in Paris
2) Get pushed out of a fancy restaurant in Rome, one bite of greasy pizza still in my mouth
3) Limp pathetically through a vineyard in Tuscany
Tilting my head towards it’s general direction, I willed my weeping eyes to open, and look up at the Eiffel Tower. They did their best, bless them, ignoring the throbbing pain for a brief moment, before shutting tightly again.
For a couple of years, the words “See the Eiffel Tower” have been scrawled on my bucket list. How ironic it was, when I finally got here, a rogue piece of dust had scratched my eye, and I could not “see” anything.
Stumbling towards what I hoped was the entrance to the Metro and not some dodgy alleyway full of robbers just waiting to prey on blind girls; I thought back to three years ago, when I sat down in my apartment in Sydney, and decided to write my list of ‘things to do before I kick the bucket’.
I’m a list-maker, I write lists just to remind me to write lists. Sometimes, I scribble down ‘to dos’ that I’ve already done, getting immense pleasure out of ticking them off. So the idea of writing a list to end all lists, a bucket list, really appealed to me. I think I had seen it on an episode of Oprah.
I started out by writing down all the far-flung places I wanted to travel to. Italy, France and Spain may not sound all that exotic, but living in Australia, many countries seem too far, too expensive, and too hard to get time off work to visit. Writing down all the experiences I wanted to have in Europe, and printing out cheesy Google images to stick on my wall (another Oprah trick) had been my constant motivation to finally make it happen. Worried my travel items may seem superficial if someone found my list, I had also added “Somehow Obtain World Peace” just for good measure.
Now I was finally in Europe, and was feeling the pressure to make reality live up to my list.
As I stared down the neat rows of grapevines, I psyched myself up to tick off another item: “Run through a vineyard in Tuscany”. I took a deep breath. I was ready. I started to run. A huge pain shot through my knee like an electric shock. Weeks of sight-seeing in bad shoes had finally caught up with me. I took another breath, and attempted to run again. It was no use. My bucket list would have to read, “Limp through a vineyard in Tuscany” instead. It doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.
I limped back up to my hotel and sat down. Free of my assignment, I finally looked around at the beautiful green hills which surrounded me, noticing how the neat patches of vines were placed perfectly at intervals on them, like patchwork. The waiter brought me a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, placing it on the white tablecloth next to a vase of red roses and a small bowl of ripe raspberries. I took a sip, and completely relaxed for the first time since I arrived in Europe. This is what I will remember, this unexpected moment of bliss, not what I have crossed off on my ‘to do’ list. I suddenly realised I needed to break free and explore what experiences life had on it’s list for me.
With that in mind, I pulled out my journal, and wrote a new bucket list, simply writing:
Have as much fun possible… While somehow still obtaining world peace.
