After The Storm

Like many others, I watched the US Presidential election unfold in a state of disbelief on Wednesday. How could so many people vote for a man who poses such a threat to the hard fought victories that humanity has reached in the past hundred years? Is there that much anger and hatred in this world that a wild card candidate presented the only solution?

I am angry for my brothers and sisters in America. For the marginalized members of our global community who no longer feel safe. For womankind and the blow that a Trump presidency represents to all that they have and are yet to achieve.

But in my anger there is also resolve.

This election, if anything, has shown us just how much work there is to do. Against sexism, racism, homophobia… the battles are ongoing and despair is the easy response. Instead, this election should encourage us to band together and champion the hard fought freedoms that our forebears have struggled for.

To the extraordinary women in my life. To fellow members of the LGBTQI+ community. To people whose ethnicity differs from my own. To my friends that sit at a different end of the political spectrum. Please continue to hold hope in your hearts and to listen to one another. Acknowledge that this week has divided some of us but have faith that together we may continue to hold in high regard those values which are most important.

Never before have I been as scared as I am today for members of minority groups. I am shaken to my core by the hate speak and hate crimes that have already emerged in the wake of this election. And I am frightened for what this represents – not only in the US but across the world.

But I refuse to let fear get the better of me.

We all have a job now. To love. To listen. To respect one another. In the darkest of places, there can still be light. And I will try my absolute hardest to find it.

athens rising

Athens has a shocking reputation. 

Litter. Dust. Impossible heat.

Add in an economic crisis and skyrocketing unemployment and the Greek capital becomes a decidedly unattractive destination. 

It was definitely with a sense of trepidation that I arrived at Efharazlios Itl. Yet, whilst some of the rumors about Athens proved true, what I found was something entirely different to what I had expected.
Emerging from Monistiraki metro station, I was met by the throb of Saturday night. In this bustling central district, gyros and coffee shops were crowded and music spilled off roof top clubs. Sure, it was a bit grimy and graffiti adorned everything, but there was an energy to it; a definite beat of life.

Later that same night, in a dark bar somewhere in the port area of Piraeus, it was this same infectious sense of excitement that filtered through the streets. A restlessness and positivity that seems to suggest that this is only the dawn of a new stage for Athens. 

The scars of recent events still pockmark the city and I am assured that outside the tourist areas the situation is still dire. Closed shop fronts. Halted infrastructure development. Disillusioned children of democracy. 

But where there is dark there is also hope. 

Gazing up at The Acropolis after yet another gyros, it’s hard to imagine there not being another chapter for this town. It’s got too much going for it. Plus, the Greeks are too wonderfully proud to let the heat and dust of a teensy little economic crisis get to them. 

It’s impossible not to love them for that. 

montpellier : round 2

I first visited Montpellier as a somewhat clueless exchange student. 

I still remember clearly the shock that hit me when I got off the plane and realized that I was going to be speaking French everyday. And not high school French. Oh no. There was no asking Pierre if he had 4 pencils. This was the real thing. 

Multiple times I accidentally said I was going to sleep with someone instead of saying I was going to bed. And multiple times I mangled verb conjugations to the point that my ever patient host family would have lost all sense of what I was trying to say. 

Language challenges aside though, those 6 weeks were some of the most extraordinary of my life. 

To live somewhere is markedly different from paying it a visit. And I had the opportunity to live a wonderful life in Montpellier. 

So wonderful in fact that it is where I have found myself for the past few days. And just like before I have been offered a unique window into this beautiful (and very hot) city.

If I had been told last week that I would be discussing the technicalities of a sailing regatta to St Tropez (en francais no less), attempting to tight rope walk in a countryside villa or playing the French equivalent of Duck Duck Goose I would have been skeptical. And yet, I have done all of the above and more.

I have visited wonderful places that I never would have without my French friends and done some extraordinary things (buying oysters in French is extraordinary right?)

I am always grateful when given the opportunity to experience something which extends the experience of travel beyond the confines of a tourist site or the pages of a Lonely Planet Guide. My very dear friends in Montpellier have allowed me that and for it I am ever thankful. 

I have had an absolute ball and I can’t wait for my next visit. 

A bientôt Montpellier, a bientôt. 

Who Runs The World….?

I love women. How could you not!? They’re my best friends, my confidantes and coincidentally the only people who will come over with a bottle of champagne and every single season of Sex and the City. And it’s for this reason that I felt a surge of pride yesterday on International Women’s Day. I wanted to celebrate the remarkable women who inspire me and who have contributed so profoundly to my life.

But despite the advances that have been made for womankind there is so much change that is yet to happen. Reading Annabel Crabb’s article on Sunday I was struck by the inequality that is so rampant in our society. Watching the second installment of Mamamia’s “Women Read Mean Tweets” knocked my socks off though. Sexism is not only a general trend or figure – it affects individuals: smart, brilliant individuals too.

I share this because I support these women and I support the change that needs to take place now.

VAMFF’s Culture Vultures Hatch

Despite the gosh darn oppressive heat, Melbourne’s movers, shakers and sartorially inclined braved the city streets for the launch of the Melbourne Fashion Festival’s first ever Cultural Program last night – a month of events that mark the lead up to fashion week. This is an exciting step for Australia’s ‘fashion capital’ and also provides the general public with an increasing amount of access in the weeks preceding the runways at Docklands.

Hosted in RMIT’s über modern design hub – imagine an extremely chic bunker with much delicious food (thnx Tommy Collins) – the event celebrated not only the launch but also a series of fashion films. Whilst art and fashion have now shared a healthy relationship for some time in Melbourne this initiative further cements that link and provides fertile ground for collaboration.

The divinely dressed and eccentrically accessorised were out in full force and it all seems to boding rather well for another year of fabulous frocks and events celebrating the best style that we have to offer.

What Cuba Taught Us About Lycra

Emerging into the steamy Havana night it was immediately clear that I was in for a week of sartorial delights. In place of the drab and shapeless garments that adorn civil servants in other airports of the world, Cuba seemed to revel in making everything tighter, shorter and, well, sexier.  A country where even the most miserable khaki can be livened up with a patterned fish net stocking is a country that I will gladly visit – awful food and no internet withstanding.

At first I was bowled over by the beauty of the place. It’s a heady combination of crumbling French colonial architecture and no Western advertising. Walking down the boulevard outside the hotel one could be mistaken for thinking themselves on a Chanel runway (such is Karl’s affection for colossal structures reminiscent of a streetscape and the pastel charm and uniformity of the Cuban capital).

More than the fabulous setting though were the fabulous people and their clothes. And it was not so much the clothes they wore as it was the way in which they wore them. I have for a long time believed that the man maketh the clothes. We project what we feel and the fabric on our backs is an (often fabulous) amplification of that. So often though this seemingly basic principle is undermined by anxieties. We worry that the pants are too tight, the shoes too scuffed, the entire ensemble not chic enough. And this shows: we slump, we give up, we buy track pants. In Cuba though – whether due to the total lack of Western advertising or simply because of the temperate climate – people seemed to wear their clothing with a confidence that defied the conventions that regulate how we engage with fashion in the West.

Walking down the street was a colourful riot of stretch netting, lycra and fluorescent died denim. On one side of a thoroughfare a group of girls perch on benches, each wearing an even more fabulously thigh skimming mini dress than the other whilst opposite them are a group of young Habeñeros fiddling on their phones, impossibly tight jeans hugging their legs, plunging V-neck t-shirts sticking to sweaty backs. In the distance a Santerria sashays ahead, a vision in a bleached white frock and scarf.

There is a languid confidence and sense of ease in Havana that is hypnotising in our world of fast fashion. This is not to say that Western fashion is bad – goodness no, I appreciate a monogrammed Burberry poncho as much as the next man – rather it’s a suggestion that the way in which we interact with fashion needs to be reexamined. Our relationship seems at times to be a tenuous one. But if Cuba shows anything it is that this everyday bond needn’t be difficult. So much of what makes someone stylish is their own panache and, unlike the 50 year old Cuban woman who paired a lime green mesh tank over a tangerine tube top and got away with it, this is something that can easily be forgotten.

So be bold with your choices. Not so bold perhaps as to pair contrasting stretch fabrics, but bold nonetheless. There are too many boring, safe looks out there in the world – take the leap and run with it, you never know where you might end up.

Sweating It Out

Like all fairytales, an extended holiday must come to an end. There are flights to catch, clothes to wash and (inevitably) poverty to be narrowly avoided. Thankfully – like many fairy tales – the Twenty Something Society’s return down under has come with a silver lining though. Sort of. See, there’s nothing like a Melbourne summer. Scorching streets one day and a stiff arctic breeze the next. The familiar clank of a far off tram. And, of course, the proliferation of festivals that mark the closing of the summer months. For the purposes of this blog the jewel in the crown of all this is  VAMFF. After all who doesn’t want a spot of fashion to kick off the new year eh? Attending the launch yesterday I found myself swamped by a mass of impeccably dressed Amazons, many of whose legs went up past my neck. What had at first appeared to me a chic ensemble – one is supposedly never to wear white after labor day and I thus have to capitalise on the few weeks remaining – quickly appeared shabby and ill fitting in contrast to the swathes of fine fabric that sashayed past me onto the manicured lawn of Government House. Nonetheless, onwards I forged. What are an army of models and an imposing historical building if not an opportunity for fabulousness. For, unsurprisingly, this is what I found. Listening to the speakers yesterday I was overcome not only with a desire to burn everything in my wardrobe and start afresh but also by an increasing sense of excitement and pride in what is set to be another wonderful and distinctly Australian fashion festival. There is indeed no place like home and no better welcome than a week or two of homegrown talent being paraded around our charming if climatically temperamental city. The Twenty Something Society looks forward to providing you with updates on the festival which runs from March 14 to 22nd in the coming weeks.

The Four Months That Were

And here we are eh? Another year almost over. The end of a fabulous adventure. The start of hundreds more. Kim Kardashian supposedly broke the internet with her bottom. Jay-Z and Solange had fisty cuffs in an elevator. Oscar de la Renta, the hitherto reigning King of fashion, died. I watched more Netflix than any individual ever should and we all grew another year older – but most definitely not wiser. Though The Twenty Something Society has been somewhat neglected these past few months it has never been completely forgotten. It just seems that sometimes there is far too much living to be done and not nearly enough time in which to do it. So here I give you 2014 in review. After embarking on an experiment in semi-independent living this semester there seems an awful lot to share but I’m going to endeavour to make this as short and sweet as possible. The festive season is notorious/wonderful for its ungainly social calendar and I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from all those free beverages. Where to start though? I could tell you all about my first encounter with a toilet plunger… or the time I crafted an almost inedible meal using the seemingly safe ingredients of pasta and tinned tomatoes. But all of this pales in comparison to what mattered most this year: the people that made it fabulous. And more specifically the three people with whom I shared an apartment. It’s not without a sense of trepidation that ones takes their first solo steps into the world. Stories abound of housemates who – although at first seeming normal – turn out to be wild coke heads or madly affectionate animal people who bring stray/rabid dogs home. But, with a stroke of luck, none of this seems to have eventuated with the gang that I shared a house with. In only one semester it seemed that we shared more laughter, detailed descriptions of our bowel movements and outrageously bad hangovers than any given person should be allowed in a life time. When we had to cry, we did together and when the Victoria’s Secret show graced our screens we banded together with Haagen Dazs and wine, providing useful commentary throughout. We crossed borders and time zones, had Apple products stolen from us (repeatedly), held each others hair (in a purely metaphorical sense – my military inspired crop prevents this from taking place in reality), provided countless instances of fashion advice (in my eyes everything was an ‘investment’) and sought out the cheapest and most vile white wine that the great city of Montreal has to offer. Looking back on it, the last few months weren’t marked by events or places but instead by these three girls: the most outrageous gang of lunatics I could possibly have hoped to live with. And I don’t feel like it’s only me that feels that. I think that for most of us the great memories are those that are shared. Cruising at a comfortable 40000 ft somewhere over Canada I sincerely hope that anyone reading this will have had some of the good fortune to have met and fallen in love time and time again with fabulous people this year. When one is without a literal family the world can seem an awfully big place – thankfully a substitute one is never too far away. I hope that your festive season was celebrated with one such gang. All my best for the new year, XX J.G

PDA: Yay or Nay?

I was walking home from the grocery shop today, minding my own business, listening to a bit of circa 2003 Shakira when I spotted what appeared to be a strange entwined mass of limbs on the corner of my block. Approaching closer I realised that it was not as I had originally thought a post-modern installation piece but instead two people going at it. With tongues.

Ew. I could practically hear their tongues slapping together. Plz people. It’s just after lunch time – my sandwich has not settled.

But then I caught myself. Because haven’t we all found ourselves accidentally caught in a moment of love struck-ness? I don’t think it’s ever quite struck me in the middle of major cosmopolitan thoroughfare but this isn’t to say that it couldn’t happen. Perhaps I should have turned a blind eye to those two love sick saps instead of shooting them my best stink eye and strutting past like Beyoncé on acid? Perhaps my disgust is just a sign of bitterness?

In the elevator and on my second repeat of ‘Whenever, Wherever’ I decided that perhaps the subject of the PDA is not as clear cut as I originally thought. Originally I had been a firm believer that between the hours of 9-5, Monday through Friday, anything that goes beyond a peck on the cheek in a public space was a no go zone. Maybe not though?

Maybe if you’re kind of subtle about it and don’t draw it out too long a bit of tonsil hockey won’t kill anyone. I’m not promoting people to go about dry-humping against parking permit signs but maybe we need to allow a little bit of extra room for those crazy loved-up fools to enjoy some time in the sun?

And even if that idea makes you feel slightly nauseous (I’m almost regretting having brought it up myself and am about to descend to the convenience store to get a large tub of Haagen-Dasz in which to wallow) there’s a lot to be said for just looking the opposite way. Or glaring at them until they stop.

Both seem to work.

Halloween Guide 2014

It seems like just yesterday that the there was still warmth in the air and a spring in our step but alas. In the words of the bearded author of Game of Thrones whose name I can’t remember: ‘winter is coming’. This being said, it’s not all bad news because though the leaves have turned and its becoming harder and harder to leave the house (and more and more likely that you’ll stay home and watch House of Cards in your underwear with a bottle of savvy b) the holiday season is here. And this time it’s the real deal.

As long time readers will well know, I love a good costume. One November not so long ago I found myself at the Tennis Club Christmas party in an elf costume which included a set of jingle bells threaded onto the laces of my tennis shoes and a jaunty hat. Needless to say I won the costume competition. In fact, no one else really dressed up at all. But what’s a good theme for if not an excuse to whip something out of the costume cupboard (yes, in my childhood we had a relatively large wardrobe devoted to wigs, jewellery, costumes and a very fetching array of crocheted garments) and live it up?

Since this point my love has only grown and now I find myself smack bang in the middle of a costume lovers paradise. North American Halloween. Three nights, three costumes, no mercy.

As Cady Heron once so wisely said, ‘Halloween is the one day a year when a girl (or guy) can dress up like a total slut and no other girls (or guys) can say anything else about it’. That’s right people, it’s game time. Pay heed:

1) Too much is never enough:

This is not the time for subtlety – it’s time to commit. That’s right. I’m talking wigs, appropriate accessories, footwear, makeup, maybe even an adoption of your characters voice for the night: the whole enchilada.

2) No costume? No worries:

Some people bafflingly leave their costume purchase until the day of Halloween. And we all know that the only costumes left at that point are terrible, like a misshapen hippy costume with a bad nylon wig that had been returned the day before by a sweaty office clerk. This being said greatness can come from the most unexpected of places – you just have to be a bit more creative. A set of animal ears and some eyeliner and you’re in business.

3) Work It:

Nothing is more painful than seeing someone in a costume awkwardly hunched over trying to hide from onlookers. They really only make the situation worse by looking like Quasimodo from the Hunchback of Notre Dame. It’s Halloween. Most people look atrocious. Live with it. I once caught a peak hour metro service dressed in nothing more than lederhosen and a jaunty hat. You’ll survive.

With these tips I remind you all that we are now at T-7 days until game time. This is not a drill. Go go go!

Image: http://pyxurz.blogspot.ca/2013/04/mean-girls-page-5-of-9.html