Sticky & Sweet; Hit or a Miss?

Like many a Vancouverite (about 50,000 to be exact), I too joined the throngs of lace-clad Madonna fans for her Sticky & Sweet spectacle last night. Given my adoration for this woman tips the scale to extreme proportions, I’m going to try to offer a subjective review.

Having seen Madge in concert twice before - Reinvention in Toronto and Confessions in Vegas - I would say Sticky & Sweet was the most digital show she’s done. Less theatrics, more video and computer animation...almost video-game-like in sections. However, the amount of energy exuded by this pint-sized pop star blew me over. The past two tours have been heavy on the yoga, yet this show was just heavy...as in metal.

Since learning guitar for her Music album, Madge continues to play live in all of her shows but she definitely kicked it up a notch with rock out with your cock out versions of ‘Like a Prayer’ and ‘Borderline’ (yes, you heard that right). I’m sorry Madge, AC/DC called, they want their stage antics back. Don’t get me wrong, I thought it was a cool variation but I’m not convinced the crowd agreed.

Video appearances by Timbaland, Justin Timberlake and Pharrell Williams were no surprise and reminiscent of an afternoon watching Much Music. However, the appearance of good ol’ Brit Brit during ‘Human Nature’ was bang on, with footage of the recently recovered train wreck having a break down while locked in an elevator. Yessss, this is the stuff of a great rock show, oops, I mean pop show.

Half way through the show, Madge and a crew of talented musicians and dancers alike rolled through a montage of all her Spanish influenced ditties, topping it off with ‘You Must Love Me’ from Evita. This song, above all others, might best demonstrate Madge’s capabilities as a singer. She’s not just a crotch-grabbing entertainer possums. Loved it.

You could certainly sense the tension around Madge’s recent divorce, especially when she belted out ‘Miles Away’ and ‘She’s Not Me’. Ummmm...is it me, or is this entire album a compilation of Guy Ritchie breakup songs? One must wonder. Nevertheless, it fuels her performance and quite frankly, I like it when she’s mean.

As always, Madge couldn’t resist some politics, comparing John McCain to the likes of Hitler and Robert Mugabe while comparing Barrack Obama to the Dalai Lama and Mother Teresa. A tad extreme? Perhaps, yet the Americans sitting beside me were eating it up.

My overall sense while observing the crowd, which seemed to span three generations, was that it was an even mix of moms having a night out, gal pals in their thirties and gay men. I got the impression that some of the older crowd expected Madge to run through all of her 80’s hits as many of these folks fell silent during songs from Hard Candy, but isn’t this the point? You tour when you have new material to perform, no? Further, the reason Madge has stayed so relevant for so long is her capability to change and evolve and grow as an artist.

Despite this said growth, she still has a foul mouth, fingers the crowd and grabs her coochie repeatedly. In that respect, Madonna definitely did not disappoint.

The Urban Cowgirl would like to wish all her possums a very safe and happy Halloween!

The Urban Cowgirl’s Top 30 Before 30

Having recently reached that sometimes dreadful milestone known as the big 3-0, I find myself feeling somewhat reflective of my messy yet meaningful 20’s. So without seeming like I’ve bought a one-way ticket to Nanahood, I’m celebrating the cunning cougar that I am by sharing with you my Top 30 Before 30 list:

30) Touring the site of Angkor Wat in Cambodia aboard a dodgy rented motorcycle (I have the muffler scar to prove it).
29) Waking up to the view of a crystal clear Harrison Lake from your tent while camping with friends.
28) Hiking the Lares Trek to Manchu Picchu in Peru.
27) Seeing Madonna in concert...twice...oops, three times as of Thursday.
26) Diving the Great Barrier Reef in Australia.
25) Being caught camped out on Trevor Linden’s front lawn in a random stalking attempt.
24) Swimming with hundreds of stingrays at Stingray City just off of Grand Cayman Island.
23) Salivating over Scott Weiland while he slithers about on stage in leather pants, rocking out with Stone Temple Pilots.
22) Watching the sunrise whilst perched upon a sand dune in the Sahara desert.
21) Enjoying one too many white wine spritzer’s at English Bay with your foxy girlfriends.
20) Sailing the Dalmatian coastline of Croatia.
19) Having martinis in Chelsea, Manhattan with your mom.
18) Drinking jungle juice in the Sari Club while visiting Bali, Indonesia (before the 2001 bombings).
17) Spending an afternoon sipping hot chocolate and bailey’s while ATVing with your dad.
16) Island hopping around Bocas Del Toro in Panama.
15) Walking the streets of Vancouver, tipsy and slightly belligerent following a Canucks win.
14) Trekking around northern Thailand, staying with hill tribes each night and smoking a sticky substance that makes you dreamy for days.
13) Flashing the bod to passersby while house boating on Shuswap Lake.
12) Plunging to near death with a bungee cord strapped to your ankles while cruising around New Zealand.
11) Holding a friends new born baby for the first time.
10) Having a good friend draw you a map...and following it to the Pherentian Islands in Malaysia.
9) Establishing an impressive karaoke repertoire including the likes of Queen, The Georgia Satellites, and Shania Twain.
8) Watching an AFL game at the Melbourne Cricket Grounds (MCG).
7) Waking up early to run the Vancouver seawall, joined only by a few blue herons to disturb you.
6) Mastering the use of chop sticks, which is crucial to ones survival when choosing to live in our fair city.
5) Taking in a Flamenco show in Seville, Spain.
4) Learning to cook something apart from turkey burgers and dipping stone wheat thins into cottage cheese (still one of my favorites, however).
3) Swilling back a few double caesars a la apres ski with friends in Whistler.
2) Leaving the devastating hairstyles of the 1990s behind. (Good god, I just threw up in my mouth thinking about it).

And the number one Top 30 Before 30 is...
1) Learning to always have an emergency supply of Grey Goose in your freezer.

Although turning thirty hasn't slowed me down, I must sign off now to put my Nana ass to bed. Bon soir possums.

Photo credits - Urban Cowgirl

Soul searching over Sangria

After a week of couscous and cumin in Morocco, I made my way to Tangier to board a ferry to Spain. Following a week of constant heat, filth and stank (I'm speaking affectionately here), I was craving some kick ass cuisine and some well deserved beach time.

I decided Malaga would be my home base for the south of Spain, birthplace of thee Pablo Picasso and a nice central locale to hit some nearby beach towns.

I spent my first day a la plage at Nerja, known for it’s Balcony of Europe, in other words a huge vista overlooking the med. Two words can only describe what I like best about this part of the world - topless sunbathing. Why oh why is this such a big issue in North America? I love being able to let the ladies free, avoid tan lines and not be gawked at by pervy men. How refreshing! My only issue with the south of Spain is the demographic tends to creep a little farther down the line from me than I would like, i.e. newly retired Brits and Germans reliving their youth. Bless them. I’ve never seen so many 60+ ta-tas on display in one sitting. You go gals!

I’m also a big fan of how Spanish people smell, in particular the men. The smell of strong cologne strikes you unexpectedly as you stroll the streets, reminiscent of Davie Street on a Friday night. They’re also very affectionate...with each other! Always hugging and kissing, hugging and kissing. Just giver fellas. I was so taken aback one evening, dining alone enjoying a huge seafood paella, when I discovered that my waiter...well, I think he fancied me. He asked that I come back at midnight as he and his friends were going to shut down the street and hold a fiesta in my honor! Talk about grand gestures. I politely declined as I am spoken for (woe, that sounded very old fashioned) but was flattered nonetheless.

The Spanish gals, on the other hand, were rocking a few fashion trends I found puzzling. 1) Stockings. It was a warm 25-30 degrees every day I was there, and these women still insist on wearing stockings? Funny, because no one seems to wear them anymore on this side of the pond. 2) Sporting Fall/Winter attire, in again, 25-30 degree heat. I completely appreciate the importance of fashion and these are two seasons most fashionistas would hate to miss out on, but seriously. A sweater and a wool jacket in this heat? I would shrivel up and die. 3) Hammer pants. Remember these bad boys? Gals are actually wearing them again - everywhere you look. I have to say...they somehow make them look chic. Can this be so? Clever Spanish.

I also had difficulty ordering a double espresso. Not because my Spanish was lacking, but because the baristas couldn’t understand the idea somehow. Does no one fancy a double smack in the face in the morning in this country? I had to demonstrate for them, pouring two espressos into one coffee cup. They thought that was weird.

I spent another day on the beach in Torremolinos and then sped off to the Algarve region of Portugal to a lovely little town called Lagos. One thing I had observed in both Spain and Portugal was that it was tricky to order just one glass of wine. Not that I ever drink just one, however it’s either a half bottle or full. No fucking around people. And the port....oh GOD the port....amazing. A glass of local port daily was absolutely necessary. The Portuguese seemed more laid back than my fragrant friends in Spain. One day I watched an adorable old fella reel in a fish from the beach, probably about 50 lbs. I love these people and I love their lifestyle.

One thing to note, as I was traveling alone, many people found this very odd. A woman traveling alone, eating alone...seemingly content, which I was. One night in Lagos I was enjoying a fabulous meal of duck pate, olives and grilled squid when these young men across the restaurant were talking and pointing at me. “Look at that weird girl eating alone in the corner,” I imagined them saying. When they were leaving one of them came by my table to tell me how impressed they were that I was ‘ok’ eating alone and that I seemed really happy. I told him there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. Given he was probably 21 years old, I’m sure my response startled him...he then asked me to meet him at a club later to get wasted. As you do.

After a fantastic taste of Portugal, I made my way back to Spain, stopping in Seville. What a darling little town. Given this is where Flamenco originated, I decided an authentic Flamenco show was definitely in order. Wow. I had no idea the level of intensity and emotion involved in this Spanish art form. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when she begins to cry watching Opera for the first time. I was moved.

Last stop - Barcelona. Everyone raves about this city, and rightly so. It’s the San Fran of Europe. It’s divided into diverse, charming little neighborhoods and has a Tapas bar on every block. Which brings me to the topic of Tapas - yes please. Standing around a busy bar, snatching whatever tapas tickle your fancy to then show your bartender at the end of the night how many tooth picks you’ve accumulated to determine the amount owing on your bill is simply brilliant. Almost like an honor system! I wonder if this could catch on in North America? One would hope so.

After more litres of Sangria than I could possibly count, I find myself back in beautiful Vancouver settling back into a routine of sushi and Hockey Night in Canada. Hasta Luego Espana.

Photo credits - Urban Cowgirl

Smells like Morocco

Salaam possums. After leaving the city of lights (or the city of legs as my luck would have it), I hopped a plane to the crazy town of Marrakech, Morocco. You often hear what a mental place this is, with it’s souks and snake charmers and such, and this town definitely did not disappoint. It’s funny when I was leaving Canada, many of my friends thought I was nuts to travel Morocco on my own. Yet when I told people in Paris what my travel plans were, they thought it was fabulous! Morocco has definitely become a popular place for travel and I found it to be very safe...even for a cheeky Canadian such as myself.

When I arrived at my hostel, which was nothing short of Aladdin’s palace, my new friend Ucef at the front desk advised me that I ‘looked American’. Now, one can take this a number of ways, however I gave Ucef the benefit of the doubt and explained to him I was quite obviously a Canadian, more specifically a Vancouverite, given I was sporting Lululemon’s and had an umbrella in my bag. To which he replied “Where is Vancouver? Never heard of it.” Okie doke, American it is.

Starved, I headed into the square of the Medina (Moroccan term for township) in search of some tasty, authentic Moroccan fare. Little did I know this would later disappoint me, but I digress I found some food alright; ‘group eat’ I call it. Sure, there are plenty of touristic restaurants but I decided to dine under some large tents in the centre of the square with crowds of others while the Moroccans cooked us a feast over large grills. Couscous or Targine (stew). This was my choice in dishes over the next week, and this could be accompanied by either beef, chicken or vegetables. Oh, and a big hunk of white bread. I’m confident I ate more white bread during my week in Morocco than I do in a year in Canada, but hey, carbs are the new protein, no?

Another interesting thing to note when dining in Morocco - forget about enjoying a glass of vino with your meal folks. It is possible to get a drink in this country, but incredibly inconvenient. Where’s the funky cold medina people? Nope. Nada.

The next morning, I went to the square to see what the vibe was like during the day. Enter the snake charmers. Big, black cobras literally entranced by a flute. Alarming. I was suckered into getting my photo taken with a few of these reptiles draped over me (a ‘water snake’, not the cobra) for a few Durham, so I went along with it. After I snapped my pics and handed the snake back to the man he kissed it and held the thing up to my forehead and announced “You will have many years good sex. Good sex for you!” Excellent. That’s good news. I actually tried to give this guy American dollars at first, to which he explained “We don’t take those anymore, only Euros.” Wow, how the world has changed possums.

On the way back to my hostel, I got lost in the souk, or maze more like. Shit. This thing is confusing. A cute little boy came up to me and offered to lead me back to my hostel for a fee. Done and done little man, let’s roll. We arrive, with me feeling like an idiot as I hand over 20 Durham to this kid and before I could open the door he threatens to light up a cigarette if I don’t give him any more money. Excuse aime moi? (He’s probably about 8.) I refuse ofcourse, to which he lights up like he’s been smoking for 20 years and walks away. Where am I?!

I should note, I learned alot about the Muslim faith during this trip, and although I like to keep an open mind, I have to say - where are the women? Are they hidden? Are they nocturnal? I didn’t see many gals around, and when I did, I would often get a look that said ‘oh look at you, must be nice to be in shorts and a tube top whilst I sweat to death under this thing’. I mean no disrespect by any means, it’s just a tad hard to swallow for this western gal.

I then embarked on a road trip to the Sahara, making many memorable stops along the way. However, when the red dunes started to appear on the horizon, I knew this was going to be the highlight of my trip. My group and I hopped on some camels and embarked on a 10K trek into the desert to our campsite for the evening. Please note possums, 10K on a camel = a very sore tookus for DAYS. We arrived after dark and sat under the stars waiting for our guide to cook us dinner. Never in my life have I seen stars like this. Pure magic.

Our group was split in half, 50% French speaking, 50% English. Morocco attracts alot of French speaking visitors, naturally, however this is bad news for me as French people don’t seem to appreciate my sarcastic sense of humor. Or any sarcasm...period. Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly the life of the party in the desert. When our food finally arrived, we were told we were eating ‘Moroccan style,' i.e. no plates or utensils. Yuck. A dozen filthy mutt hooks all grabbing at the family style dish at once. I decided to sit this one out.

The next morning, I perched myself on a dune alone in silence and watched the sunrise. Probably the most peaceful thing I’ve ever experienced. The Sahara is quite something. To me, it looks like a big sea of red pepper dip, like you could dip a chip into it. Strange comparison? Maybe, but the sand is so soft and fine...almost creamy.

All in all, I loved my time in Morocco but I have to say (and anyone who has been there will agree) - ALL of my belongings smelled like cumin, which is essentially the smell of Morocco. I had to air myself out for about a week after I left, but it was well worth it.

Photo credits - Urban Cowgirl

The French Connection

Possums! The Urban Cowgirl is finally back in the saddle - pun intended - with all sorts of travel tales to share. My original intent was to blog intermittently throughout my trip however the bloody French/Spanish keyboards made this a touch painful. So, in keeping it real, I opted for my trusty journal instead.

First stop - Paris. Having been there before I had already checked off all things touristy, so this time around I decided I would soak in the city, people watch and eat my face off...naturally. I arrived in the morning full of piss and vinegar so I ditched my bags and enthusiastically headed to...the cemetery. Yes, that is correct possums. A friend of mine reminded me that Jim Morrison was buried in a Parisian cemetery and asked me to take a few snaps of his grave...so I hopped on the Metro and took my morbid ass over to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery to check it out. Buried amongst the likes of Oscar Wilde and a plethora of Napoleon's cronies, most visitors seemed only interested in swarming the grave site of Mr. Morrison. I had hoped to stumble upon some hippies pouring a bottle of whiskey over the rock legend’s grave, but no such luck.

It just so happens that Fashion Week kicked off the day before I arrived. Coincidence? One would think not, however it was just my luck and lucky I was indeed. I scoped out show locales online and discovered the Gaspard Yurkievich show was taking place at the Louvre. Not too shabby of a venue I must say. I ventured to the famed museum to see if I could stumble upon any celebrities in a stalker-like fashion. Turns out they keep the riff raff (and by that I mean a mix of fashion victims, Paris’s elite and a handful of media) and the celebs in separate rooms before going in for the show. What I didn’t know was how easy it would be to sneak in there! With no ticket and a sub-par ensemble (i decided to wear all black, you know, the mod bitch look), I loitered around the line up to get in. Next thing I know some gal with a head set on is handing me a bag of goodies and ushering me inside. Ofcourse, sans ticket, I ended up standing in the back but no one even questioned it?! ‘C’est bonne’ i think to myself. I did not see any celebs, which let’s face it was the real reason I was there, but Yurkievich did put on a good show.

The only problem with visiting Paris during Fashion Week is the influx of perfect people...and I do mean perfect. I’ll meet your Mary Magdalen Paris and raise you two bulimic models. My day concluded with dinner on Il Saint Louis before heading home to prep for my flight to Marrakech the next morning. I did, however, have a slight run-in with a Parisian man who decided to chat my ear off while heading home on the train. As I reached my stop, he began to double-cheek kiss me incessantly, reminiscent of SNL’s Bellissimo bit where Carvey, Sandler and Schneider are Italian waiters licking Kirstie Alley's face. Nice.

Au revoir for now possums.

Photo credits - Urban Cowgirl