Coco and Camarao do Brazil

I am so tired.

That kind of tired that seeps into your bones and makes them heavy as rocks, that crawls in behind your stinging eyeballs, the kind of tired that you feel you'll never be able to shake off.

And I only recently came back from vacation.  Something's rotten in the state of Res, I tell you.

Speaking of vacation, I am way overdue a posting.  So here it is, a brief but exclusive glimpse into the glamorous Brazilian adventures of Res and Hottie:

Friday: Res bails early from CoolCo Sub and hops onto a small plane to a London with a big suitcase full of dresses.  Hottie has just returned from Houston (obviously).  The two of them are exhausted and skip the big Friday night out in London.

Saturday: Res and Hottie wait for pre-ordered cab.  And wait some more. Cab doesn't show up. Learn to never trust anyone but black cabs.  Make it to Heathrow in time for plane (and pancakes at Giraffe). Spend a long time in a flying metal tube. Land in Rio.  It's hot. Hottie has a couple caipirinhas. Res is a party pooper and goes to bed.

Sunday: Our fearless heroines decide to jump off a mountain.  Not before signing beautifully drafted liability waiver, specifying that it applies to all hang-gliding activities such as "take-off and landing (including, but not limited to, crashing)". Despite said waiver, both girls manage stunning, crash-free landings. Spend rest of day recovering on Ipanema with some coconut water and a couple camarao. Res takes first caipirinha.  And second.

Monday: Trusty host Daniel takes the girls on tour of city.  Gets them lost in Tijuca National Park.  Explains ups and downs of marriage over large skewers of meat. Then plonks them down on a bar terrace overlooking Santa Teresa for caipirinha o'clock.  Where we meet a yacht stewardess and a straight man with a T-shirt that says "Flower". Res takes a bit of a fancy to Brazilian beers. At dinner, Hottie attempts to identify menu options by making barnyard animal sounds at the waiter and Res orders a mint tea only to receive a small swamp in a bucket.

Tuesday: More beach time.  The girls even manage to squeeze in a run and purchase bikinis (size large, therefore covering half a butt-cheek; we learn that what we think of as "normal" bikini bottoms are referred to here as American bikinis, diapers or parachutes. Lovely).  Then Christ the Redeemer goes all mystical in the fog and Copacabana sparkles from the top of the Sugarloaf, before it's time to samba the night away at the fabulous Rio Scenarium.  More caipirinhas are had.

Wednesday: It rains. Res gets a sunburn (rainburn?) and turns into a bit of a camarao herself. For good cheer, Res and Hottie purchase Havaianas and try to sing for beer money. It doesn't work. Res orders fish for dinner and gets beef. Never mind. There's always more samba to save the day (until a senior citizen decides to demonstrate his trademarked pelvic thrust move and the girls run away... fast).

Thursday: Bye bye Rio, off to Paraty.  It rains. Paraty is nonetheless charming.  And serves wonderful caipirinhas.  Res gets a samba lesson from a waiter.

Friday: Sunshine in Paraty makes for idyllic beach time. Res misses her coconut water, though.  In the evening, the girls are entertained by the fabulous Yara and Richard Roberts and eat the best food of the whole trip. Res makes farofa and feels pretty pleased with herself. Hottie learns how to make caipirinhas and London cocktail nights are transformed forever.

Saturday: Last day in Brazil, spent in Sao Paulo with INSEAD alumns and friends. Much food, drink and dancing is had by all.  It rains.  That's because Brazil is sad the girls are leaving.

Sunday: Plane, more plane, an early Monday morning breakfast at Heathrow, another plane, and arrival in Zurich.  The vacation is over.  Time to prepare work trip to South Africa.

More on that in another post.

I'm a little bit rock n' roll

Last night, Miss LVMH and I decided to go a little rock n' roll Scotland style and check out Snow Patrol at L'Olympia (a concert venue that Res Ipsa's Paris would be proud to recommend).  (Is it just me, or is my life just too cool right now?  Someone pinch me please.)

Snow Patrol, a surprisingly underrated band (you'd be surprised how many people asked me who they were when I was offering tickets), holds a very special place in my heart.

Those of you who have been reading this blog from the start may recall that I travelled to Venezuela three years ago.  What you may not know is that this trip was not all fun and games.

Imagine a young girl (not yet thirty - those were the days) arriving alone at the airport in Caracas.  She spots a sign with the name of her hiking tour on it.  Gathered around it are not the strapping young men and women she was expecting, but a motley crue of people born before they'd invented the telephone.  And I'm only slightly exaggerating.

For two weeks, the young girl hiked across the country and shared a tent with a recently divorced 55-year old who regaled her with tales of her failed marriage and snored loudly.  She cowered behind tropical trees as the group washed in cold streams - an activity that 73-year old men apparently prefer to perform stark naked.  (I cannot tell you how much I wish I had never seen that). And she smiled bravely as she was transformed into everyone's daughter.

Finally, on the last four days, the camel found that straw that gave him a herniated disk.  It came in the shape of a hammock.  Our young heroine cannot sleep in a hammock.  Even less so when it is encased in mosquito netting (if humans were meant to sleep in coccoons, we'd look more like butterflies).  And especially when lost in the middle of the jungle and strung side by side with her travelling companions like cow meat on butchers' hooks.

So instead of sleeping, she exhausted her ipod's batteries to play Snow Patrol over and over, all night, every night.  The music kept her more or less sane.  It kept her from attacking the rest of the group with a machete.  It got her home in one piece.

Thank you boys, I am forever in your debt.  As are those old folks, even if they're not aware of it.

And last night's show was amazing.

Choukran

Am still reeling from the week in Cairo (and desperately sleep deprived) but I wanted to share this picture with you.

This was the setting for a rehearsal dinner.  Yes, you read that right.  A rehearsal dinner.  And no, that is not a cardboard backdrop.

As a result, I have decided never to get married, as nothing short of a reception on the moon can top this.  Sorry boys.

I'm crawling back under the covers now to dream of pharaos.  I'll be with you as soon as my feet land back in the real world.

In the meantime, enjoy the rest of your weekend!

The Gauls do Egypt

Just a quickie today to let you know that, for reasons too unwieldy to get into here, I am taking an unexpected trip to Cairo this week.

(That sounds pretty glamorous, doesn't it.)

So imagine me, draft manuscript in hand, large sunhat and Audrey Hepburn sunglasses on head, lounging by the pyramids with a glass of gin and tonic... and you will be pretty far from the truth.  I don't even own a large sunhat.

But I do promise to bring back a picture of my buddy Sphinxy.

See you next week.

Live from London

In London since election night, and still no government. I had been hoping they'd scramble to piece one together before I left, but no. How inconsiderate.

So instead of checking out a new prime minister, this weekend I have enjoyed the fine offerings of the London stage (Tom Stoppard's The Real Thing at the Old Vic, fan-freakin'-tastic!), many helpings of food, wine, and more food (the flab-tator will not be pleased) and the company of good friends.

What I have not been doing so much of is writing. None at all, actually. I'm so close (so close!) but maybe it's like exercise - once you've been off it for a while, it's hard to get back on the metaphorical horse.

And yet, it would be so great to finish off those last twenty-odd pages of the first draft between now and Friday, when Supermom and I ditch Paris to check out the new Pompidou in Metz. Because if I do, then that means champagne and art to celebrate! Followed by the rewrite (which I am actually looking forward to) and the activation of my volunteer army of proofreaders (thanks girls!)

So come on. Send some energy my way. Chapter 25. I can do it. It's nowhere near as hard as getting the Tories and the Lib Dems to agree on something.

The Road to Perdition

Turns out my trusty steed wasn't so trusty after all.

On the morning of the big road trip, my beautiful blue baby car was having a bit of a rough day, and all at once the radio, the tape deck (yes, the tape deck) and the cigarette-lighter-cum-ipod-and-gps-charger thingy stopped working.

Ten hours on the road. No music. No GPS. No way.

So I took my mother's Twingo instead, the nice one with leather seats and air conditioning and an engine that lets me hit 130 and a sound system I can shake my bootie to! (don't try this at home, kids)

So thanks mom!

Anyways, I made it. It was a gorgeous drive, and the south is as beautiful as ever. Although colder than I expected. But I'm supposed to be writing, not tanning, so it's all for the best, I suppose.

And writing I am. Or trying to anyways. Chapter 14 is done and dusted (turned out better than I feared) and Chapter 15 - well, chapter 15 is tricky. Because when you're telling a love story, eventually, you get to that point when you have to decide whether you're going to go down the pan-out-to-the-fireplace route, or the other one. Or somewhere in between. And those kinds of chapters always get writers in trouble. Like I said. Tricky.

Maybe in Chapter 16 I could write about Wagnerian opera or the proper way to cook brussels sprouts or something.

In the days of Victoria

Oh dear oh dear oh dear. 10 days have passed and I still haven't told you about my trip to Australia. I'm at risk of losing my precious Australian readership! (That's right, I have an "Australian readership." Of about 10 people.)

Here we are then, a day by day run-down of my second summer vacation in February.

Tuesday: Get on plane. It's an A380. I'm on the top deck. That remains exciting for about 35 minutes.

Wednesday: Still on plane. I think. I'm not sure what day it is, though, so perhaps I've actually migrated to a galaxy far, far away.

Thursday: In Melbourne. Feeling a bit worse for wear, I attempt a run. It does not go well. Instead, I decide to take the tram into the city. I forget to get off, end up on the other side of town, and have to get another tram back in. This clearly entitles me to a glass of wine, before meeting the Chick for a dinner of burger and fake champagne by the beach.

Friday: Miss Klum arrives and the trio is now complete in time for my first ever cricket match. As far as I can tell, cricket involves a lot of standing around and taking drinks breaks. Both for the players and for the spectators. Desirous of a little more action, we head to an outdoors bar, then an insanely overheated back-alley nightclub, and still somehow manage to make it back to bed still upright on our heels.

Saturday: Ah, the legendary Aussie barbecue. What a wonderful way to while away the afternoon. This is followed by an exlusive invitation to a 21-year-old boy's birthday party (don't ask). All I can say is: thirty-somethings have more fun.

Sunday: Woo-hoo! My very first music festival (yes, I know, that's embarrassing) and The Killers are headlining! Even the weather gods are with us.

Monday: We say goodbye to the weather gods as Miss Klum and I drive out of Melbourne in the cold and rain towards Wilson's Prom. Fortunately, the skies clear once we get there and it's in the sunshine that we hike the 20 kilometres to the lighthouse, to sleep in a little cottage battered by the wind.

Tuesday: Klum and I realize that it's all fine and good to hike 20k to a lighthouse until you have to hike the 20k back in the morning. Fortunately the wallabies are there to keep us company. In the afternoon, we drive over to Phillip Island, attempt the beach until we finally admit it's too cold, and spend the evening watching very small penguins (cleverly called Little Penguins).

Wednesday: A slightly quieter day where we hang in Torquay, home of Rip Curl, and shop. What? It's cold!

Thursday: It's the Great Ocean Road drive day which keeps us very busy, what with driving on the left, spotting koalas, and hitching a helicopter ride. A very, very good day.

Friday: Back in Melbourne and sipping wine in the Yarra Valley. Also catching a glimpse of the fire damage from last year. I'm happy to report the green is coming back.

Saturday: Wait! We forgot about the Olympics! Time to catch up, especially as the weather feels like London in November.

Sunday: The Chick, insane as ever, has us wake up at 5am to go to a triathlon. Even crazier, she's participating. Klum and I undertake our cheering duties with professionalism and poise and Chick crosses the finish line victorious. And then, sadly , it's time to spend another soul-quashing 24 hours on a plane.

That's a pretty full run-down I gave you there. What? You want more? You want pictures?

You certainly are demanding this evening...

View from helicopter @ Twelve Apostles (of which there are eight)

Koala

Wilson's Prom lighthouse

A Taste of Namibia

The beautiful Namib desert, with our footsteps on the crest of the dune...

Anniversary

Tomorrow morning I will be stepping into the steaming entrails of the A380, curling up into an awkward ball while I lobotomize myself with movies I will immediately forget and, 24 hours later, I will land in Melbourne, Australia.

Australia holds a very special meaning for me in my "life journey" (don't you love those self-aggrandizing notions, makes me feel like I'll soon be the subject of an Oscar-winning epic starring Julia Roberts). A little over three years ago, I quit my job as a law-firm grunt, moved back in with my parents, bought a backpack and ran away to the land of the 'roo. And started writing a blog. Sound familiar?

So the big question is, have I actually gotten anywhere between then and now?

Well, my blog is certainly more active (the first one died after a grand total of 7 posts).

I have an MBA.

The wrinkles are a tad more pronounced.

And in the recesses of my laptop, about 25,000 words lie in wait, wondering if I'm EVER going to get around to writing what comes next. (I will. I promise.)

So no massive advances, then.

Nevermind. I made a wish on a falling star the night I slept outdoors in Namibia (under a canopy of no less than three very visible galaxies and at least a few planets - and I am pleased to report that stars really do twinkle). And the star told me all was well dans le meilleur des mondes.

So off I go to Australia to see what happens.

Out of Africa

Settle down now, children, Res is back and fresh (or rather not) off the plane from Cape Town.

Before you harrass me, yes, there are pictures, but no, you can't see them yet. Patience is a virtue. I learned that from a ketchup ad.

So instead of pictures, for now you will get a run-down of my trip, day by day, which is already quite good but if you're the type of person that can't focus on anything unless there are big, colour pictures above the text, I apologize. I'm sure you will be able to find satisfaction elsewhere.

So here we go:

* Wednesday: Arrive in Windhoek, the capital of Namibia. Realize that, besides the heat and obsession with animal print, this looks like your run of the mill small European city. Where everything is written in German. Drive to Kalahari desert. There, that's more like it.

* Thursday: Wake up at ungodly hour to ride around and pester animals. They are pretty. I am not. Fortunately, I'm the one with the zoom. Hang out with some bushmen who click their tongues while speaking and look at least a couple decades younger than they actually are. Consider stealing their beauty secrets until I figure it must have something to do with antelope dung. Drive to Namib desert.

* Friday: Wake up at ungodly hour to climb Big Daddy (stop it, you two at the back, and get your minds out of the gutter this minute). At 300 meters, it's the tallest sand dune in the world. My thighs doth protest. Especially when I then take them out for a run afterwards in the desert and 36°C heat.

* Saturday: It's crazy how much desert there is in Namibia. And every bit looks different (apparently, not every desert has sand. Or an absence of vegetation). This confuses me, and I firmly resolve to tell my primary school geography teacher about it. Then we run over a chameleon who thought it would be a good idea to disguise himself as the road. He survived, but promised never to pull a stunt like that again. Later, while driving past a "town" called Solitaire (which boasts some fine apfelstrudel), we see a Japanese man who has been walking around the planet since 1986. I consider joining him, except I don't speak Japanese.

* Sunday: Wake up in Swakopmund, which is basically Germany. The bit by the Baltic Sea. Good for jogging. Then climb into a freakishly small plane and pretend to be James-Bond-type action hero while loop-dee-looping between mountains to find a rhino. It's more or less convincing until I throw up. Fortunately, the Himba people we hang out with that afternoon aren't too picky and kindly offer to cover me in ochre to make me feel better.

* Monday: Brave very cold, windy, rainy weather on a small boat to check out our friends the seals, pelicans and dolphins. Yes, this is still in the desert. Well, on the coast of it anyway. Then it's time to head back to Windhoek.

* Tuesday: Off to Cape Town now, which is a bit over-civilized and over-populated for my taste after a week in Namibia. Straight off the plane, head to Robben Island to pay homage to Nelson Mandela. Then drink wine to pay homage to the clever French people that came out here hundreds of years ago.

* Wednesday: Drive down to Cape of Good Hope, the very bottom tip of Africa, only to realize it's not the very bottom tip of anything. Feel a bit ripped off. And surrounded by tourists (there were no tourists in Namibia. Heaven. Don't go there and ruin it now.) My afternoon is improved by all the penguins checking out the really loud Italian people.

* Thursday: It's almsot time to go. But not before hiking up Table Mountain. My thighs protest again. As does my skin, because even though my grubby little hands are careful to cover my whole body in sunblock, they forget one thing. Themselves. Am therefore doomed to walk around with bright red hands for a few days and scare small children and dogs.

* Friday: After very long series of flights, am back in Paris. Which is covered in snow. And freezing. And where a rejection letter from that job (yup, THAT job) is waiting for me. Had I known I would have skipped the nightmares.

But whatever. I have a tan. Pretty pictures (which I will show you eventually). Rooibos tea. A date with my TV watching the Olympics for Valentine's Day. And then another plane. To Australia. Where my favourite Ozzie Chick is waiting for me with sea, sunshine, parties and tickets to my first ever cricket match. (Cricket game? Whatever.)

So all is well in the world.

Now if only my skin didn't smell like crispy duck.

Take Two

It's alright. We've had a slight hiccup. These things happen. When great things get started, sometimes there's a bit of a fumble at the beginning. Like at NASA, for example, they're doing that countdown and then they realize they've forgotten to check one little widget or turn one button-doodah and so they have to take a break and fix it before they can get to the really cool launching the rocket part. This is just like that.

I have bronchitis. And writer's block. But we shall not panic. These are leftovers from 2009, that's all. 2010 hasn't really started yet, obviously, since 2010 will be awesome and not contain anything like illness or blocage of any sort. At all.

It will, however, contain lots of travelling. Starting this week, with a trip to my beloved New York.

Updates will follow.

Now I have to go cough up a lung.

C'est la rentrée

That's it. Summer is over. Yes, yes, I know, officially there are 7 days to go, but let's not kid ourselves. The miniskirts and flipflops have been stuffed in the back of the wardrobe, the black trouser suits thrown on, it's only a matter of time before we start singing bloody Christmas carols.

[excessive whining redacted by censor]

As far as vacations go, however, mine ended on a definite high, complete with great spying adventure reminiscent of the Cold War in the company of the James-Bond-esque Wentworth. A man whose greatest claim to fame is to be the only person alive today to have been punched by a cat. God only knows why he's not in the Guinness Book.

And so the fearless Wentworth and I embarked upon a quest across the Iron Curtain to locate, approach, and photograph the house my mother was born in. In a bizarre turn of events, on the way we encountered various members of my family hundreds of miles from where they were supposed to be, were practically rendered deaf by church bells, shrank by at least 8 centimetres, were fed flaming aluminium swans and attempted to break into a hotel. And I would tell you more about all those things but then I would have to take you out back and shoot you.

Suffice it to say, the mission was a success.

And now I have a few other things to sort out.

Good day sunshine

The sea's at a balmy 27°C. The pool at an even balmier 29°C. The sky is turquoise blue. The air smells like lavender and eucalyptus. I think there's a pretty fair chance I've actually died of swine flu and gone to heaven. Which is totally fine by me. I'm even feeling good about my muscles aching from the hike yesterday. The only thing missing are my girls (and boys). Though the parents are pretty cool too. (si si, je vous aime!)

What I did on my summer holiday

My fans (all two of them) have of late expressed their disappointment at my failure to regularly upload some witty, cutting remarks on the state of consulting, London weather and my fed-up-ness with men. What, you think blog posts grow on trees?! You think it's easy to find some new, clever way to say my job basically consists of writing "leverage" in different colours on slides, it's raining in London (although strangely, not today) and, well, I'm fed up with men?

Well, it's not, OK?! Sometimes, I have writer's block. Like now.

But since the children must be fed their greens, here's "what I did on my summer holiday", in bullet points, à la consultanese:

• I haven't had a summer holiday yet
• I have, however, had a couple weekends away
• First, I went to Lake Garda in Italy (insert schematic representation of lake surrounded by mountains)
• This allowed me to spend some quality time with former INSEAD classmates (insert INSEAD logo and think-cell chart on value of networking)
• They are both consultants too
• One of them jumped in the lake with his blackberry (pause for dramatic effect)
• Last weekend, I went home to the South of France
• I spent two days with family and friends
• I ate well, and slept, and saw the sun
• I was happy (ERROR MESSAGE: Powerpoint is unable to process)
• Next steps...

And in other news, it appears that when faced with the possible end of the world as we know it, Americans vote based on height. Oh good. Nothing to worry about, then.

Grand Place

One of the bizarre things about this job is sometimes you come to, give your eyes a good rub, and realize you're in a completely different city than you thought you were supposed to be in.

Today, that city is Brussels.

This morning, I once again got a 7am Eurostar, this time from London to the land of the Manneken Pis for a meeting. One meeting. One day. Return to the UK scheduled in time to hit a birthday party in the evening.

But over lunch, somewhere in between my leak soup and the overcooked spaghetti, plans changed and it was decided we would stay overnight. So here I am. Spending the night in Brussels before another big client meeting tomorrow. And having packed.... absolutely nothing. (Think about that one for a while... There you go... Not ideal.)

On a positive (and rather ironic) note, though, this hotel wins the prize for nicest hotel I have stayed in in the past five weeks (out of five). A particularly big hit with me are the Magritte prints in the bedroom and the Tintin figurines in the bathroom. Two Siskel and Ebert thumbs up for the Amigo.

Stream of Un-Consciousness

Gaaaaarrrgghh - Damn alarm - Have to get up already? - Why's alarm so loud? - F***... really loud now, what's going on? - Hold on, that's not the alarm - That's the fire alarm - Why is the fire alarm on? - Is it already 5am? - Do I need to catch my train? - Wait, no, I'm in London already - Fire alarm's still on - Maybe I need to get up? - What time is it? Midnight? - OK, getting up now, have to go evacuate - Wait - Maybe shouldn't go downstairs in underwear and flimsy pj T-shirt thing - How about I put on the bathrobe - And hotel slippers - Why are hotel slippers always so big? They should make small hotel slippers - On second thought, might look a bit strange if I go downstairs in the bathrobe - OK, putting on sweatpants and fleece now - Keep the slippers, though - Do I need to take anything with me? - God, that alarm is loud - Don't know what I should take with me - Hey, how about the Blackberry? - OK, out the door now - That large man in a pink shirt is saying something and pointing - Ah, right, fire exit, thanks dude - Hmm, it's actually quite warm outside - Taking my fleece off - Oh wait, am only wearing flimsy pj T-shirt underneath - Keep fleece on, then - Wow, loads of people down here in bathrobes - They look a bit silly - Those other people must have come from the bar, they look really nice - I look like shit in my sweatpants and fleece - But better than those people in bathrobes - God, I'm tired - Hey, look at that, I took my Blackberry with me - How about a little facebook status update - Still really tired - Oh, the firemen are here now - Wonder if there's actually a fire - Not sure the Blackberry was the right thing to save, come to think of it - Why don't I use it to take some pictures, though, that will pass the time - OK, this isn't fun, can't we go inside now? - Really want to be in bed - Seriously - Let me back in - Now.

Oh Goody, It's Friday

I wake up later than usual (just before 7am) feeling pretty excited about finally leaving this grotty hotel. The hotel is a different one from the one I posted about last week, and much worse, which serves me right, I suppose.

The guy comes in with my room-service breakfast (who would have thought I'd ever get sick of those?) and tries to have a chat, although it really should have become clear after 5 days of this routine that grunting is about as much conversation as I can manage before my third cup of coffee.

Once he finally gives up and leaves I turn on BBC Breakfast. This is when I find out Michael Jackson died, and it sort of throws my whole day off, to be honest. It's like realizing this is going to become one of those "Where were you when..." events, and you'll actually have to remember this dingy hotel room with those awful floral-print curtains forever.

Which explains why I'm still a bit shell-shocked when I finally wheel my suitcase into the office, but apparently no one at BM cares so I get over it and conduct yet another client interview. And I have to say, I'm pretty good at these, and by the end of the half hour Janice is putty in my hands. There's even an outside chance she might name her new puppy Res. Great puppy name.

I break up the rest of the day's slide-producing monotony with a quick Itsu frozen yogurt run, some blackberry messengering with an OBT friend, and Wimbledon streaming in the background, until it's finally time to go home. And that's when I have a serious "OH F***!" moment, as I drop my ring into the locked confidential papers bin. I burst into tears and a few minutes later there are three people fluttering around explaining how "the young lady lost her engagement ring". I don't correct them, in case it makes them sort it out faster. It doesn't. Apparently I need to wait until Monday.

So despite my eagerness at finally getting a couple days at home, I'm pretty grumpy when I climb into the Eurostar. Especially because my eternal hope that I'll meet a hot, bilingual guy in the train is once again dashed as I realize I'm seated by myself. Eurostar should seriously consider running a little dating service on the side for some extra cash, especially for its Business Class passengers. All those people travelling to and fro across the channel for work surely have lots in common, and it would make for a much more entertaining trip. Granted, if you and your date don't click, 2h15 can be a bit long, but maybe they could have an eject button or something.

I'm telling you, there's a great business idea in there somewhere...

Ma pomme

Before I leave NY and head back to the real world, I thought I would share with you some of my favourite spots from this trip (a sort of Res Ipsa's Lonely Planet, if you will):

Thompson LES and Above Allen (on Allen St): Because it's in my favourite part of town, and the terrace bar has one of the most incredible views of the Manhattan skyline I've ever had the pleasure to enjoy over a Caipirinha. I wouldn't pay the "actual" rate for this hotel, but for the deal I got on expedia, it's a bargain.

Double Crown (on Bleecker and Bowery): Because the English colonial/Asian fusion food is surprising and yummy (the "Pigs in a Wet Blanket" being not only fun to order but also delicious) and the atmosphere is convivial and relatively unpretentious.

Freeman's (off Rivington): Because eating mac&cheese in a pseudo-Disney version of a hunting lodge full of the LES's beautiful people is fun. And because it's so hard to find you feel like you really earned it.

Coffee in Washington Square Park: Because unlike most things in NY it only costs the price of your morning latte, and there's usually free live music thrown in.

Abercrombie & Fitch (Fifth Ave): Because sometimes it's just nice to ogle.

I should really do one of these for Paris some time... Stay tuned.

From the couch

Ah, how perfect, perched up over the L.E.S., waiting to go out and grab a few drinks on Orchard Street, and listening to Ryan Adam's "New York New York".

All said and done, I should be in 7th heaven right now. I had a yummy Diner breakfast of french toast and maple syrup with my lovely travelling companion N this morning, followed by lunch with very very close friend E (+1 baby) in the Meatpacking District, and topped off with yet more chatter with another E over in Brooklyn. Tonight, and over the next couple days, there will be more friends, more catching up, maybe a little shopping... Really, what's not to love?

And yet. As I look out at the rain pouring over New York, I can't help thinking I'm bringing the whole city down. Yes, there's the Boy trouble, and having to give away my cats, and having to go back to a job I'm less than enthousiastic about (note the carefully disguised euphemism) but surely despite all that I should still be able to dig deep and muster up the required vacation spirit?

And then there's the bittersweetness of being in New York. It feels a bit like going back to the house you grew up in and realizing all the furniture's been moved around and you can't remember where the bathroom is. And the new owners are treating you like a temporary and rather annoying guest they have to put up with while they wait to go back to their real lives, lives which you clearly are no part of. That's when it finally hits you that this house is not "home" anymore, that after years of pining to find that one place you belong you've now exhausted all possibilities and have nowhere else to look.

God, I've just read back over this post and it sounds almost as miserable as I actually feel. What a jolt. So much for the months of carefully practiced sugar-coating. What and how much to say on my blog has been at the forefront of my mind lately. I guess we're trying something new now. (As an aside, a big thank you to petite anglaise, who despite now being a serious, published author, actually took the time to reply to my email on this issue, blogueuse-to-blogueuse).

Res and the City

I'm here! I'm finally here, in this wonderful "alternate home" of mine, New York.

I landed shortly after noon, and then proceeded to make the horrendous mistake of using SuperShuttle, which meant I arrived at my hotel over three hours later. That and the early onset of travel-exhaustion turned me into Little Miss Blue, my thoughts running something like "sure, it's fun and adventurous and liberating to be a single woman travelling by herself, but one of these days I'd like to go on a vacation with someone for a change." And of course the super-sized wet-room shower (I just love American hotel showers) was so obviously made to be shared. What is it about trans-atlantic travels that deludes us into thinking we will somehow leave our old sorrows behind? I should know better by now.

Never mind. It's illegal to be blue on vacation, especially on vacation in New York, so I decided to take my sorry behind out of the hotel and off for a walk (and as many double shot lattes as my bladder would allow). Most hotels in Manhattan are concentrated in the Midtown area, but not being much of a fan of skyscrapers I've chosen to try out the Thompson Lower East Side hotel, perched on Allen Street about two blocks shy of gentrification.

And this very clever choice of mine meant that my stroll took me through Soho, up to Bleecker (lots of bitter-sweet memories there), around NYU to Washington Square Park, and back. I was tempted to do a second, wider loop through Chinatown and Tribeca but despite the three coffees I was simply too tired to keep going. Will just have to save it for tomorrow, after my spa appointment and coffee with a very old friend and her very new baby.

For novelty's sake, I'll try to keep posting from NY over the next few days and provide you with a "virtual" tour. And if any of you, dear readers, are in/from NY and want to share some recommendations, I'd be much obliged!