Changing derby leagues isn’t always as simple as dropping a Facebook message to your new team, rocking up with your skates and slotting into your accustomed position on the track. An expatriated player herself, Cat Cholera interviews two globe-trotting former Perth Roller Derby players, Dame Edna Haemorrhage and Lorrae Evans, exploring the ins and outs of changing countries, languages and cultures to play roller derby around the world.
Read MoreIt was the hardness that surprised me. That something so light and fleeting could pack down into a dense lump of ice, hard enough to get a yelp out of whoever you threw it at. I noticed that my gloves were getting wet. The dry-looking snow was deceitful in its appearance, and the coldness seeped into my hands as I eagerly scraped the bonnet of the car, rolling the powder between my hands. I stared into the middle of the ball, past the billion crystals glittering at me, trying to divine some hidden meaning ... as a snowball sailed past my right ear. Maëlstrom was creeping forward into my territory, pushing a wheely bin in front of him as the first line of defence. Laughing, I pegged my newly formed missile at his exposed elbow and completely missed, showering the wall behind him in a spray of white ice. Two seconds later I cracked up again as Joris nailed me on my right side with a well-aimed throw. I couldn't complain, I'd started it.
Read MoreThe iconic sites of France’s first city are familiar to most people but what about the Paris that only the natives know? Here’s our guide to the parts of Paris that the locals would like to keep to themselves.
Read MoreNow I know why, in mid-July, I couldn't write about my first year in France.
Because my true anniversary is September, à la rentrée. The dreaded gravity-well of Real Life. The inexorable return to school and work after the endless July and August holidays, the true beginning of the year. Budgets are drawn, goals are set, plans are made.
Re-entering, I am also reliving, reanimating, replaying and I see that I am not the only one. Ghosts and memories come knocking on my door. Instead of "speak of the Devil" the French say "when we speak of the wolf (we see its tail)", and I prefer this fleeting creature to the devil who rudely zaps into existence. Wolves tails flick out of sight behind every corner I turn.
Read MoreWe looked at each other and cracked up laughing.
"Well who the hell else would be picking up big huge rocks and walking 'round with them?" Teddy Rux demanded in mock consternation, slapping the top of the undulating, salty water to emphasise her point.
The Sydney twang had reached us at the same moment as we saw them, two young Adonises waist deep in the water, passing a very large rock back and forth for no discernible reason.
The rock-bearers drifted closer, unaware that I was fluent in their particular dialect.
Read MoreIt’s the sport where tough as nuts chicks race around on skates, banging into each other on a circuit that would leave many guys quaking in their steel toed boots. Cat Cholera, aka Perth girl Anna Hartley explains what makes a derby girl tick
Read MoreA huge, red, crayfish and I regard one another. It lies on a worn and scarred wooden board, its salty armour defying my initial taps with the mallet.
Next to me, with an expert strike and sharp CRACK a huge crab yeilds its juicy white meat to Edna. Wine is being poured, claws prised open, crustacea devoured. I'm somewhat dazed to find myself where I am, in a tiny Normandie seaside town with some of my favourite people in the world. Paris, with its recent dramas, is a safe three hours away. I'm out of its gravitational field, feeling like an escaped prisoner. Exhaustion, exhileration, relief.
Read MoreIt's Christmas time.
In a few days I'll be whizzing towards Brussels, an foreign orphan adopted into my dear friends' family celebrations, but for now I'm on holidays, with nothing to do but savour the achingly beautiful city I now call home.
Within minutes of leaving my building yesterday, I was strolling through the Jardin du Luxembourg. Although it's practically on my doorstep, life and other factors had conspired to keep me out of it for weeks, and I was struck immediately by how much the seasons have changed it. The flowers, usually exploding in a riot of colour from every possible flowerable surface, were gone. And, as put my gloved hands on the brim of a large pot and peered inside, I discovered that they had not simply retreated into their buds for the winter, but had actually been scooped out, soil and all by some unseen hand. Unnaturally geometric patches of lawn remained here and there, evidence of more man-made packing up for winter, and even the ducks who pottered around between the old-fashioned sailboats on the surface of the pond, were gone, replaced by seagulls who circled and cried and made the park feel weirdly coastal. I watched the tourists gamely taking photos of the senat and the pond and felt sorry for them- if only they knew how much they were missing out on! The snow-scenes the tourists and I both crave are yet to come, but at least I will be here long enough to see them out.
Read MoreWhen I was 15 years old, I graduated from Scouts. Hold the applause.
While most associate the legacy of B.P (that's Robert Baden Powell people) with dorky scarves and quasi-miltary organisation, it was actually pretty damn cool. We did cliff forward run-downs, midnight abseiling, multiple day canoe camping trips, lashed together barrels and posts into rafts we sailed down the Swan river, hiked a fair portion Bibbulmun track and spent so much time in tents that we couldn't sleep at home unless we tucked a rock into our bed to achieve the same level of discomfort. Oh and we wore dorky scarves and adhered to a quasi-military organisational structure.
On my final night, I was awarded a genuine Swiss army knife with my name and the year engraved on the largest blade. In the years since, that knife has proved it's worth time and time again.
Read MoreThe people are revolting. And I'm leading the revolution.
A couple of weekends ago my roller derby team and I were in a fashion studio in Alésia shooting profile and publicity photos for each of the league players, and a calendar for fundraising. It's no earth-shattering revelation that the Parisians know how to do fashion, so this was no rock-up, point and shoot affair. I got to experience a professional studio, makeup and hair artists, stylists, photographers and other assorted Important People who make the whole thing work. Some of our players work in the industry and managed to pull in favours from all directions to get this to happen basically pro-bono, so to answer your question, no, we aren't that rich.
The Saturday was the day for the individual player shoots and we each chose whatever wacky hair and makeup style our hearts desired. In my appalling frenglish I was able to convey that I wanted two cat-like ears on the top of my head, made of hair. And voilà , it was so. The shoot was a riot, and the the photos look amazing, but once I left the studio and was walking to the bus with my hair and cat makeup still intact and carrying my skates, I was brought crashing back to the reality of the strangely conservative city I live in. I am still trying to decipher the social codes and rules of engagement when it comes to fashion here, but so far I have worked out that although dressing well and understanding fashion is de rigueur, too much individual style is highly questionable.
As I'm walking the streets of Paris on my way to school or some other destination, sometimes I'm so light that I almost lift off the ground. My toes start to point as the heels hover above the pavement, and I grin because if it wasn't for the heavy bag of books and ideas, I'd probably float away.
When I left home and all of its comfort, I thought loneliness would take its place. It was a price I was willing to pay for the opportunity to live, study and work in the city of lights. I sternly grasped myself by the shoulders and elicited resolve. Friends and familiarity will come. Comfort will grow. I mustn't be impatient or homesick.
The thing I never realised is that far from being alone, I'm utterly surrounded
Read MoreShopping for pearls in Broome is nothing new, with the industry stretching way back to the 1880’s. These days, Broome is a vibrant yet laid-back tropical seaside town, catching everyone from affluent international visitors to bronzed back-packers in its net, and reminders of its multicultural pioneering population abound. Workers from Japan, China and Malaysia drove the pearling booms from the late 19th Century, and the rich history of this once-perilous industry has shaped this town's unique character.
Read MoreAbout half an hour drive out of the remote Goldfields town of Menzies, 51 statues by renowned international sculptor Antony Gormley stand on Lake Ballard, as the exhibition ‘Inside Australia’, which was commissioned for the 2003 Perth International Arts Festival. The entire population of Menzies (plus a few passer-by’s) were scanned in 3D and rendered into cast iron, after approximately 2/3rds of their mass was removed. We made the trek from Kalgoorlie one afternoon to see them.
Read MoreModern-day Perth, or Melbourne, or Townsville may be a long way from Blade Runner’s futuristic Los Angeles, but they do have one thing in common with that grim metropolis: replicant-like cyborg women are roaming the streets amongst the unsuspecting townsfolk, changing their parts, redecorating their chassis’ and gathering in ritualised meetings. Driving their bodies and minds further and further in pursuit not of survival, but of glory.
Read MoreOften damned with the faint praise of being ‘clean and safe’, I can assure you, dear reader that Singapore Is Happening. With a respectful eye to its past and heritage, and the determination to grow and prosper, it has become something of a model city- state, where the people of Singapore decide what kind of world they want to live in, and then make it so. Quickly.
Read MoreThe glacial waters of the Aare River flow through Thun with an icy-blueness that astounded me at first. I joked that the people of Switzerland must be adding dye to the water to impress me, because I couldn’t reconcile the astonishing colour with my Australian idea of a river- dark tannin and mud water lazily flowing through bush valleys. My Swiss hosts shrugged away my demands for an explanation, ‘It’s just that way’.
Read MoreAnna Hartley is an Australian writer based in Paris.
