I Wanna Be a Travel Writer – Jan. 27, Sydney

Jan. 27 – Sydney
Forget LA – Sydney is the hippest city in the world.

Walking down Oxford Street in Paddington, I’ve never felt so fashion uncouth in my entire life. Maybe that’s because I was wearing boy’s pants, a striped t-shirt, and the seven-year-old Adidas adventure sandals that I refuse to give up.

I was born a girl, but looking at me you’d have thought someone forgot to tell me.

I always thought "trendy" was a bad word, something to avoid, but two hours on Oxford and I was dying to be made up, accessorized, and fully worked over by a personal shopper. I wanted shoes, skirts, and jewelry like never before.

My two friends Jacqueline and Alison would be the perfect cohorts for a scandalous attempt to turn me from tomboy to headturner. Alison would have the definitive say-so on shoes, and I could trust Jacqueline to know everything else about becoming a femme fatale.

Unfortunately, I was alone. I walked down the long stretch of shops, wide-eyed and amazed at how easy it would be to return to the States with a whole different identity. But pulling it off was another story. Could I walk the walk? I wasn’t sure. I don’t usually fare well in heels. However, I was confident that I could feel stylish enough to go clubbing south of Market in San Francisco. If Sabrina could do it, so could I.

I jetted off, entering boutique after boutique. I fingered through hangers or fuscia-colored slip dresses, orange sleeveless shirts, bright and tight tanks and tees, dark denim skirts with the inside turned up at the bottom, and beach wear built for the body of a 17-year-old.

I picked out a few tops to try on when I realized that I had started grooving to the music playing overhead.

"Who’s this?" I asked the sales clerk that was two steps away and refolding everything I touched. Singing along, she looked at me as if I was speaking a different language. So, I asked again… I just had to get this CD!

"Ricky Martin," she answered, shooting me a look that said I was obviously the biggest idiot that’d ever walked into her store.

A look of terror transformed on my face. I like Ricky Martin? How embarrassing! It couldn’t be. I’m a classic-rock girl through and through. I grabbed the tops and made a beeline for fitting room.

All three larges ended up being too small for my comfort zone, but I didn’t get discouraged or depressed. I walked on. After all, I had to find something. There were enticing sales everywhere – bargains galore – and that’s not even counting the exchange rate working in my favor.

Down the street I made some new friends – Tara Crystalle, Keith Matheson, Bettina Liano, Gary Castles, Ellen Ambe, Derek Scott – who could substitute for Jacqueline and Ali just fine (or their clothes could).

But wait, a men’s mannequin in a damn good-looking shirt. An Industrie short-sleeved, dark orange button down. Mmmm. I thought of my man and tried to imagine it on him. Orange? Not really his color, but they did have the same shirt in green and blue. This trip down’ shopper’s lane didn’t have to be all about me. I grabbed the price tag: A$70. He wouldn’t approve, even if it was only US$40.

I took it off the rack, held it at arm’s length and tried to decide which I liked more, green or blue. Definitely green. A bit of a gutsy move for him, but I’m sure he could find some occasion to wear it. Then I could head back down to William Street and see a beauty therapist at Body Beautiful Beauticians. We could both be cool! And hey, if he objects, I’ll send it home to my always-fashionable friend Dan.

Thinking of Dan reminds me how far I am away from home. My man doesn’t need this shirt, and I don’t need a makeover. I’m traveling. I need to save my money for the next ticket, hostel or meal. Life right now is about the weight of my backpack, and I shouldn’t be filling it.

I know that travel leads to personal growth and change, but that doesn’t have to mean a transformation in the Ricky-Martin-and-wardrobe department. I held onto my Visa card and instead wandered down the street to the local pub. In a few hours my host will take me to a popular restaurant on Bondi Beach. I remember that I’ve packed a pair of swish black pants. With a little lipstick, I’ll do just fine.

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