Step into the future – a world of clean lines and of white, black and blue – at Mar Adentro. With a whopping 198 rooms, the hotel is way bigger than the type of stay that usually catches our attention, but, somehow, this architectural wonder manages to make it feel as though you’ve got the place to yourself.
Its white, cubic buildings rise from a constructed lagoon, with a black-tiled infinity pool and the nest – a lounge partially sunk beneath the liquid – accessible via an inky walkway that cuts across the water. When the light is right the buildings cast reflections, giving the illusion that you’re floating somewhere in the middle. It’s all rather fitting for a place with a name that means ‘sea inside’.
In the rooms wood softens the monochrome palette and your lighting, music and curtains are all controlled with the swipe of a tablet. When you’re not lazing on your terrace or on the white sands that stretch between the hotel and the Sea of Cortez, there’s a lounge and art gallery to keep you entertained. Basically, it’s bliss.
I can trace my fascination with American Greyhound buses right back to a very particular moment. It was April 1985 and I was 12 years old, sitting in the front row of the Geelong Village Twin watching Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan. For any Gen Y-ers reading this, Madonna was everything in 1985.
There’s a scene early in the film where the greatest-pop-star-who-ever-lived hops on a Greyhound from Atlantic City to New York (after stealing some very important Egyptian artefacts from her gangster lover who, of course, ends up dead). The bus pulls in to what seems a very glamorous Port Authority terminal at 42nd Street in Manhattan. Madonna disembarks looking better than any of us who have ever travelled on buses have ever looked. Back then, it all felt so cosmopolitan and cool. Like this was the way one should arrive into New York seeking fame and fortune.
Now, with many, many, many years of experience on a multitude of buses in varying countries, varying degrees of condition and fellow passengers in varying states of sanity, this is most definitely not the way one should arrive in the Big Apple seeking fame and fortune. For one, Port Authority is a urine-drenched, rat-infested cesspit.
But I digress. When I moved to New York from Australia in 2008, I had a grand plan to travel across this wild country on a bus. Like I was a character going through a monumental life-change in a Nora Ephron movie (famous writer/director, Gen Y-ers). It all seemed terribly romantic – and nomadic. I was wrong, and soon ditched any notion of travelling those vast expanses in a confined metal space. I discovered that people who ride buses are mainly crazy or drunk. Or both. I include myself in this group.
I remember travelling from Seattle to San Francisco. The trip, for me, was some sort of music homage: my personal ode to grunge and flower power. Or something. Ultimately, it ended up feeling like some sort of bad acid trip. A journey that should have taken 13 hours but, because of mechanical issues and other non-disclosed reasons, took 20, and comprised some 35 stops at petrol stations and diners not fit to serve anyone. The woman opposite me also cried the entire way, but refused all offers of help, save for one very bad petrol station coffee.
Then there was the time I travelled from Philadelphia to New York. A short jaunt, yes, but a trip made even briefer thanks to a maniacal bus driver who yelled and screamed at all other road users, while speeding like he had to get home for dinner. I’ve never been so happy to smell the piss at Port Authority.
My shambolic bus-riding experiences haven’t been confined to the US, though. I’ve had a few doozies in the UK and Europe as well. There are vague recollections of a journey from London to Munich for Oktoberfest with a bus full of stupendously drunk Aussies and Kiwis. Let’s just say that none of us covered ourselves in glory on that messy 24-hour ride, but we definitely covered ourselves in Fosters dregs, cheap, warm wine and, occasionally, vomit. I still feel bad for the bus driver.
I also remember a particularly harrowing five-hour (on a good day) bus ride from Manchester to London with a friend who was barely talking to me at the time. (Travelling through Europe in each other’s pockets for three months will do that.) Problem was, I had come down with a nasty bug, which left my head and, er, opposite end vying for space in a tiny bathroom with a toilet that wasn’t built to handle such a situation. I thought I could survive the five hours. I was wrong. My sulky mate sat at the front of the bus and didn’t check on me once. (Having said that, he could have been embarrassed to know me. I know I was.) To this day, I feel for all of the other passengers on that bus. I’m sure they all disembarked at Victoria Station in London with some sort of PTSD.
I haven’t felt compelled to board a bus for a long-haul trip in many a year. These days, the closest I get is stumping up six bucks to take a fancy express bus from the Bronx to Manhattan when I can’t face dealing with the unhinged people who always decide to sit next to me on the subway (that’s a whole other column). But to those same Gen Y-ers reading this, do it! Life is a highway y’all, and it’s character building. One word of advice, though… bring your own vomit bag. You’ll thank me for it later.
Forget nightclubs with their blaring music, sticky floors and people packed in as tight as sardines. Set in the trendy Flatiron district, this parlour oozes sophistication and rates comfort and conversation over crowds.
Luxe booths, soft lighting and the lilting croon of a three-piece jazz band exude a vibe that’s both exclusive and laid-back, but the whisky is the true star.
Boasting more than a thousand concoctions, the Flatiron ensures everyone – from connoisseurs to first-time whisky drinkers – will feel spoilt for choice. Swill, sip and savour a glass of the smooth velvety drop or, better still, ask to have your favourite tipple put aside in the bottle keep to enjoy at your leisure. There’s no such thing as standing room here and the venue fills up fast, so be sure to make a reservation or you’ll miss out.
The term bathtub gin first appeared in the USA in the 1920s as a reference to the homemade, low-quality hooch furtively brewed during the reign of Prohibition. Tucked away behind the facade of an inconspicuous coffee shop in the Big Apple, Bathtub Gin is an old-fashioned speakeasy with a twist.
Among oversized armchairs and fringed lampshades, the bar’s most prominent feature is the gold-plated bathtub that dominates the space with a rather literal interpretation of its name. Wait staff don vintage flapper attire, while barkeeps shake up high-quality cocktails – no rotgut here – paying homage to recipes from the pre-Prohibition era. If gin’s your thing there are 30 choices on the list, as well as plenty of varieties of wine and a selection of beer.
Located on Lexington Avenue – the heart of Manhattan – the Gramercy Park Hotel is the Big Apple at its best. Each of the one-of-a-kind rooms has lush drapes, custom-designed furniture, mahogany drinking cabinets, velvet upholstered beds and walls showcasing the work of world-famous photojournalists. If you can’t get enough, keep your eyes peeled in the public area, where the ever-changing collection features the work of Andy Warhol, Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat.
There’s a stunning rooftop terrace that features views of the city that never sleeps, but one of the main reasons to check in is your access to a special slice of Manhattan. Guests have access to the keys to Gramercy Park, one of only two private gardens in all of New York (the other is in Queens). If you want to go all out, check in to the penthouse – it comes with its own kitchen, dining room and library.
Break the shackles of modern civilisation and return to a nomadic state of bliss beneath the wide, open Texas sky at this off-beat camping site. Located in the high plains desert just outside of arts hub Marfa, El Cosmico is the perfect place to unplug, recharge, do something amazing or nothing at all.
The Ritz this ain’t – choose between a gorgeous vintage trailer, magnificent Mongolian yurt, Sioux-style teepee or safari tent, each decked out in style.
Begin your day at the outdoor bath house, share a meal with your fellow nomads at the alfresco communal kitchen, explore the incredible Donald Judd and Chinati Foundation art sites, settle in for an afternoon snooze in the hammock grove, and end your evening by soaking in a wood-fired hot tub under a clear, starry sky.
A cemetery isn’t your typical setting for a summer night’s entertainment, but Cinespia at Hollywood Forever Cemetery isn’t your typical cinema. Thousands of people flock to the cemetery when the weather warms to catch classic films under the Californian night sky against the backdrop of a historic Hollywood landmark.
Picnic on the open lawn lined with LA’s signature palm trees and listen to DJs play until sundown. Then sit back with a bottle of wine (no spirits allowed) for a surreal cinematic experience at the final resting place of some of Hollywood’s biggest stars. If you’re lucky one of Hollywood’s A-listers might even make an appearance (in the flesh, not the film). This is a BYO event, bring a blanket or chair – just make sure doesn’t surpass the 68-centimetre height limit.
There are places where having a Force 11 hangover is inadvisable. A police cell. When you’re facing off with an enraged bear. At New Orleans Jazz Festival on the Saturday Elton John is playing.
After a successful Friday at what might well be one of the best known music festivals in the world – where else can you see a jazz funeral and Terence Blanchard all within a couple of hours? – a very ill-advised night at the nearby Bayou Beer Garden followed. It’s fair to say that too many pints of a tasty craft beer with a surprisingly high alcohol content, a dead phone battery and a group of friends who appear to have a magical ability to disappear without trace led to new friends, even more beers and watching the sun rise over the bayou. As someone told me in the days after, as I returned to my senses, “You don’t do New Orleans, New Orleans does you.”
After battling through crowds (there are some estimates about 100,000 people were in attendance on the festival’s second Saturday, most of them beside themselves at the thought of Elton John’s end-of-day set), drinking about four gallons of strawberry lemonade and trying to find shady spots to recline, I discover a cool haven on the edge of the Fair Grounds Race Course site.
The previous day, the Gospel Tent had played host to the outstanding Irma Thomas, a powerhouse soul singer who’s been doing her thing for more than 50 years. As she sang, people rose from their seats, clapping their hands and joining in. Some ran around the perimeter of the marquee – one particular guy yelled “Hallelujah!” at regular intervals. It was certainly something to see. Today, however, it is also somewhere to sit out of the beating, hot sunshine. And there are misters sending gentle waves of coolness over everyone inside. It is, in short, an ailing person’s idea of bliss. On the stage a huge bear of a man called Pastor Marvin Sapp is singing his songs of praise. Truth be told, I’m not particularly religious – alright, I’m not religious at all – but gospel singers are storytellers of the highest order. Then, as he reaches the crescendo of a song called ‘Never Would Have Made It’, he asks the crowd to take the hand of the person beside them. Typically if you’re at a gig and a stranger grabs your hand you’d be well advised to wrest it back and bolt, but the woman next to me is beaming. “Tell the person next to you they are stronger,” the Pastor sings out. “You are stronger,” the lady trills to me in the most beautiful voice.
“Tell them they’re wiser!”
“You are wiser,” she sings. At that point, tears spring to my eyes because all I can think is, No, no I’m not. I got so drunk yesterday I can barely focus on your beautiful face. I am a moron!
As the song finishes – my singing to her is awful but received with surprising grace – I decide it is time to head out into the crowd. Drop-ins at Aaron Neville and Big Freedia almost send me to the edge, but fighting towards Jerry Lee Lewis, who’s playing immediately before Elton, finally does it – I pull the pin and head for the gates.
For music fans New Orleans itself is a dream destination. Any night of the week you can see amazing players in almost any genre performing in bars, clubs and even on street corners. Somehow though, whenever the line-up for what is really called the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival is announced, it seems to offend the purists. “Where are all the local artists?” asks one whinger on Facebook. “Not jazz,” bitches another. But this is partly the appeal of huge, well-known festivals – the money’s there to attract the big acts and therefore the crowds, but, despite what the naysayers believe, the weight of numbers at Jazz Fest truly favours local acts and the audience members who hang around at smaller stages seeking them out.
Jazz Fest runs over two weekends in April and May; Friday to Sunday on the first week and Thursday to Sunday on the second. There are 12 stages and over the course of those seven days there is a cornucopia of acts. On top of the music, there’s also amazing food, including classic Louisiana dishes like po’boys and crayfish étouffée, three different craft areas, markets and places you can find out about Louisiana’s traditions. Apart from fuelling up though, on the Friday we arrive it’s all about the music, and we approach it in a chaotic fashion, charging from stage to stage packing in as many acts as possible, while becoming increasingly distracted by frozen daiquiris and an army of colourful characters.
The bands range from bluesy rockers Johnny Sketch & the Dirty Notes and jazz saxophonist Donald Harrison to local jam band Galactic, accompanied by the ever-youthful Macy Gray, and country outlaw Shooter Jennings (yep, he’s Waylon’s son). Each afternoon, the main stages finish off with a bang. On this day the purists would have been clutching at their Mardi Gras beads as the strains of No Doubt’s ‘Just A Girl’ and Chicago smashing out ‘Hard to Say I’m Sorry’ floated over the race course.
The problem with attacking the entire program with such vigour is that, inevitably, you end up completely missing an act that’s been ‘starred’ on your Jazz Fest app. So, on Sunday, my hangover and the painful realisation that I may have missed the only opportunity I’ll ever have to see Elton John now receding memories, we plan for the long game. After studying the schedule for hours, the conclusion is drawn, particularly after the heat and crowds of the day before, to head to one of the two main stages, Acura, just after lunchtime to stake out territory and enjoy the funky ride. (There is a certain amount of hand-wringing about missing Dr John, it has to be said.)
Listen, The Meters may be better known by many as the backing band for Dr John and Robert Palmer, but they bring the funk big time. Art Neville, Leo Nocentelli and co have been slapping these beats down since the 1960s and they’ve lost none of the fire.
The excitement builds before Lenny Kravitz hits the stage. He belts out a greatest-hits set – ‘American Woman’, ‘It Ain’t Over ’Til It’s Over’, ‘Always On the Run’ – that gets the growing audience rocking. When he launches into ‘Are You Gonna Go My Way?’ and urges the crowd to “Jump, jump, jump” after the first chorus they obey. Just as the song seems to be coming to its epic drum solo conclusion – crushed by Cindy Blackman – Kravitz brings Trombone Shorty on to the stage. Shorty, aka Troy Anderson, is a local legend. He’s the musician who melded funk, rock, R&B and the best of traditional New Orleans jazz to come up with a sound all his own. He wields that ’bone like a weapon, reinventing the song and thrashing it for another four minutes. All too soon, it’s time for the big finale. As it has been since 2013, it’s up to Trombone Shorty and Orleans Avenue to bring it home. You can fire up iTunes or your CD player and put on a Shorty track, but nothing quite matches the electric atmosphere the guy brings to a stage. And, despite the black sunglasses hiding his eyes, he is charisma unleashed. For two hours, his trombone wails, guests like Ivan Neville and Leo Nocentelli add to the band’s already formidable sound, and the crowd dances like no one’s watching. Instrumentals alternate with vocal tracks. There’s not a person in the house, including Shorty, who wants it to end – and it goes on past the 7pm curfew with ‘Do To Me’. “My name is Trombone Shorty from the Treme. We love you, Jazz Fest! We’ll see you next year.” And that’s it. Three days after arriving, it’s all over. Luckily the Bayou Beer Garden is there to help us drown our sorrows.
It’s one of those magnificent tropical evenings people write love songs about. I’m floating under a carpet of stars – moonlight dancing on the water, ripples massaging my skin – desperate to be kissed by a manta ray.
I submerge my face under the water and the romance of the moment is unexpectedly lost. There are no rays, just a bunch of slender needlefish stabbing their beaks into the dark.
Ten minutes pass. In my peripheral vision I spot the white mask of a scuba diver and am a bit miffed. He’s not with our party and is hogging our light – the very thing that attracts manta rays at night. He propels himself underneath us and suddenly I realise it’s not a mask – but two cephalic horns.
Ladies and gentleman we have our first manta ray! She’s huge – about 2.5 metres across, with a body like a toasted marshmallow: dark and speckled on top and gleaming white underneath. She circles us cautiously, like a circus animal surveying the crowd, then executes a backward roll, mouth wide open, fins graciously flapping like a giant underwater bat. Soon she is joined by two friends.
Manta rays have been making regular appearances at Keauhou Bay, on the Big Island of Hawaii, since the 1970s, when one of the resorts began illuminating the water with floodlights at night, inadvertently attracting high concentrations of plankton.
For snorkellers there’s a strict ‘no touching’ policy, and I feel like a teenage boy visiting a strip club for the first time. “But they can do what they like to you – and if they touch you consider yourself kissed by a manta ray,” our enthusiastic guide says, adding that sometimes the rays rub bellies with their wetsuit-clad admirers.
I’m determined to press belly flesh with a manta ray. The big ray, who I later learn is called Melainah, approaches me head on. Her cavernous mouth looks like a glowing skeleton and I can see right down to her oesophagus. My head would just about fit inside her mouth, but she has no visible teeth and no barbs. She is like a big aquatic teddy bear – completely harmless. Just when I think we’re about to clang foreheads, she tilts herself upwards and begins a majestic sequence of backward rolls, filtering the plankton into her gizzard like a massive sieve.
This feeding cycle is repeated for about an hour, before it’s lights out and the darkness of the ocean draws the curtain on the mantas’ spectacular performance. I clamber aboard the boat, cold and giddy from the experience.
Did a manta ray single me out for special tactile attention?
It’s 14°C in New York, and I’m struggling to stay warm as I walk from the subway to catch up with Jon Rose. I’m already 15 minutes late, and Rudolph the Reindeer wasn’t the look I was hoping for when meeting the former pro surfer and Waves for Water founder for the first time.
Rose is sitting at the bar of the Gansevoort Hotel in a baseball cap, hoodie and jeans. As we chat, I notice he has none of the typical parlance you might expect from a California-bred surfer. His speech is not drawn out, nor does he bounce around words like ‘dude’ or ‘brat’; instead he sounds like an eloquent, street-smart 34-year-old man on a mission.
Rose became a professional surfer at 17, competing in competitions around the world. By the time he was 20, he already had stamps in his passport from Thailand, the Philippines, Australia, France, South Africa, India, Japan and Indonesia, to name just a few.
At 22, his rugged good looks landed him a Banana Republic campaign, and he was featured in spreads for Esquire and Maxim.
Not content with surfing and modelling, he also dabbled in photography, publishing a book entitled Towards Miles, a photo diary of his soul-searching road trip through the USA.
But Rose knew surfing wouldn’t last forever. He began to notice something that would have scared any sportsman: the younger generation was better. “I’m 34 and I could still be surfing,” he tells me. “But there’s a shift. It’s so clear. I’m not the guy any more.”
So at 30 he retired, without a clue what lay ahead in life.
At the time, Jon’s father, Jack Rose, was working in Africa through RainCatcher, the nonprofit organisation he started that helps educate villagers on catching and cleaning water using a filtration system. Inspired by his dad’s work, Jon found inexpensive, portable water filters online that could be used to clean not just rainwater but any water available, no matter how filthy. He realised by harnessing his status in the surfing community, he could bring the technology to surf regions around the world.
“I thought, ‘I’ll do charity on the side. I have a name in surfing, a voice and an audience.’ I figured I would get all the boys engaged and go fishing and surfing,” he says, taking a sip of whiskey. “I was going to go back to all the places I like to surf and drop off filters. It was totally selfish.”
And thus Waves for Water was born. Rose embarked on his first mission, dropping off 10 filters on a surf trip to Bali.
But what started out as a pet project took on a larger significance when tragedy struck. Rose was aboard a boat off the coast of Sumatra when he felt a rumble; it was an earthquake. He and the crew headed to shore and were confronted by complete and utter devastation. Realising the people of Padang urgently needed help, Rose made his way through dying children and decimated buildings to get water filters to those who needed them most – rescue workers.
“I went to Red Cross relief Centres. All they were doing was collecting bodies and the wounded. I came in and said, ‘I had these water filters.’ We took contaminated water, filtered it and I’m like, ‘You can drink it, now.’ And they’re like: ‘We don’t need it to drink. We need this water to clean the wounded.’”
The filters Rose originally thought would aid hundreds were soon helping thousands of people who may have died without access to clean water for their injuries. The experience changed his life. He realised Waves for Water could no longer be a hobby.
Rose realised he could have a huge impact during natural disasters, more so than just during routine visits to developing countries. From flooded parts of Pakistan to post-earthquake Chile and Haiti, Waves for Water has assisted in clean water efforts, working with NGOs like the UN, or corporate sponsors like Nike or Quiksilver.
Using these organisations as financial partners, Rose hits the ground with a few guys who work with him distributing filters, assessing people’s needs, and developing projects. However, Rose himself takes a back seat, seeking out local leaders and teaching them how to use and distribute the filters. “There should never be a foreigner having the power,” he says, humbly. “I don’t know the nuances and the dynamics of that whole region.”
Unlike many other non-profits, Waves for Water does not take gaggles of people on volunteer trips. There are no matching T-shirts with a group leader telling everyone what to do. Rose’s style is decidedly more punk rock.
“That thing that people say, ‘I’m one person, what can I do?’ – it’s bullshit,” he says fervently, eyes blazing. “I’ve watched thousands of people’s lives saved because of our efforts.” He calls it ‘guerilla humanitarianism’.
With millions of people travelling all the time to underserved areas, all you have to do to help out is purchase a few filters and drop them off in the appropriate locations. You can do this by purchasing a filter from Waves for Water, or by signing up to be a clean water courier.
Clean water couriers post their trips on the site to raise money for a set number of filters. It’s an ingenious idea that’s simple to implement, but can impact thousands and empower locals as well as travellers. Even if you’re not travelling to an impoverished nation anytime soon, you can still help out by sponsoring a clean water courier.
Though Rose has dedicated his life to bringing clean water to primitive disaster zones, there is one area that is neither poor nor in need of water that he felt compelled to help: the US Eastern Seaboard. The surfing communities of Long Island, Queens and New Jersey were hard hit during the devastating storm that was Hurricane Sandy. Having friends who lost everything, Rose knew he had to mobilise.
He stretches and pulls his hat off revealing his wavy salt-and-pepper hair. “It’s worse than Katrina. There’s mould you can’t see from all the flooding. It affected 220 miles. It’s 60 billion dollars worth of damage.”
Using Waves for Water as a means of funneling support for affected surfing communities, Rose has distributed more than five million dollars in supplies and goods, written more than 35 grants, and restored homes. Even artists like the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Q-Tip have gotten in on the action, performing at benefit concerts.
Although the hurricane relief effort is unlike other projects Waves for Water has been involved in, Rose is committed to helping the surf communities so close to his heart. “You know what, we’re an established organisation,” he tells me. “I have a good network and I’m leveraging the hell out of this shit. I’m just going to go for it and provide relief. I know what to do.”
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