Heather Magee

Live Music in LA

Posted on October 22, 2015 by Heather Magee

When we decided to set up shop in Los Angeles, we narrowed it down to two of our favorite neighbourhoods: Venice and West Hollywood. Venice for the artsy, hippie, bohemian, and inspired beach bum lifestyle. WeHo for the energy, excitement, grit and garish atmosphere.

When I tell people in Venice that we nearly landed in Hollywood, they cringe and question how we could ever consider living somewhere as loud and busy as WeHo. Truth is, I’ve got it bad for the gigs. Live music is what made me fall in love with LA, and most of our favorite venues happen to sit in the shadows of the Hollywood Hills.

My groupie tendencies and love of music are what inspired the name of this blog, actually. Sure, LA is famous for the film industry and I’m equally as passionate about that art form. But the bands that were formed here and the music that is inspired by this crazy town seduce me to no end.

Los Angeles is a relentless temptress. Being the nine-to-fiver that I am, it’s hard to hit the town on school nights, but I can’t help myself. Once I’m there breathing in the stench of LA’s late night underbelly, it’s hard to get me home. I realize that doesn’t sound too enticing, but I’m telling you, this city has pheromones.

Over the past several months, my husband (fellow groupie) and I started keeping track of our favorite venues and began listing all the places we want to go next. So far, I’d have to say the Troubadour is my favorite and my husband is partial to the Greek but here’s our ever-expanding list and what we’ve scratched off so far:

Hollywood Bowl
Greek Theatre
The Fonda Theater
Hollywood Palladium
El Rey Theatre
The Echo
Teragram Ballroom
Whisky a-Go-Go
Hotel Café
Roxy Theatre
Trip
The Del Monte Speakeasy
The Orpheum
Basement Tavern
Grammy Museum
Masonic Lodge at Hollywood Forever
The Observatory
The Forum
Troubadour
Echoplex
The Getty
The Mint
The Viper Room
The Shrine
House of Blues – Sunset Strip (now closed)
Club Nokia
Santa Monica Pier
The Regent Theater
The Theatre at Ace Hotel
Pappy & Harriet’s
Bootleg Theater
The Wiltern
Belasco Theater

Before catching a show at the Whisky last week, we had dinner at the Rainbow Bar & Grill. Although I’m about 50 years too late to the party, the place still had an eerie vibe to it and apparently hasn’t changed much over the past several decades. While we were there, hiding in a corner table surrounded by gold records and other precious memorabilia, an older gentleman began telling patrons stories about the old days. How Sinatra would sit and chain smoke and drink for hours with his friends and how Zeppelin would receive blowjobs under the tables from forthcoming groupies. He also shared the “true story” of how Marilyn Monroe, another star who frequented the place, was murdered by the US government and how the hit man who carried out the deed was brutally murdered somewhere in Florida to abolish all evidence. Thank god some of these people are still around to tell these torrid tales.

I love this list of the 50 best music venues in LA from LA Weekly, which has become our cultural bible since moving here.

What am I missing? Is there another music venue I need to add to my list?

Follow along @thelasessions

Transcending Time in the Desert

Posted on October 17, 2015 by Heather Magee

There’s something strange and mystical about the desert that can draw you in like a thirsty traveler to an abundant oasis. The climate is almost perfect, at certain points of the year, while the dead of summer could result in just that – death. Natural environments capable of creating extreme danger kind of get my rocks off, even though I wouldn’t dare travel to these places in times where an inherent risk is present. Just being aware of the power of these corners of the world is enough to satiate my adventurous appetite.

While planning a trip to Joshua Tree, I stumbled across a few travel blogs that talked about a big white dome, a short drive from the Yucca Valley. I remembered seeing an episode of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations where he and Josh Homme visited something like that too. Always one to follow in the footsteps of my favorite journos and rock stars, I couldn’t resist traveling down the rolling road to nowhere, passing ‘Jesus Saves’ signs along the way, in search of this strange structure.

Eventually we reached a little town called Landers and found the Integratron, a striking white dome set amidst a desolate, desert backdrop. I was waiting for tiny, green men to swing open the front door and tell us to join them meanwhile hoping we hadn’t stumbled upon some religious cult clubhouse. Luckily, neither were the case.

Situated on top of a geometric vortex, the Integratron was built in the 1960s by aerospace engineer George Van Tassel who claimed the idea to build it was inspired by communications he had received from extra-terrestrial life. I wasn’t too far off with the little green men.

The only acoustically perfect, all wood structure in the United States, its energy is said to be capable of cell rejuvenation, anti-gravity and time travel. While I didn’t find myself shot back into the early 1970s, a time I fantasize about traveling back to all the time, I did experience an altered state of consciousness that I can only describe as not really being awake, but still being completely aware.

My husband and I signed up for a Sound Bath, conducted by one of the three sisters who own the place. A sonic healing technique, using giant quartz bowls keyed into your body’s energy centres (or chakras), the soothing sound is said to deliver frequencies deep into cellular levels.

Our group of about 20 people were invited into the upstairs sound chamber and asked to lie down on the mats and pillows provided, with our heads facing into the center. At first, the sound is a little jarring but eventually soothing. For me, it felt like a sound bubble was hovering outside of my right ear before traveling inside my head, lingering somewhere in between my eyes, before escaping out from my other ear. At one point it felt like my arms had dropped through the floor and eventually it didn’t feel like there was any floor at all. My husband found the whole experience so soothing he fell asleep.

The Integratron, originally financed in part by Howard Hughes, attracts visitors and musicians from all over the world; there to experience acoustic perfection or to absorb it’s healing powers. I came purely out of curiosity, but I’m eager to make my way back to experience it all over again.

Reservations can be made ahead of time, and I suggest you book well in advance. According to Nancy Karl, one of the co-owners who conducted our sound bath, interest in the Integratron has increased tenfold over the past few years. Visit integtratron.com for more information.

Also published in the Huffington Post.

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A Day in Joshua Tree

Posted on October 12, 2015 by Heather Magee

There are a lot of books, blogs and spiritual enthusiasts that talk about bucket lists these days. Goal-getters, manifesters and the like. While I certainly subscribe to the practice of gratitude and setting goals I’ve never been one to maintain a “bucket list”. I guess the mantra that’s always meant something to me is to follow your desires, despite how impulsive or careless they might seem. If it feels good do it, I always say. Or was that an overplayed Sloan song?

Despite not having a list of items I feel compelled to check off before I fade to ashes someday, there are certain things that I fixate on. I guess you could interpret that as a bucket list, but I like to think of them as things I’m mysteriously drawn to as a result of some unspoken force. That probably sounds a little crazy. Maybe it is.

I’ve been obsessed with Joshua Tree for as long as I can remember. The diversity of the environment, the jaw dropping landscapes and the gnarly yucca trees made famous by four Irish lads long ago. It’s always felt like a universe away, even though I’ve lived within a 3-hour flight of California’s Mojave Desert most of my life, where a portion of the park is situated. Now that I live in Los Angeles, it was high time I explored this place I’ve fantasized about for decades.

Before committing to a multi-night stay in one of the campgrounds, I decided it was better to tackle the park in a day trip from Palm Springs to get my bearings and better understand the climate. No matter what time of year you plan on venturing into Joshua Tree, always make sure you have the right supplies with you to stay safe and hydrated.

We entered at the East entrance from Highway 10, which is exactly where you want to start if you intend on traveling across to the other side of the park in one day. The road leading up to it was surprisingly desolate with little to no traffic (like, we maybe encountered 3 other cars), despite being a long weekend. Which really appealed to my Joshua Tree fantasy of feeling like you’re the only person on the planet.

We arrived at the Cottonwood Visitor Center right when it opened and the helpful rangers gave us a map and pointed out all the keys points of interest, based on our 12-hour timeframe. If you have time, start the day by hiking the easy 1.5-mile loop to Cottonwood Spring before getting deep into the park. The spring, which was used for centuries by the Cahuilla Indians, is the result of earthquake activity and the trailhead begins next to the Visitor Center.

Our first stop was the Ocotillo Patch, which immediately transported us to what seemed like an underwater garden. The tall, green plants looked like soft coral swaying in an undercurrent amidst the Mojave’s Pinto Mountains. Great photo op for street signs that indicate how crazy and windy the route is.

A few more minutes up the road and you reach the Cholla Cactus Garden, which may have been my favorite part of the park, based on the snap-happy amount of photos I took. This area of Joshua Tree is otherworldly and the colors are so vibrant it feels like you’re looking through an Instagram filter (#nofilterneeded). Walk the 15-minute loop – or longer, depending on how long you marvel at these prickly wonders – and keep your eyes peeled for wildlife. We spotted a rather friendly desert hare that was practically posing for us.

Continuing on, before we knew it, the landscape shifted from sun and sand to moody clouds and mile-high boulders. Each piece gently and strategically placed, as if by some giant being, balancing against the laws of physics. We stopped at Jumbo Rocks to stretch our legs and determined this was the spot to camp next time we make our way to Joshua Tree. The rock formations there create perfect little alcoves, offering a much-needed reprieve from the heat of the day. Slightly beyond the campgrounds you’ll reach Skull Rock, another great photo op if you feel like climbing into the nostril and hamming it up as my husband did. Be on the lookout for lizards here. We spotted a few desert iguanas basking on the warm rocks.

As you continue through Sheep Pass – watch for bighorn sheep, as the name would suggest – Ryan Mountain comes into view. One of the highest points in the park and great for a more challenging hike with steep terrain, once again a photo op was necessary as my husband’s name is Ryan. This definitely tops our list for our next visit.

Finally, we made it to Hidden Valley, perhaps one of the most photographed and familiar places in the park due to the abundance of yucca trees (also known as Joshua trees) and a teeny, tiny little album in the 80s. You know when you dream of what a place might look like or feel like, and when you get there, it’s often slightly different than you imagined? Sometimes better, other times a little lackluster. Hidden Valley was exactly what I had envisioned Joshua Tree to be. Spellbinding, spine-tingling and, if nothing else, a little eerie. Make sure you have some time to spend there just to wander. No maps, phones or distractions. Just be. And if you’re looking for the tree made famous by U2, it’s not actually inside Joshua Tree, but several hours away…if it’s still standing today.

Obviously, after traipsing about all day in the various temps and terrain, dodging rattle snakes and other unfavourable desert characters, you’ll have earned yourself a cold one. Belly up to the bar with the locals at the Joshua Tree Saloon, less than a mile past the western entrance to the park, until it’s time to head back for sunset.

A lot of people recommended that we head to Keys View for sunset, which has a great view of the valley below. But, if you’re looking for that iconic Joshua Tree experience, with yucca trees dotting the horizon as the blazing sun dips below the Bernadino Mountains, head to Quail Springs and stake your claim on one of the many boulders to soak in the last seconds of magic hour. It might just change your life.

Suggested soundtrack: Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers Greatest Hits, Queens of the Stone Age Like Clockwork and The Doors Morrison Hotel.

What to bring: A cooler with a minimum of 2 litres of water per person. We also packed sandwiches, granola bars and fruit. Wear a hat, sunscreen and make sure you have something warm to layer on after the sun goes down. Otherwise, a camera, good tunes and a tank full of gas are all you need to make the trip. Oh, and toilet paper…just in case. But the park has several rest stops with outhouses.

PARK MAP

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Northeast Party House

Posted on October 10, 2015 by Heather Magee

The smell as you enter the dark and dingy confines of the Echoplex can only be described as a mix of latex, lager and the blood, sweat and tears that have be shed on its well trodden stage. A venue with a reputation for launching the careers of LA-based bands like Foster the People and The Airborne Toxic Event, the place feels a little haunted by rock star souls of the past. Which is why it’s kind of appropriate that we walked in right as Aussie band Northeast Party House was ripping into a song of the same name, as part of the Culture Collide music festival.

I bought tickets specifically to see Kiwi electro-pop rocker Ladyhawke – who I’ve been following and grooving to for years – but when Northeast Party House hit the stage before her set, I was glad I got there early.

Six handsome lads hailing from Melbourne, on their first tour oversees, it was obvious they were excited to be playing for an international audience. New to the game, however, they were not, blowing up the space with testosterone-driven stage antics, they knew they had earned the right to be there. Their set was tight! And loud. And fucking brilliant.

They reminded me a bit of Blur circa the Blur album, but more up beat. At times you could have sworn Trent Reznor was onstage with them, churning out weird and wonderful sounds as lead singer Zach Hamilton-Reeves went borderline ballistic. Mitch Ansell was insanely good on lead guitar, launching into “Enter Sandman” for a few riffs. I’m pretty certain my husband and I were some of the only spectators to catch on, given the sea of millennial-aged hipsters surrounding us.

Funk rock with pop hooks and a beat you can dance to, but a sound that will blow your hair back. These guys are ones to watch.

Their album Any Given Weekend is available on iTunes. The band plays The Echo in LA this afternoon and then heads to New York for the next leg of their tour. Follow their updates here.

Follow along @thelasessions

Counting Stars on Catalina

Posted on October 3, 2015 by Heather Magee

Gradually I’ve discovered one of the best things about living in LA is the fact that it’s so easy to escape it. That doesn’t mean I don’t love living in this magically messed up town, because I adore it – probably to a fault. But I’m restless by nature and a change of scenery is always welcome, regardless of how long I’ve stayed or lived somewhere.

One balmy weekend this summer my husband and I decided it was high time to get off the mainland to explore this mysterious mound of land that emerges from the horizon, only when the marine cloud clears enough to view it. Santa Catalina Island, a little bit of paradise, just 30 miles offshore.

A one-hour voyage aboard the Catalina Express from Long Beach, spotting flying fish and a pod of about 20 dolphins playing in our breakwater on the way, we arrived in Avalon. Nothing about this tiny village signals that you’re still in SoCal. The first thing you notice while stepping off the boat is the clear, emerald green water dotted with bright orange Garibaldi fish. The marine life is beautiful and abundant and at first glance, you might think you were in Italy disembarking somewhere along the Amalfi Coast.

You can approach Catalina one of two ways – stay in Avalon, relax, swim, paddleboard, feast on local fish and get hoodwinked into trying Buffalo’s Milk, a boozy local libation. Or, you can venture to the other side of the island and camp at one of the many semi-secluded beaches. For this first visit, we went to chill out.

A lot of sun-seekers opt to line the teeny, tiny manmade beach along Crescent Ave, but the best way to enjoy a day of lounging and swimming in Avalon is to book a few sunbeds at the Descanso Beach Club. There’s also a park that stretches up behind the beach that’s perfect for picnics and a stand selling pre-inflated floaties for five bucks a pop. Just follow the path along the water from the ferry terminal, and depending on your pace, it shouldn’t take more than 20 minutes.

On the way you’ll pass the historical Catalina Casino. Before you cringe, there are no slot machines or tacky felt tables to be seen. Built in 1929, the grand art deco structure often played host to Hollywood’s elite. It’s said that the movie theatre on the main level was the first to be designed specifically for pictures with sound (talkies). Cecil B. DeMille used to arrive by yacht to screen previews of his films there. You can take a walking tour for $12 to check out the art deco murals inside the theater, visit the museum and venture up to the famous ballroom. Step outside onto the “romance promenade” for breathtaking views of the bay. Why was everything much more glamorous and majestic in those days?

My husband set out for a day of diving with Catalina Scuba Luv while I lounged the afternoon away. He came face-to-face with a few giant bass (300+ pounds!) while encircled by what he describes as what felt like “millions of fish”. Given he’s logged over a hundred dives all over the world, I was surprised when he ranked his dives at Catalina among his best. The environment is so pristine I don’t think I saw a single piece of litter anywhere on the island or in the water. Here’s hoping it stays that way forever. Lover’s Cove is also great for snorkelling and spotting Garibaldis.

If you’re still revelling in the romance of it all, have dinner on the outside terrace at Ristorante Villa Portofino and count the stars, which are much more visible and sparkling compared to the mainland. For more of a party crowd make your way to The Lobster Trap for the aforementioned boozy concoction.

Day trips are totally possible, but spend a few nights if you can. If you’re looking for somewhere central to stay, that’s slightly off the beaten path, climb the bougainvillea-lined Marilla Ave to the Catalina Boat House. The views from the patio are worth the short but steep hike.

While we didn’t run into Will Ferrell or find a fucking Catalina Wine Mixer, we kind of fell in love with the place. We’ll definitely be venturing back soon.

Follow along @thelasessions

DTLA Arts District

Posted on October 1, 2015 by Heather Magee

Downtown Los Angeles is not what is used to be – in a good way. The first time I visited DTLA was during a business trip nearly 15 years ago and I thought the place looked post-apocalyptic. As soon as business was done for the day and the banks closed their doors, it was all crickets and tumbleweeds. You could strut down the centerline of just about any side street and barely see another soul. Nothing was happening downtown other than whatever concert or sporting event was taking place at Staples Centre, now part of the LA Live monster-plex.

Hipsters had not migrated into the gritty area yet, igniting a demand for locally brewed coffee and craft beer. Very few people lived there, and even today the population of actual residents is said to be 50,000. Aside from some grand old theatres, downtown didn’t seem to offer much to tourists with dreams of Hollywood and stars in their eyes. What a difference a decade makes.

Strolling, eating and drinking your way along downtown’s eclectic streets today is mandatory when spending time in LA. But if you only have one day or afternoon to do it, head straight to the Arts District.

First, let me preface this with a safety precaution. Don’t walk there. Depending on which direction you’re traveling from, you could encounter some unpleasant streets. I thought it might be “fun” to walk from the 7^th Street Metro Station across town, through the Fashion District. What I didn’t plan for was walking straight through Skid Row. I’ve gotten myself into some sticky situations while traveling over the years, but the dire situation in this part of town is not to be underestimated. My husband was actually prepared to smash his iPhone to use a weapon (in manner of Jason Bourne) if someone tried to mug the silly Canadians traipsing right through tent city. After many eerie empty lots, we finally turned a corner and spotted a bearded man spray-painting an art installation and thank fuck, we knew we had made it.

We rested our weary – and sweaty – souls in a shady alley alongside the Daily Dose café. From one block to another we were transported into a different world, suddenly surrounded by artists and creatives. I’ve never wanted to hug a hipster so hard in my life. The locally sourced food and fresh pressed juices were phenomenal and the vibe is super chill. Ivy has completely taken over the beautiful old brick walls and the garden-like setting is adorned with crystal chandeliers.

With our bearings intact we set out to explore this emerging community sprouting up from what was once mostly abandoned warehouses and industrial factories. Newly converted lofts, movie lots and bougainvillea-lined streets give the feeling of a new era, while still maintaining some street cred.

Stumptown Coffee has a café on Santa Fe and 7^thand patrons can peer right into their roasting room to see their beans being churned up close. We grabbed a couple of iced Americanos and traveled east down 7^th across the bridge over the Los Angeles River for a stark reminder of California’s never-ending drought. Then we spent the afternoon searching for street art and murals we had seen spattered across Instagram.

Unexpectedly, we spotted a massive wine shop so I had to take a peek. Silver Lake Wine carries an impressive selection of wines from California and all over the world. They had recently opened when we visited and were still getting set up, but weekly tastings and private parties are now available.

Plenty of shops and quality boutiques are popping up in this neighorhood as well. If you’re in the market for some handcrafted pieces for your home or wardrobe – and have a bit of cash to burn – check out Guerilla Atelier or Poketo for something truly unique.

If you linger long enough into the dinner hour, snag a table at Bestia, one of LA’s most talked about eateries, for an Italian feast you won’t soon forget. The husband and wife team behind the award-winning menu have created something really special in this part of town.

There’s so much more to explore in the Arts District, heading north towards Little Tokyo and the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA). But it’s easy to get stuck on a charming side street and people watch the afternoon away.

Follow along @thelasessions

Vancouver to Venice

Posted on October 1, 2015 by Heather Magee

At what point does home not really feel like home anymore? I remember when home was a place I longed for during extended trips abroad or something I marvelled at when I returned, a little more worldly and a lot more appreciative of the city I was declaring as my place of residence on my immigration slip.

Vancouver, BC was that place for more than 12 years. I moved there following 3 months of beach huts and guesthouses in South East Asia. Broke but ready to live on my own for the first time at the ripe old age of 23.

For the next 8 years I would live on the corner of Harwood and Nicola in Vancouver’s whimsical West End. My neighbors ranged from folks who had lived there since the very first pride parade marched down Thurlow Ave to independent filmmakers, punks and pensioners. A block from the beach, I thought I’d live there forever.

Eventually I migrated to the other side of town to shack up with my now husband, still basking in my city’s reputation as the most liveable place on earth. And it was. It still is, in a lot of ways. But like all good things, that chapter was coming to a very natural and amicable conclusion. I had hiked its trails, skied its mountains, and soaked up its ocean shores. There was nothing left to look forward to as life became kind of cyclical. As the late B.B. King would croon, the thrill was gone.

It was the 4^th of July weekend in 2012 and I was finishing up at a conference in San Diego. Having not spent time in Los Angeles in a while, I was eager to reacquaint myself with Vancouver’s cinematic sister city. So I convinced my husband (then fiancé) to meet me in Venice for a few days. I can’t really describe it, but as I was sitting on a patio waiting for my husband to arrive, observing all the sun-kissed surfers and nouveau bohemians blow by me, I distinctly remember feeling like I was home.

Fast forward to May of last year, floating listlessly in a West Hollywood pool praying time would stand still, as my husband monitored his phone to make sure we wouldn’t miss our flight home to Vancouver. Again, that feeling. Like we shouldn’t be leaving at all. I declared right then, perched on a pink pool floatie, hazy from the unnecessary Pimm’s cup at breakfast, that one day we would miss our flight home. One year later, we did.

It’s been exactly 3 months since we missed that flight. And we’ve settled in Venice, precisely where I silently predicted we would 3 years ago. I’ve lived outside of Canada before, but this time it doesn’t feel like I’ve left something behind, aside from friends and family of course. With every hidden mural, underground tavern or new walk street to discover, everything about being here feels natural and familiar. Maybe it’s because there are so many similarities, at this stage of Venice’s evolution.

Like Vancouver, cars aren’t necessary in Venice. Neither are heavy winter coats, fashion-forward clothes or having to look far for the nearest community garden. Venice is undergoing considerable gentrification, much to the chagrin of some of its long time residents. The man who runs our local plant shop tries to warn me about the dangers of living here, every time I pop by to replace another succulent I’ve killed. What he doesn’t know is the city I came from has the same income inequalities and clashing of cultures Venice is experiencing now.

One of the most impoverished streets in North America sits a short 10-minute walk from my former high-rise address in Vancouver; a neighbourhood where tiny condos quickly sell for a cool million, sometimes thousands of dollars over asking price. In Vancouver, displaced people struggling with drug addiction and mental health issues live in and among some of the cities most touted hot spots and eateries. The same thing is happening in Venice.

Similar to Vancouver, Venice is far from perfect, despite having one of our main thoroughfares being named the coolest block in America. There are often LAPD choppers buzzing above our little mid-century mod apartment in the middle of the night. Gang tags can suddenly appear everywhere, but are quickly painted over by storeowners. Power lines obscure the otherwise perfect palm-lined skyline as I look towards the beach from our kitchen window. But Venice has soul and character and a history that has inspired some of the most prolific artists and musicians of the last 100 years. The creative fervor in the air is so intoxicating it’s hard to resist. So for now, she is home. And I grow to love her more each day.

Follow along @thelasessions

Sex in America

Posted on October 1, 2015 by Heather Magee

Let’s pretend for a moment that it’s 1950. I’m in a floral housedress, bosom prominently pointed due to the unnatural architecture of women’s undergarments of that era. My husband is relaxing in the lounge, catching up on the news of the day as I present him with a happy hour snifter of scotch. A ham or some other animal protein sits roasting in the next room.

After dinner, and a martini or two, the moment strikes where lovemaking is probable. The sultry sounds of Sinatra play as we climb into one of the twin beds placed parallel in our bedroom, for a brief conjugal encounter – in the dark, in silence, ever so discreetly.

Snapping back to 2015, I’d like to think people were properly getting it on in those days. But the residual effects of North America pre-sexual revolution seem to have lingered well past the dawn of free love.

When my husband and I recently decided to live in Los Angeles for a while, I was prepared for a few cultural and social discrepancies compared to Canada. However, having landed in a state made famous for it’s entertainment industry and liberal thought leaders, a few things have surprised me.

Let’s start with something as simple as purchasing contraceptives. The first time my husband popped into our local pharmacy to pick up some condoms, he set off an alarm system. Not the kind of alarm system that prompts an employee to check your bags, nor did a staff member or security guard approach him. It was more of a public shaming of sorts. Attention shoppers: the gentleman wearing the Dodgers hat in aisle three is about to get laid!

Obviously, I had to see this for myself. So we went back to the store, prepared to be cast as Canadian sexual deviants. Sure enough, while extracting a box of condoms from a conspicuous plastic bin, a loud alarm began to sound, alerting everyone in the store as to what we were up to. And, as my husband reported, nothing happened. No one checks on you or asks what your intentions are with the 12-pack of Trojans you just tossed into your basket. People simply stare as you slink towards the toothpaste aisle like nothing happened.

A lot of people we encounter in the U.S. assume that the Canadian healthcare system is something to aspire to. And it’s true; we have much to be grateful for. Until a fellow expat of mine pointed out that the local women’s clinic will give you condoms and birth control for free, no questions asked. Items that are most certainly not free at home. I know this isn’t the case nationwide, but I thought it was surprising considering an alarm comparable to an air horn goes off when trying to purchase prophylactics.

Without getting into the many sexualized starlets that hail from the Golden State, it amazes me what’s considered acceptable and what’s considered taboo as it relates to women. Let’s take the Free the Nipple movement, for example. I’ve written about this before, after Instagram removed an image I posted of a Vancouver-based burlesque dancer, nipples perfectly concealed by a pair of pasties. Nipples on the beach are a no go in California, if you’re a woman. Even where I live in Venice, which has always been the bohemian epicentre of SoCal. Meanwhile, bare bottoms are all the rage, on the beach, by the pool or even walking down the street.

While not particularly common, outside of designated nude beaches, going topless in Canada isn’t considered a criminal offense. Nothing makes me more patriotic than having the freedom to bare my breasts in public, even though I rarely exercised the right to do so.

While we’re on the topic of nipples, I frequently encounter a hot pink van promoting topless maids in my neighborhood, which confuses the subject even more. Nipples out while sun bathing on the beach? No way. Nipples out while tidying someone’s apartment? No problem.

We’ve definitely made sexual strides on both sides of the border, but the line between what’s considered appropriate and what’s considered pervy remains a little bit blurry.

Originally published in The Province.

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Make Love, Not Haight

Posted on October 1, 2015 by Heather Magee

Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong era, or am somehow channelling a past life, because the 70s feel familiar and almost nostalgic to me. Which is why I love spending time in San Francisco.

There’s something about that city that makes me want to string flowers in between the strands of my long, unwashed hair and dance barefoot in a field. Okay, maybe not, but there is something mystical that happens the moment San Fran’s intrinsic energy begins to soak into my pores. It’s freeing. Almost as liberating as burning ones bra, I would imagine. Bay City – 1. Brassiere – 0.

Every time I’m in town, I have my usual stops. A stroll through Chinatown. A show in the Castro. Drinks in the Mission. And some time spent wandering around Haight Street. Haight Ashbury, of course, being the epicentre of hippie heyday and still crawling with delightfully questionable characters. It’s the source, people. Mecca for free love and finding your inner voice…whatever that means.

I followed my inner voice to Haight on a Sunday while in town during the Bay to Breakers race – the oldest consecutively run annual footrace in the world – where about 10% of the competitors are serious runners and 90% dress in outlandish costumes and drink their way to the finish line. My kind of marathon.

After the race is complete, Haight and the surrounding area transforms into party central, which is pretty full on at 10am. I found myself navigating through a sea of everything from fairy princesses and priests to folks meandering about in the buff. How one runs a race with their wobbly bits unleashed like that is a sight to behold.

I ducked into Amoeba Music for a bit of respite from the revellers, and found an original poster promoting a gig at the Whiskey a Go Go in LA – headliners The Byrds, opening act The Doors. Thank you inner voice and 20-somethings puking on the sidewalk for forcing guiding me there.

Bars and cafes were packed, so there was no chance of brunch but the party spilled out into the street so it didn’t really matter. I made a mandatory stop at my favorite boutique in lieu of breakfast (sometimes shopping is sustenance) and walked a few more blocks in search of a psychic I found on yelp (super reliable). I accidentally turned down instead of up (that actually makes sense in San Fran) and by the time I realized it, there was no way I was going to huff my way back. So I decided to meander down Ashbury onto Hayes, making my way slowly back to Union Square where I was staying.

Parties raged on, with kids climbing lampposts and DJs spinning on patios. Invites from complete strangers poured in as I strolled by, marvelling at my luck. What a day to be there. But I pressed on, dying for something to soak up the wine remnants from the night before.

I set my sights on the perfect sidewalk cafe just as this woman emerged form her storefront to interrupt my stride. She held out a flyer promoting palm readings and tarot. Normally, in such a hangry* state, I would blow off such a solicitation, but something made me turn around and engage her. I agreed to a $20 “intro reading” and followed her into the back room of her crystal shop.

She carefully inspected the creases in my dehydrated hands, noting things I’ve heard from other psychics before. You’ll live a long life. I don’t see any real health issues. I don’t see you ever struggling financially. Nice. But then she dug a little deeper into my marriage and recent move the US, things I didn’t divulge.

She said my husband and I had been bickering lately, which stung because we rarely argue but the complexities of moving to California had definitely taken its toll. She said it was the right move for us and we’d settle in the right spot, which we have. She also predicted we’d have two children, which was alarming because a) she had been pretty accurate up until this point and b) my husband and I have no plans to start a family. I asked if dogs count. She said yes. Bless her. Then she asked if either my husband or I had twins in our family, which we do, on both sides. To which she recommended we be extra careful with contraception in the coming months. Gah!

Afterwards, I parked my weary self street-side at Chez Maman for lunch and rosé, while the psychic’s words set in. Health, financial stability, California…and dogs. Twin dogs, maybe.

* When you are so hungry that your lack of food causes you to become angry, frustrated or, in extreme cases, murderous.

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72 Hours in San Diego

Posted on October 1, 2015 by Heather Magee

San Diego is lovely this time of year. A sentence easily uttered on any day, as the weather in SD is basically perfect. Except for an unexpected rain shower that lasted only a morning while I was in town. It’s good for California’s never-ending drought, yet amusing given the city only really sees 10 days of rain per year. I guess I brought my soggy Pacific Northwest roots with me.

I’ve been to San Diego for various reasons over the years. Conferences, family vacations, but now that I hang my hat in LA I foresee SD and I becoming more closely acquainted. It’s spread out, which for a carless Uber super user like me isn’t ideal, but each neighbourhood has it’s own charm and backstory, which makes the community pretty special as a whole. Microbreweries your jam? Look no further. Live music? In abundance. Scuba diving from the beach? You’re on.

It would be easy to stay and hang in San Diego for several days, weeks even. But if you’re tight on time, there are a few spots that shouldn’t be missed.

Gaslamp Quarter

The best place to call home base, if you’re looking for easy access to other neighborhoods by day, and lively merriment by night, is the Gaslamp. It’s also home to hundreds of conference bunnies looking to let loose and stag/stagette parties puking their way around the clubs, but if you can somehow see through all that, there’s a lot of good bits too. Live music is off the hook in this hood, with so much local talent to speak of. Union Kitchen & Tap has an insanely good guitar player who roams the resto, serenading the patrons on Friday nights. The Casbah is arguably the best live music venue in town, with a mix of big names and up-and-comers on the bill. If you fancy a boogie, and something a little trippy, follow the psychedelic stairway adorned with original art by Denisse Wolf to Vin De Syrah. You’ll swear Alice is just around the corner…or maybe it was the “drink me” potion (read, boozy dark and stormy) you just drank. End your evening with a nightcap at the slightly-hipster-but-not Tipsy Crow. It may be the only speakeasy left with street cred on 5^th Ave. Hunga bunga the next morning? Stop by Café 21 – it just might save your life.

Coronado Beach

If soft, white sand that sparkles with shiny gold flex as far as the eye can see appeals – um, of course it does – then you cannot come to SD without spending a day in Coronado. Its vastness and pristine shoreline make for a dreamy afternoon, especially when pods of dolphins decide to dot the surf, jumping playfully through the waves, just 10 feet offshore (we may have lucked out). With warships in the distance and one of the biggest naval bases in the U.S. only a few miles away, you can’t help but call on the ghost of Goose or hope that an impromptu beach volleyball game – tapered jeans and all – will unfold before your eyes. Permission to buzz the tower. If you’ve really lost that lovin’ feeling, swing by Kansas City BBQ – where some of the most memorable scenes from Top Gun were filmed – for some brisket and a cold brew.

La Jolla

A quick 15-minute drive north of the Gaslamp sits the picture-perfect town of La Jolla, complete with monstrous Spanish-style villas and mansions that seemingly sit vacant until their wealthy owners are in town on hols. It’s touristy, but not to a fault. Start off with brunch at Crab Catcher, and request to be seated on the patio overlooking the cliffs that melt into the brilliant blue bay below. Being a good Canadian girl, I’m partial to caesars, but their bloody mary comes close, garnished with a giant crab claw. Walk off your mimosa buzz by heading straight to La Jolla Cove Beach to take a selfie with one of the resident sea lions. It’s also an epic spot to scuba dive off the beach. My husband – an avid diver – jumped in and had a swim alongside sea lions and harbour seals while I stayed beachside and snapped pics. Follow the sea wall south for several more hidden coves and beaches, to avoid the turistas.

Oceanside

You always need to leave a little something for next time. An excuse to make your way back to places you love. During our train ride home, which tickles the seaside until you’re far north of San Diego, we passed by Oceanside, a quintessential beachside village complete with a good surf break off the Oceanside Pier. As we finished our wine, watching the surfers fade into the pink horizon, we plotted our next trip south.

Stay classy, San Diego (sorry, couldn’t help it).