Thursday 8 December 2011

The Spice of Life

Did you know that in Africa people really do say “Hakuna Matata”? I couldn’t believe it. I never thought Walt Disney invented the phrase, but I didn’t think people actually went around saying it! The first time we heard it used in context was when a porter showed us around our bungalow in Zanzibar. We thanked him and he replied by saying, “Hakuna Matata”! I think we were both a bit surprised and amused, because Josh just kind of giggled and I had a stupid grin on my face. For a moment I wanted to say, “Oh my God, I LOVE that movie!” but I exhibited restraint. In case you’re wondering, The Lion King was correct in saying it means “no worries” in Swahili. And while we’re on the subject, did you also know that “Simba” means “lion” in Swahili? (As you can see, I’m practically fluent!)


So how did we end up in Africa? After spending the former fall/winter season shivering our way through cold European cities, Josh and I decided we wanted to go someplace warm. We asked ourselves, “What’s the Caribbean of Europe?” and landed on Africa. Hot, exotic, adventurous… it was the perfect location.

Our first port of call was Zanzibar—a Tanzanian island off the coast of East Africa. Before I tell you about our little oasis, I feel inclined to comment on our journey to the resort. It was humbling to say the least. Not that people looked ill or unhappy, but there were kids riding in cow-drawn carriages and villagers stuffed into tiny, rickety buses. Houses were made of stone with no roofing, beds or furniture as far as I could see—and I could see because most of these houses were also missing four walls. They looked more like construction sites than actual homes. Admittedly, you can’t help but feel a bit guilty driving around in an air-conditioned cab with a personal escort. 

An hour into our ride and our driver announced that we were just five minutes away from the resort, but by this point the road was vacant. A few more paces up the street and still nothing. No signs, no ocean views, no gift shops and not a single person for miles. I started to feel like we were in an episode of the Sopranos. Finally, after passing a long patch of tall grass we came upon gates that were protected by two guards. The guards proceeded to have a brief exchange in Swahili with our driver, before waving us through to paradise.

I didn’t really have expectations of what the resort would look like. In fact, I barely looked at the website. We left most of the details up to the travel agent—not my preferred Type-A method of vacation planning, but I’m not complaining. No, not at all! The reception area of Breezes Resort was a sight in and of itself with wood carved-furniture, golden vases and ivory fabrics. It looked like a Persian palace and it literally took my breath away. 

After we had our debriefing and complimentary mango juice, we were escorted to the open-aired bar for lunch and got our first glimpse of the Indian Ocean. It was filter-clean and the mild waves gently crashed against a winding stretch of unspoiled white sand. When you looked at it, everything else in the world seemed to melt away. Our bungalow was just as stunning with a private patio, king-sized bed and Roman shower. Not to mention that everywhere you went you were greeted by lush green palm trees, tropical gardens and friendly staff that loved to say “Jambo!”  (“hello” in Swahili). 

One member of staff in particular happened to take a liking to us, and us to her. She was an incredibly attentive server (who made killer mojitos) and brought us complimentary breakfast when we slept in on our first morning. Later that evening we learned that she was part of the Maasai tribe, which made us both a bit giddy. We’d heard all about the Maasai—“a Nilotic ethnic group of semi-nomadic people located in Kenya and northern Tanzania” (Wikipedia)—we’d seen pictures of them in their red-warrior robes and knew the odd bits about their culture, but never did we think we’d befriend one!

As the story goes, Dorah left (or perhaps escaped) her tribe to pursue a better life and education. Apparently it’s good to be a Maasai man, but it’s not so good to be a Maasai woman. Since we took a genuine interest in her culture, she would pop over to our sun loungers and tell us stories about her life and her people. It was like having our own personal beach professor.

Other than getting our lessons from Dorah, for three days we took advantage of all the resort had to offer. We took a private yoga class and got massages. We floated around on paddleboards, read by the ocean and ate dinner to the tune of live African music. Only once did we leave the premises and that was to visit Stone Town.


Stone Town is the main city in Zanzibar, and I’d heard tales of it being home to a great food market and lots of spices. As Zanzibar is known as the Spice Island, we decided this excursion couldn’t be missed. In hindsight, I would replace the word “excursion” with “experience”, because Stone Town was not what I’d expected. It’s interesting how we each have our own frame of reference that we base our expectations on. For example, I’ve been to loads of cities and markets before, so I thought I knew what Stone Town was all about. A few stalls filled with spices, fruits and homemade bracelets. Wood carvings and “I heart Zanzibar” T-shirts. But I guess I’d forgotten that outside the gated perimeter of Breezes Resort was an entirely different world. 

In Stone Town there was in fact a market, where we learned about the spices and the local fruits (like Jack fruit). From there we took a spin around the neighborhood to see the architecture and the shops. And for these reasons, it was unlike any other place I’d been. But here, our guide was not permitted to leave our sides. He hung close to us and kept a watchful eye out for his charges. We came to discover that outside the resort walls, Zanzibar is a pretty dangerous place (at least for tourists). It was an adventure nonetheless. And our adventure was punctuated with a real Maasai spotting. While eating lunch at Africa House, a very svelte man in full warrior regalia and arrows tucked into his belt, sauntered into the outdoor cafe. So yes, by now I was already BFF with a Maasai, but Dorah wore flowery cotton shirts and Nike sandals and worked at the hotel. This guy was the real deal. I was a little scared, a bit awe-struck and 100% jealous of his posture (wonder if he does Bikram?). He left as quickly as he came, but I’ll never forget the sight of him.

It felt like our time in Zanzibar came and went just as fast as the Maasai. While I didn’t want to leave Breezes Resort and our new friend, the private beach and fresh seafood, I was ready for the next phase of our adventure—safari in the Serengeti. But that’s a story for another day….

Monday 26 September 2011

A Tale of Two Cities

So here I am back at Starbucks nearly one year after The Great Internet Fiasco of 2010. It’s funny how “2010” seems like a lifetime ago, as I’m already in the process of making reservations for New Years 2012. (Let’s just say I’ll remember my passport this time.)

Last weekend I went to New Jersey for my college roommate’s wedding. While traveling via taxi to her home for pictures, the driver and I started talking about life. There’s no one more qualified to handle your personal affairs then a taxi driver (or bartender)—and I mean that with sincerity. We chatted about “the bigger picture” and doing things while you can. Carpe Diem and all that jazz. I told him about my new life in London and how sometimes I love it and other times I wish I were home. I told him that looking back on this past year I feel like I’ve been away forever, yet it’s only been 12 months. But is not 12 months a long time? I think another few minutes on the road and we would’ve defined the meaning of life.

During this deep conversation, with someone I’d just met, I ate my egg sandwich and watched the Jersey Turnpike blur by. It was the perfect metaphor for how I was feeling. There I was on my way to my friend’s wedding, remembering how nearly 8 years ago we said goodbye to Monmouth University on our rainy graduation day. My college experience was such a pivotal part of my life, something I’d been preparing for since I was 16, and now it’s just a distancing memory. As London will someday be, too. In the words of my cab driver, “It’s the days that go by slowly, but the years that go by so fast.”

I could go on and on about the irony of it all, but philosophy and time flying aside, there’s a wedding in Jersey to talk about! Of all the places in the world, I was ecstatic when our flight arrived at Newark Liberty airport. Not only because I was back in the Motherland, but also because we actually made it there alive. Before we left, our flight experienced technical difficulties, the luggage door couldn’t shut, our personal TVs were broken (causing us to miss the cartoon version of the safety procedures) and we saw a plane engulfed in flames as we lifted off the runway. It’s funny how fast a non-religious person remembers God.

But alas, we made it and I’ve come to love hearing, “Welcome home” at customs. It’s as if the security guards are even happy to see us. It was a breath of fresh air to be amongst old friends and family again. To be in a place where people knew our names. I felt like Norm walking into Cheers everywhere I went. Mostly because everywhere I went things were familiar. The NY-style pizza, the glittering city skyline, the Greek diners along the highway, the wacky 5 o’clock whistle on Z100. It’s those little pieces of your former life that you start to miss when you’re away. Those things that you take for granted or even those things that start to annoy you (please reference 5 o’clock whistle) that suddenly feel like a warm embrace when you go back home.

We did, however, bring a bit of London to the States in the form of our Bikram practice, dragging my dad along for the ride. Having never tried it in the US, we thought it would be the perfect opportunity to give it a go. It was a great session and my dad was able to endure the 105-degree heat like a champ. One Bikram class and pizza pie later, and we were off to Kristen and Steve’s rehearsal followed by what we would consider a real Italian dinner. Though many would disagree, there’s no better place to find Italian food than North Jersey.

The following morning, I woke before the sun to get ready for the wedding. My mom did my makeup and drove me to a nearby salon for my hair appointment. While I love Jerseylicious, I wasn’t exactly thrilled by the teased out up-do I left with. And by “not exactly thrilled” I mean red-faced and near tears, muttering something about alien antennas. The directions: pin half back, leave the rest in soft curls. The result: a feathery tease, jumbo “prom” curls and a bunch of random twists. I was ready for an interview at Area 51. The hair lasted through the 5-minute car ride and was quickly transformed into a simple down-do thanks to my mom’s deft fingers and crafty pick work.

In short, the wedding was beautiful. We danced until our feet hurt. Ate well. Fought over the plated cannolis. And partied like rock stars. After which we went home to catch the Mayweather/Ortiz Pay-Per-View fight. (Comments on this controversial fight are welcome below.)

By Sunday, I was holding back tears as we boarded our flight to London. Not that I was sad about returning, but I was sad about leaving home. When I first left New York on September 25, 2010, I was so excited I didn’t so much as shed a tear. These days, I depart fully aware of what I’m leaving behind. No longer taking things for granted. Not even that damn “Friday” chant on the radio. On the flip side, I still have one more year of adventure, vacations and summer Olympics to come. So now I look ahead to a fun-filled future. And this year, when things go awry, I will heed the words of my adopted home and try my best to “Keep Calm and Carry On."

Tuesday 23 August 2011

The Final Savasana and Other Turkish Delights


Retreat
noun: the act of withdrawing, as into safety or privacy; retirement; seclusion. 
verb: to withdraw, retire, or draw back, especially for shelter or seclusion. 
(Dictionary.com)

When you live in a big city with noise, pollution, traffic and mass riots, there comes a point when you realize it’s time to surrender, wave the white flag and call in the troops. In Europe, this usually happens in August. It’s a glorious month when it’s almost expected that you’re going to take a break to recoup and rejuvenate before cold weather and grey skies roll around again. It’s a time to trade in the world of ergonomic chairs and water-cooler conversation for a sun lounger and foreign currency… and in our case, 8 days of hot, sweaty Bikram yoga. I know it sounds like a complete oxymoron that a vacation would include working out in intense heat, but this Turkish adventure was not only challenging and exciting, but also inspiring and deeply moving… not to mention, yogis sure do know how to party!

This story begins about two months ago when Josh and I decided to take Bikram a bit more seriously—which, for anyone who doesn’t know, is a 26-posture yoga series practiced in 105-degree F (40-degree C) heat. While something always seemed to get in the way of a regular practice, the hopeful summer season (and my depressing abs) motivated us to get back on the mat. Within a week we were better for it—lighter, stronger and more flexible. So when we noticed that our studio was offering an “Adventurous Yogi” retreat in Turkey, we jumped at the chance!

After a short but luxurious stay in Istanbul, we hopped a flight to Dalaman, which is situated on the southwestern coast of Turkey. I’ll never forget the drive up to the retreat—partly because of the magnificence of the lush landscape and partly because we hugged the shoulder of a cliff the entire way. Upon safe arrival at Huzur Vadisi—a former olive-growing farmstead come yoga retreat center—we were fed lunch, shown to our yurt and had a “chill day”. Yes, life was good!

The following days continued as such, punctuated by trips to a Turkish Bath, boat ride in the Mediterranean and (faux) designer handbag shopping. In the evenings we shared family-style meals and hung out with new friends in the “tree house” until the wee hours of the morning. It was like one big, long sleep over with lots of stretching in between.

Now, I’m not usually one to wax lyrical, but I have to say that as the trip progressed, I discovered a new level of inner peace and tranquility. I’m not sure if it was the sun, the yoga or the fact that I didn’t have to do dishes for a whole week, but whatever it was I felt happy, uplifted and inspired. I think Clark Griswold (European Vacation) expressed my sentiments best when he said, “I want to write, I want to paint, I want to…  sculpt something massive!”

My senses just seemed to have popped right open. During my practice I started to notice that I didn’t just feel the strengthening of my muscles or the pulling of my joints, but also the fibers of the towel beneath my feet, the warm breeze hugging my skin and the fresh breath that filled my body. I saw color more vividly and heard the song of the cicadas as they crooned in unison while we moved from one pose to the next.

Yoga Platform
Our last class of the retreat, and second of the day, completely blew me away. While Bikram is typically a dialogue series, this particular class was set to a soundtrack of meditative music and we were instructed to practice using our intuition as opposed to our ears. I could feel the presence of my class and the emotions we were all experiencing, as we were moving with new bodies and heightened awareness. At the end of the class I laid in my final savasana (dead body pose) and let myself succumb to the hum of the music. On an average day, I usually struggle to keep my mind from wandering and spinning, but this time was different. I closed my eyes and, for the first time, allowed myself to just be...  

I woke up nearly 45 minutes later. Alone in the dark studio, while admittedly a bit scared and late for dinner, I knew that something powerful had just happened. In that final savasana I felt as though I’d connected myself to the universe. My body was glowing from the inside out, from my core to my fingertips, from my head to my toes. It was like waking up from a deep sleep and seeing things in a whole new light—even in the dark.

Thanks to everyone for an incredible time. It wouldn’t have been the same without you! In closing, I will leave you with my Top 10 Turkish Highlights:

     1.     The SCUBA mission to rescue our broken anchor
     2.     Dinner in Gocek… MEATBALLS!
     3.     Zumba lesson with Ashley on the yoga platform… ZUMBA!
     4.     Getting scrubbed at the Hamam (or Bath) by two burly Turkish men
     5.     Playing Grandma’s Footsteps (similar to Red Light Green Light) at 2am
     6.     Calling everyone “Bob”
     7.     Patrice and Leo’s magical treatments
     8.     Yoga everyday with two of the World’s Greatest Bikram Teachers (Thank you Michele and Mark!)
     9.     Dancing around the umbrella on the last night
     10.  Making friends with the coolest yogis around 



Thursday 18 August 2011

Six Years in the Making


On July 30th Josh and I celebrated our six-year wedding anniversary by traveling to Whitstable, a fishing and harbor town in Southeast England. Rearing for oysters, we stumbled into a lovely open-air restaurant along the sea and ordered one of everything on the menu. While we waited for our plates of oysters, crab and lobster, Josh asked, “If someone told you on our wedding day that six years later we’d be here, would you’ve believed it?”

NO! Six years ago I was a 24-year old Jersey girl who had never so much as been on a plane before. How would I have ever guessed I’d go from lifelong East Coaster to life as a Londoner? Oddly enough, I think it was two days after our wedding that I finally joined the 21st Century and got myself on my very first flight… an 11-hour journey to a paradise also know as Hawaii. I honestly believe it was that plane ride that set into motion a series of events that eventually lead to our departure from the “world as we knew it” to one of adventure, challenges and new experiences.

I remember waiting in the airport that day, not knowing how I was going to react when I boarded the plane. Was I going to chicken out, cry, grab onto the stewardess’s shoulders and beg her to “let me out of this tin can”? But right before our flight was called, “Danger Zone” (the Top Gun theme song) blared from the speakers and I felt a surge of adrenaline course through my landlocked veins. I was not only ready to fly, I wanted to pilot that flight! Forget Tom, there was a new Croes in town!

After that trip, we eventually went back to our everyday lives in Clifton, NJ, and back to our jobs and commutes. And while life may have gone back to normal, looking back I can now see that, together, we slowly began evolving into something new. Over the next few years we started new careers and took more planes to exotic places. We went skydiving and parasailing, wind surfing and rock climbing (indoors, but it still counts). We moved from Clifton to Hoboken (NJ) to Chelsea to the East Village (NYC) and ultimately to London.

So the answer again is no, that girl six years ago would not have guessed she’d end up on the other side of the world—blogging about it to her 15 loyal followers. Though on some level, I can see that we’ve been moving in this direction for some time now—I’d say about six years to be exact. And I can also say from my heart there’s no one I’d rather be moving with then my husband, Josh! Happy Anniversary!

Monday 25 July 2011

I Love London

I realize that since moving to London things haven’t always been perfect. I like to think of it as, “moving pains”—a first cousin to “growing pains”. But what I’ve also discovered is that once you live in a place long enough, you get to know the ropes and those aches and pains slowly start to go away. It can then be said that in order to be part of a city you just have to know the rules, and every city plays by their own.

While we may still be learning, there are lots of amazing things we have had the pleasure of enjoying and experiencing as Londoners. Sometimes these amazing things just happen to get eclipsed by a robbery or hot water outage or rancid meat pie, but it doesn’t mean they don’t exist. In fact, just last week Josh and I went for a 6am, 3-mile run to Victoria Park (there’s a first time for everything) and when my endorphins kicked in, there was nothing in the world that could bring me down. Sunshine, green space, flowers, puppies… I was in the epicenter of serenity. This inspired me to think about all of the wonderful things in life, including the many reasons I Love London:

10.  Parks, parks and more parks—and let’s not forget frisbee in the park, BBQs in the park and random dogs who steal your soccer ball in the park.

9. Sunday Markets and market food, from scratch-made noodle dishes to Turkish pizza, green juices and fresh breads. Very European!

8. Historic events, like The Royal Wedding and the 2012 Summer Olympics. (With tickets to see the Olympic men’s soccer semifinals in Manchester!) 

7. Oxford v. Cambridge Boat Race (and pre-post Boat Race activities).

6. Fenton’s Rink for curling—my new favorite sport.

5. Easy Jet—so long as you have a free weekend, a 56x46x25cm carry-on and your tickets printed in advance you can go just about anywhere!

4. 20(+)-day vacation policies.

3. Free Emergency Room services, discovered after nearly cutting off my fingertip in a mango dicing accident.

2. British reality TV, such as The Apprentice UK with Lord Sugar and The Only Way is Essex.

And lastly, but most importantly...

1.  The amazing people I have met and friends that I have made… thank you for showing us the many reasons to love London!

Wednesday 29 June 2011

For the Beckers

My brother- and sister-in-law, the Facebook famous Steve and Stacie Becker, were the latest guests to check in at Casa de Croes. Celebrating their first anniversary, they jumped across the pond for their (also first) European vacation. Following in the footsteps of Joe and Judi Stormer, the newlyweds toured London like no other (it must run in the family). From Heathrow to Bath with stops at Stonehenge, Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey (site of the second biggest wedding this past year) and of course, Shoreditch, the Beckers saw it all… with 800 pictures to prove it. In honor of their impending anniversary, they also took the Eurostar to Paris were they “hopped on” and “hopped off” at nearly every attraction imaginable. Tres Bien!

Family Photo
It goes without saying that the planning and execution of the Becker trip was virtually flawless. But this wouldn’t be a proper “Life As A Londoner” blog, if I didn’t tell you about how Stacie and Steve’s visit also happened to coincide with our 4-week stint without hot water. Oh yes, 4 weeks, which, according to our management company, is “just how life is sometimes.”

When Josh’s parents were in town we noticed that there something wrong with the water. Perhaps too many showers per day or one too many dishes being washed. Or maybe after a long winter, the hot water decided to go on hiatus. Whatever the reason, our apartment called for a boiler strike. Oddly enough, someone I was working with at the time experienced the same problem. He said he just turned a knob here, flipped a switch there and voila! Well, if you saw our original boiler you would know that it was army green and dusty and looked like it had been erected in the 1960s. There were no knobs or switches or restart buttons. In fact, our first repairman (yes, first of five) told us he could barely look into the matter, because of the way the boiler was basically stuffed into a tiny closet. It’s also worth mentioning that before this repairman came to our flat and tinkered with our boiler, we were at least able to get hot water during the strike so long as the heat was on. In 70-80 degree weather this was less than ideal, but hey, hot water with heating is better then no hot water at all. As you might have guessed, after he left, the hot water stopped flowing altogether.

We were told a valve needed to be replaced and the order was going to be rushed. And when no one called us for a week and a half, we learned that the person in charge of receiving deliveries was out sick. By the time the new part was ready to be installed, Josh and I were leaving for NY. Fortunately, or so I thought at the time, I was able to schedule an appointment for the morning we returned from our trip. It was so nice to think that after an all-day plane ride, we’d finally be able to take a nice, long, hot shower. But 10am Monday morning came and went. After several calls, I once again learned that there was a scheduling muck-up as yet another person had called out sick. I seriously contemplated sending over a jumbo box of multi-vitamins.

While Josh and I have come to expect this kind of thing, what were our guests going to think? I mean, we were handling things just fine. We each took daily showers at the gym, which actually forced us to workout and has to this day kicked off a bit of a fitness high. But what were Stacie and Steve going to do? I didn’t think Fitness First offered guest passes for their bathroom facilities.

So we went back to the management company for another round of, “You better fix this!” - “We’re doing everything we can!” emails. And after visits from two more repairmen, our apartment was condemned! Turns out it wasn’t just a busted valve, but the entire boiler needed to be replaced.

With our landlord’s blessing—that is after several threats—we were granted permission to get a hotel room with compensation. Good, great, problem solved. Josh and I planned to hit the showers after our trip to the Abbey and Stacie and Steve were going to head over later that evening and spend the night there. In all truthfulness, I can’t complain about our shower/stay at the Holiday Inn Express on Old Street. Firm and soft pillows, labeled accordingly, coffee/tea service, free continental breakfast, and lots of movie channels.

We did, in fact, get the handicapped room, which was completely fine, as there was a functioning shower. But to give you a mental image of what this looked like, picture a bathroom with nothing more than a toilet and sink. Then imagine a showerhead affixed to the wall. No tub, door or curtain. Just a drain in the middle of the floor. Oh, and there was also a long red cord. Please note that if you should ever be in a similar situation, do not pull said cord, unless you’ve fallen and can’t get up. Curious Josh pulled it and subsequently alerted the front desk that room 304 was in distress. We had to call reception and cancel what was sure to be a visit from the manager on duty, followed by medical assistance and an ambulance.  

After our weekend stay in the Holiday Inn Express, the new boiler was finally installed by the fourth and fifth repairmen. We celebrated the end of Hot-Watergate by doing the dishes and taking more showers (as one should). And while our visits to the gym may have become less frequent, it feels quite luxurious to bathe without flip-flops.

Cheers to the Happy Couple
To Stacie and Steve I’d like to say thanks for coming, Happy 1st Anniversary and, every time you take a shower, I hope you think of us!


Wednesday 25 May 2011

Taking Europe by Storm(er)

2 Stormers and a Croes

We had our fourth round of visitors these past few weeks, and I must say, I'm starting to feel rather popular. When we moved here, I wondered if anyone was going to take the seven-hour flight just to see us. But we've been very fortunate that so many friends and family are willing to spend their vacation time shacking up in Casa de Croes. This May, we hosted my in-laws Judi and Joe, who embarked on a true European Vacation. I thought Josh and I were tourist extraordinaires, but the Stormers took us by surprise. Everyday they were off to see some new part of England. Stonehenge, Bath, Greenwich, The Abbey, Borough Market, Tower of London and so on…  no artifact, museum or sight was left unseen. They even ventured over to France for five days and stopped in Belgium for a long weekend. With all they had on the agenda we instituted a verbal "check" after each part of their list was covered.

Since our weeks were spent working, Josh and I decided meet Judi and Joe for a weekend rendezvous in Belgium. It's a mere two-hour EuroStar trip and what I'd call a "local country" we had yet to see. I personally hadn't done any research on which buildings and cathedrals I needed pictures in front of, but I did have a list of what I wanted to eat and drink: chocolate, waffles, mussels, fries and beer. Let's just say we tackled that list promptly and efficiently. CHECK!

La Grande Place
Although I'd gone for the food, there were some very interesting sights to see in Brussels, such as La Grande Place and Le Manneken Pis, translation: The Peeing Boy Statue. We also happened to be in town for the Pride Parade, which turned the city into a lively festival of music, color and drag queens! It doesn't get more fun than that.

The following morning we went to Bruges, also known as the "Venice of the North" due to it's scenic canals. Unfortunately, the weather didn't cooperate so we avoided the boat ride and opted for the bus tour. It was the perfect way to view the medieval city and learn all the Jeopardy facts and buzz words while staying warm. Our tour returned in precisely one hour, and of course, it was time to eat again. On the menu: omelets, beef stew, chicory root gratin (not really sure what Josh was thinking with that one) and of course, waffles! Lest we forget pale lagers and brown ales. By the time we made it back to the hotel, we were ready for salads, bananas and bottles of water! 

Before we knew it we were back in London, another great mini-break under our belts. A week has past and as I write this, my in-laws are en route to Delaware after three weeks in Europe. I can't help but feel a pang of homesickness, as I always do when any of our guests leave London. But, happily, I can look back on the fun times and say that we had yet another fun-filled family visit and we knocked two more European cities off the list. CHECK and CHECK!

Tuesday 17 May 2011

The Royal Wedding

Everyone has been asking me about the Royal Wedding, and I can't blame them. Since the engagement was announced in October I have been 100% obsessed. I spent the past 7 months of my life thinking about ways I could befriend some member of the Royal entourage and get my invite to the event of the century. Of course my efforts were in vein, as I am nothing more than a "commoner". No famous relatives or bank accounts in Switzerland. I didn't go to a Scottish boarding school. I like to eat dinner in front of the TV watching Jersey Shore. And all my "jewels" were stolen in the robbery. So it goes without saying that the likes of me do not get invited to occasions such as this. But at the end of the day, I'm actually okay with that and here's why...

By the time April rolled around I knew more about Will and Kate's respective families than my own. Did you know that the Middletons eat Sunday dinners at the Bucklebury Village Pub sometimes? Did you know that Princess Beatrice is the first woman in line for the throne (you remember the one with the pink satellite dish on her head, don't you)? Oh, and did you know that the Queen eats cereal everyday for breakfast - from a Tupperware container?! The rascal! 

In every which way, shape and form, "the firm" (the King's name for his clan) had become a part of all of our lives. Day after day we were exposed to up-to-the-minute news feeds, how-they-met documentaries and tell-all interviews. And for some reason I was enamored by it all… the love story, the wedding arrangements, the making of a Queen. I found myself in a frenzy trying to "keep up with the Windsors". 

The day of the Royal Wedding, I woke up feeling like it was my birthday. I made buckwheat pancakes with maple syrup, fixed a cup of tea and sat myself in front of the TV for 5 hours of matrimonial history. From moment one I was sucked into the vortex, anticipating every arrival and, to be honest, every outfit. 

But as I watched the guests arrive in their designated order - the D-listers, the celebs, the diplomats - no one in particular wowed me. Egg-dye was palatte of choice and space-aged fascinators took center stage. I felt like I was watching a Fashion Police Wedding Special of What Not To Wear. In my opinion there were two saving graces: Will, I must admit, look rather dapper in his scarlet Irish Guard colonel's uniform. Regardless of whether or not he earned his stripes, the vibrancy and regalness of his ensemble was a refreshing reprieve from the traditional black tux. My second favorite was Karen Gordon. I had to conduct an extensive google search to get the name of the woman on Earl Spencer's arm, but it was worth the shout out. In my opinion, she was one of the few who truly looked elegant and actually pulled off her over-sized hat. 

By the time it was Kate's turn to arrive, I was full of anticipation. No matter what everyone else wore, surely her dress would have us all squealing with joy. With all the mystery and allure surrounding the designer and the style, I couldn't fathom what she'd turn up in. A gown made of diamonds, dove feathers, angel wings? I was bursting with excitement as she rode from the The Goring Hotel to the Abbey. 

When the moment arrived and she stepped out of her Rolls-Royce, I was completely and utterly… disappointed! Don't get me wrong, her dress was very nice, but I never expected Kate to show up in a dress that was nothing more than "nice".  I mean, after all the hype I half expected her dress to launch into a fireworks to display and sing God Save the Queen in D-minor. And I know Kate's hair is her thing, but would it have killed her to try an updo? 

That's when it hit me. I was spending an exorbitant amount of time immortalizing people who are simply people. The truth is they looked like any other couple, because yes, they are just a couple. Just because they are future kings and queens doesn't mean they actually bleed blue. It's so easy to forget that they are just like you and me, despite a castle of Crown Jewels and a palace to call home. I know you may disagree, but think about it: They have embarrassing family members (Kate's cocaine-snorting Uncle Gary), make regrettable decisions (Prince Harry's Halloween as Hitler) and get upstaged by their siblings (Pippa Middleton and the appreciate day being organized in honor of her royal hiney). Needless to say, once I came to terms with the fact that they aren't characters in a Disney movie and they aren't going to fly off to Neverland for their honeymoon, I was no longer interested. 

British Fever
In the end, revelations aside, I still had an amazing time. After the wedding, Josh and I took the tube to Piccadilly Circus, met with friends and toasted our "commonness" with half-price drinks. And for that I can say, it was a very special day for this Londoner!

I Got My Invite... or maybe it's just a Happy Hour ad!




Monday 4 April 2011

Highway Robbery

Hello Loyal Blog Readers! I'm sorry it's been so long since my last entry. You might be wondering where we've been. Questioning what sorts of English shenanigans we've been up to. I'd like to say Josh and I have been involved with London life, ya know, striking against the budget cuts, protesting the Libyan government, sitting outside Buckingham Palace hoping an invite might drop out of the window. Alas, I have no idea about that stuff. I don't even know who's designed Kate's wedding dress! I'm shamefully out of the loop (and haven't watched Super Nanny USA in weeks), and it's basically because I got a J-O-B. No exotic, adventurous explanation here. I got a job, got busy, and my Life as a Londoner became just Life. 

The good news is that we've acclimated enough to say that life in London feels fairly routine. We get up, go to work, run at the gym (sometimes), make dinner, leave the dishes in the sink and catch an hour of Two and a Half Men before falling into the deepest realm of REM sleep humanly possible. Not exactly the most exciting schedule, but I guess it means that we've made it. On March 25th we hit our 6-month mark here and it officially punctuated the day we went from being "foreigners" to "locals". We no longer need a map to get to the grocery store; we accept the likelihood that a transit strike, signal failure or planned engineering work will screw up our commute; and we know that when a menu boosts pancakes we're likely to get a short stack of crepes. I even find us saying things like "let's take the lift" and "cheers" in place of thank you... 

Then came the robbery! And with that horrific act of injustice, I instantly felt like I had been transported back in time. Back to those first few months of chaos and calamity. To the days when Starbucks was the only place with a functioning Internet and IKEA was truly a 4-letter word. While Josh thinks the robbery was our final rite of passage (get robbed, get respect), I've come to think there's some sort of English Poltergeist trying to scare us into going back home. 

But after the instantaneously feeling of dread and despair, I actually felt rather calm in a rather short period of time. Maybe it was the Gemini in me or maybe it was as if all the crazy experiences we had in the first 6 months trained us to deal with just about anything. Perhaps everything we'd been through was just practice for the big game. I've come to expect the unexpected and accept the unacceptable. As they say, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Not to dwell on the details, but for the sake of the blog, here's how it went down: I was at work. It was 6:10pm. The sun was still casting a strong stream of light through the city - the best part about a "spring ahead" time change. I'd forgotten to put my phone on silent, so when my ringer went off I immediately dropped what I was doing to mute it. Of course I had to rummage through my purse first, spilling out lipsticks and receipts and mixed currency until I found it buried underneath my arsenal of supplies. In the process of paralyzing the volume I also managed to hang up on Josh, who I noticed had called and texted me several times in a fifteen-minute period of time. I took a moment to ponder why he was so desperate to speak with me (I guess I really am that cool)… then my phone rang again and I answered it before anyone in the office located the source of the disturbance. 

"Josh?" I whispered in a low raspy voice. To be clear, it wasn't a sexy, phone-operator rasp, but the kind of hushed tone you use when you have your head under your desk so no one knows you're on your cell phone taking a personal call. "I'm still at work. What's up?" I expected him to ask what we were doing for dinner or tell me that he missed me so bad it hurt (well, maybe not in those exact words). Instead he said, "Did you hide the computer?" Of course I didn't hide the computer! I left the computer exactly where I always do: in the living room on the couch near the radiator - right where one would expect to find an expensive piece of modern machinery. To that he replied, "Oh, well, don't panic... It seems like the laptop is the only thing missing and nothing's messed up, but I think we've robbed." Though it wasn't so much as a "thought" as a reality. The busted door frame and crowbar dent were evidence that I wasn't playing hide-n-seek with our Mac Book Pro and we had officially been burglarized.  

When I walked in I hugged Josh and then went about accessing the damage. Looking through as much of my things as I could without actually touching anything. The police had informed us to sort of float about and use our magical powers to open draws and such until they were able to dust for fingerprints. 

The assessment yielded the following positive results: The TV was still in place (thank God), the PC was hooked up and our new plants were shaken but unharmed. The place was indeed a mess, but that was our fault. I was actually kind of worried the police would walk in and think the bulgars threw our clothes around and left toast crumbs in the hallway so they could easily find their way out. But they didn't seem concerned by the mess and, unless I'm being paranoid, I really don't think they were concerned about any of it. They didn't so much as shake our hands, give us their names or extend an apology. It even occurred to me that they might be the robbers! I've seen Home Alone. A fake badge, a couple of walkie talkies and you're a cop. 

The next day the SOCO man arrived, aka is the Scene of Crime Officer. On a side note, I think SOCO sounds like the name of puppeteering school that teaches people how to entertain with hosiery. "CSI" is way cooler. Anyway, he came and dusted for prints and found none. This surprised me because he never took our prints nor did he take anyone else's who had been in our flat. How did he know that the prints he found didn't belong to the robber? It was all smoke and mirrors as far as I was concerned. I knew, as well as the police, that the odds of cracking the case was as great as our odds of getting a FedEx package. 

And that was that. Within 48 hours life went back to normal. I didn't (and don't) feel scared. I'm not mourning over my things. And I'm genuinely happy that no one got hurt. In fact, I find it rather ironic that when we first moved in I complained via blog that we had way too much stuff - and one too many hats - anyway. So maybe on some level this was the universe's way of sorting out the clutter and letting me know it reads my blog... and if the universe is reading your blog, you'd better write something. 

Monday 7 February 2011

Meet the Fallons

All month I’d been looking forward to my family’s visit to London. They scheduled their trip shortly following the New Year and every weekend thereafter, Josh and I did something new to prepare. One weekend we purchased Billy Elliot tickets, another we researched soccer (or football) games in the area; of course there was the grand cleaning and grocery shopping; and finally, a week of anticipation and excitement. Not only was it our first time entertaining visitors from the US, but it also the first time we were going to see my mom, dad and brother since September. I was eager to show them our flat, our town, and our lives as Londoners.

From Left: John, Josh, Me, Dad, Mom
Through my blog, I think you’ve become quite familiar with the way things usually go for us. In the end, all might be well, but it doesn’t come easy. So I think now’s the time to let you in on a little known secret. Our blunders in London are not isolated or coincidental, but rather part of my genetic makeup—a strand of distinct DNA that has been generously passed down from generation to generation of mishaps. So with the Fallon forces joining together, it goes without saying that our perfectly woven plan began to degenerate rather quickly.


The evening before my family’s flight, Mother Nature inflicted a storm upon the East Coast that ravaged the New York/New Jersey area with an unprecedented amount of snow and ice. When the numbers came out in the morning, my parent’s NJ town was the lucky winner coming in at 19 inches of snow, while pretty much the rest of the state was hit with 15. Not that 15 isn’t bad in its own right, but the fact that the small town my parents live in somehow managed to accumulate an additional four inches is just plain… expected! It’s like those Peanuts cartoons where the single black cloud only rains on Charlie Brown.

In an effort to beat the system, the three of them set off to the airport extra early prepared to spend the night at Newark Liberty International if they had to. Learning from my previous travel mistakes, my mother jokingly asked if everyone had their passports before trekking off. It was more of a rhetorical question meant as a hat-tip to my blog, but John (my brother), surprised her when he jumped up and exclaimed he had forgotten his! (I’m telling you, it’s genetic.) With that, he darted from NJ to NY in freezing conditions, and then raced back to NJ to meet my parents at the airport.

Fortunately they all managed to make it on time, passports, luggage and sanity in tack… unfortunately, the plane hadn’t. After two and a half hours of weather delays the flight finally boarded with one minor issue. The toilets weren’t flushing! While it must’ve been incredibly irritating to sit on the runway for an additional hour while the plumbing was fixed, it’s probably best that the situation was remedied before the plane took off and the in-flight meal was served. (I apologize for the mental image.)

Before the Show
Despite it all the family arrived in one piece, ready for a good time (and a stiff drink)! And a good time (and many drinks) we had! On Saturday we saw Billy Elliot, celebrated my mom’s birthday with gourmet pizza and caramel cake and bar-hopped on Brick Lane.
Bday dinner!

Victoria Palace Theatre
On Sunday we went to the West Ham United v. Nottingham Forrest “football match”. To explain this part, I’m going to need a paragraph or two: To begin, we went to the game routing for West Ham, as they’re from East London and because Nottingham Forrest just sounds like a team full of sissies. I pictured men in tights frolicking around with bow and arrows on their backs, gingerly kicking the ball with their green fairy shoes. But I couldn’t be more wrong. Within 15 minutes we wanted to defect. Nottingham Forrest fans turned out to be the most passionate, loud, rowdy fans I’d ever seen. Even when their team lost they were still cheering, chanting and talking smack, while the West Ham fans sat quietly like they were at the library. If it weren’t illegal (seriously, illegal) to route for the opposing team in our assigned section, we would’ve joined in the Nottingham Forrest fun.

The next interesting part of our soccer excursion was the concessions. By halftime the stadium had run out of hot dogs and hamburgers, leaving us to choke down five meat pies and a pasty (meat filled pastry that looks similar to an empanada, but tastes like a foot). With one tear of the pasty package the noxious odor was released, warning our bodies that this was not to be eaten. While the pasty wasn’t fit for human consumption, it did a great job of keeping my hands warm. As for the meat pies, they seemed fine enough on the outside, resembling chicken potpies in individual golden crusts. The inside was another story.  They were filled with a graying substance that the five of us (and probably the top NASA scientists) could not quite identify. Following some extensive research we now believe the pie was filled with mutton, which is the meat of an elderly sheep.

By Monday, we were all grateful no one needed a good stomach pumping and set off for an afternoon of shopping and relaxing. We had a wonderful time, but as day turned to night I got that ominous feeling that reminds you the fun you’re having comes with an expiration date. It’s that heaviness that creeps up, as you slowly realize vacation or Christmas or Sunday night is coming to a close. As the feeling grew stronger and the sky darkened, I wished for one more day. With all the snow and toilet delays our time together had already been cut short and it didn’t seem fair that it all had to end so soon…
Outside Commercial Tavern

Pool Showdown!
The forces that be may be tough on us Fallons, but they’re nothing if not fair. By Monday night, snow threatened the East Coast again and flights for Tuesday morning were subsequently cancelled! We spent our bonus night together cooking dinner, drinking wine and watching episodes of The Mighty Boosh. If you’ve never seen it you must download the series or at least the episode entitled, “The Legend of Old Gregg”. It’s hysterically bizarre, and the type of humor reserved for the warp and twisted. Needless to say, it was the perfect way to end a long weekend with my family.




Wednesday 26 January 2011

Nicole V. The Royal Mail (Round 1)

There comes a time in every person’s life, when the gloves come off. After months, days, maybe even years of suppressed anger and built-up tension, you finally decide that enough is enough. Conjuring up images of Tom Petty you say to yourself, “I won’t back down!”

My day of reckoning came earlier this week. My opponent: the Royal Mail. Not one person in particular, but Her Majesty’s Postal System—that’s right, the entire system (that includes you, too, FedEx)! You may wonder how, in four short months, I managed to seek the demise of an entire sector of the British service community. I can tell you it wasn’t easy, but it’s a battle I’ve been fighting since Thanksgiving Day.

Sometime late November I got the sense that my mom had sent us something. She was dropping very subtle hints, such as “Did you get anything in the mail today?” and “Are you sure you didn’t get anything from FedEx?” Each time I answered, “No.” Aside from a ton of repetitive bills filling us in on all stages of the payment process (even though we pay online) we hadn’t received anything of note.

Finally, on Thanksgiving Day, my mom had to share the big surprise. She’d sent us homemade cookies via overnight FedEx—a special delivery that came with a $100 price tag! The US FedEx worker not only helped her package the cookies, but also assured her that spending $100 on cookies was a justified act of love (I think he works on commission). He had also assured her they would arrive the day before Thanksgiving, already making them two days late. As it was, we didn’t have the cookies or even a note citing an attempted delivery. It was a perplexing mystery I couldn’t solve alone; so I called upon my trusted sidekick Josh Watson and opened the Case of the Missing Cookies.

After some serious sleuthing, we discovered that FedEx had come several times, but our buzzer was dead as a doornail (no pun intended). But if FedEx had come, where was the note? Why couldn’t we find a “We Were Here” message or sign that anyone had tried to deliver a package? Could it be that there was a Note Thief on the loose?

Before I jumped to conclusions and hired Scooby Doo, I called FedEx and asked if a note was left and if not, why? The FedEx rep responded with the following question: “What color is your door?” The question threw me completely off guard and I had no choice but to stammer in response. I wondered if this was a new self-help scheme—the follow up to What Color Is Your Parachute? Perhaps she was taking a few psychology classes and this was her conflict-resolution method.

Sensing my hesitation and confusion, she asked more specifically if my door was gray. Gray sounded right, so I said as much. To this she said, “That’s why we didn’t leave a note. You have a gray door and we can’t leave notes on gray doors—it’s the law.” Was this woman serious? What did she expect me to say to the most ludicrous excuse I’d ever heard in my life? Oh, okay, I see. We have a gray door, so we can’t receive packages. That clears everything up for me! Thanks!

My head was whirling and I was unable to regain composure. If this “law” is real and my buzzer is broken and my package is floating around in a delivery truck, how on Earth do I get my hands on these cookies? I felt like Cookie Monster and envisioned myself raging through London yelling, “Me want cookie!” Those were my treats and, by God, I was determined to get them.

I made another call to FedEx and asked if the driver could please phone me the next time he tried to redeliver. They were aware of my situation and seemed eager to oblige. And guess what? The following morning I actually got a call. A call to say the driver had just come by, but I didn’t answer the door so he left. I held my head in my hands and begged for divine intervention. I felt like reaching through the phone and shouting, “Didn’t I tell you my buzzer was broken?! Isn’t that the reason I asked for the driver to call in the first place?! Do you have a cognitive issue I should know about?!”

Of course I didn’t say any of that. I rationally re-explained my situation for the umpteenth time, trying in vain to remain calm. Desperate to get off the phone with the Cookie Lunatic, the rep assured me that he’d send the driver back in an hour. Two and a half hours later he still hadn’t come and I finally decided to throw in the towel. I’d gone 12 Rounds, fought the good fight, and it was time to raise the white flag. I wasn’t getting those cookies and I had to accept the fact that I’d been defeated.

I left our flat and didn’t return for several hours. I ran a few errands and worked on decreasing my spiked blood pressure. When I returned, I checked the mail (just for good measure) and started to take off my coat. That’s when the most remarkable thing happened—my phone rang. It was a FedEx driver claiming he was at my door! I couldn’t believe the timing of it all. I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. He had actually come and he had brought the cookies. It was, by this point, a Christmas Miracle!

After a week of detective work we closed the case, ate the cookies and celebrated our victory—and, in usual fashion, we let out guard down just a bit too soon. Around the time the last cookie had been eaten and all was forgotten, we received a letter in the mail from FedEx. I actually thought it might have been an apology note, a refund or maybe even a gift card toward future deliveries. I excitedly opened the letter to find… a BILL! We owed the British government 30 pounds (re: $45) in taxes for enjoying US-produced cookies in the UK. To review, my mom paid $100 for overnight shipping, yet the cookies weren’t delivered for a week and now I, the recipient, had to pay taxes. I wanted to shout, “No taxation without representation!” and spill tea and scones into the Thames. As therapeutic as that would’ve been, I couldn’t risk getting deported. So I kept my tea in the cabinet, paid the bill, cursed the system and banned all parcel delivery going forward.  

Let’s just say avoiding deliveries for a period of two years didn’t turn out to be a viable solution. Within a month I once again found myself at the mercy of the Royal Mail. My opponent was taunting me, begging me for a rematch, and I accepted. In the words of Rocky Balboa, “Going in one more round when you don't think you can—that's what makes all the difference in your life.” 

To be continued…

Tuesday 18 January 2011

An Evening at the Theater (or is it Theatre?)


Josh and I have officially proclaimed the London movie experience “The Best in the World”—a very coveted and sought-after honor. We came to this conclusion last Wednesday when we decided that the incessant rain and darkness was becoming far too depressing and we needed to get out. Among the movies playing, we chose to see 127 Hours (no spoilers here) at the Rich Mix Cinema. It was between that or The King’s Speech, which is based on the true story of King George VI of Britain who struggled to overcome his public speaking problem/speech impediment during World War II. While intrigued, I think we’ll wait for that to come out on DVD.

Now get this, when purchasing your tickets, online or at the theater, you get to pick your seats in advance! That means you can show up right before the movie starts and still avoid the front row. And when you meet up with friends, you don’t have to throw your coat over four chairs and yell, “seat’s taken!” like Elaine Benes every time someone comes near your territory. Why is this not a universal amenity?

Upon arrival (about 15 minutes before the show) we checked in at the ticket counter. Directly behind us was a cute little café that served fancy coffees and gelato, and in front of us were a set of doors, which lead to the theater. We walked to these magical doors, opened them and surprisingly found ourselves in the middle of a music venue complete with a full bar and jazz band. And this wasn’t your daddy’s jazz band. The music was an upbeat medley of top-40 pop tunes played on trumpets, trombones and saxophones. The crowd ranged from college students to thirty-somethings and beyond, who all sang, danced, lounged and laughed. Forget those over-priced arcade games and Slushies; this lobby was bursting with liveliness and the type of post-work freedom one longs for on a weeknight.

The best part is that even if you’re there to see a movie and not listen to the band, you can still partake in the bar festivities. Forgive me, but this bears repeating. You can actually take your drinks (beer, wine, Grasshopper) into the theater with you! Now is it me, or is that unheard of (at least in the States)? Maybe I just happened to miss all of these incredible bar-jazz band-theaters in my lifetime, but I’ve personally never been to one that was this cool before. I know it sounds very sixteen-year-old of me to be excited because I can throw a few back during a movie, but the whole evening was actually rather sophisticated. I felt so civilized listening to jazz tunes, and then taking a glass of wine to my reserved seats. Sure beats a bladder full of soda and neck strain!  

Call it a fluke, but people were actually quiet during the entire film to boot. Not once did I have to mentally shout at someone for talking or roll my eyes because the person next to me chewed popcorn like a cow. (Okay, so I’m a bit noise sensitive, but it’s easy for me to lose focus.) Anyway, that didn’t happen this time. At first I wasn’t exactly sure why I left feeling like I’d been to the spa, glowing with the contented pleasure of having just thoroughly enjoyed myself. Then it occurred to me that the movie experience was simply flawless. Comfortable, quiet, exciting with surprises at every turn—it was a cinematic adventure of for the avid or novice moviegoer!

So here’s my Londoner’s note: I highly recommend that after you take a spin through the Abbey, breeze around the Eye and sneak a peek at Parliament, you go to the movies! It may sound very blasé, but believe me it’s not.

A few more topics of note:

      1.)  The dueling Gemini twins in me were very busy this week. One working feverishly on the new Life As A Londoner Facebook page (please Like me!), while the other signed up for advanced nutrition training at the Institute for Integrative Nutrition. I only noticed that both sides of my brain were working on different projects when I posted a FB message about school, and then an hour later posted another about my travel/blog page. Maybe one day, all sides of my psyche will learn to work together.
      
      2.)  Josh and I embarked on another European excursion this weekend. We visited our friend Risa, who was in Madrid on business. While we didn’t accompany her to any seminars on buying high and selling low (or is it the other way around?) we did have an indulgent afternoon in one of the greatest food markets in Europe, Mercado de San Miguel. And while our favorite Spanish restaurant, Casa Lucio, was booked for the entire day, we found another restaurant for dinner and plenty of fun things to do! More details and pictures on that trip to come…

Monday 10 January 2011

Bonne Année

Happy New Year folks, friends and all eight of my beautiful followers! I hope the start of 2011 has you feeling rested, rejuvenated and ready to tackle your resolutions. I originally resolved not make any this year. Not because I’m perfect and feel there’s nothing I could do to change, but because I find it hard to stick to something once I’ve decided to do it. Like when you buy a gym membership then never go back. But after a little escapade that followed a somewhat “challenging” trip to Paris (yes, I used the words challenging and Paris in the same sentence) I realized there was a virtue I could resolve to focus on this year. Appreciation! Here’s what led to the epiphany…

In case you’re wondering, Bonne Année means “Happy New Year” in French. I learned that last weekend when Josh and I took an impromptu trip to Paris. We didn’t quite make it in time to ring in 2011; in fact, we almost didn’t make it at all. With two days to go before the Big Countdown, we booked tickets to Paris on the last train of 2010. A nagging part of my brain babbled about the extravagance of it all. We’d only just returned from our trip to Edinburgh. Who did we think we were, the Hiltons? I listened earnestly, and then told that little nag to sit down and shut up! Paris is Paris and if your husband calls and says, “Hey, wanna go to Paris for the weekend?” you say, “Yes, yes I do!”

Tickled with glee I did everything I could to prepare. I packed, cleaned the fridge, emptied the trash, washed and folded two loads of laundry, dusted and rotated the coach cushions. You’d think I was awaiting the arrival of the Queen. Before I left I did the usual check: wallet, keys, money, phone. I even brought the laptop fully charged and two DVDs, along with a Madeleine Wickham novel and my Iphone updated with three new CDs. All this for a two-and-a-half-hour train ride and two-night stay. I had everything I needed and more… save for one, teensy, tiny, minute belonging—my passport!

I didn’t realize I’d forgotten my little blue book until we were going through bag check 15 minutes before the train was scheduled to depart. I panicked and pleaded with security, tumbling all of my personal information onto the counter top—my license, social security card, credit cards. Not only was I willing to offer myself for a full cavity search, but I was also prepared to make a sizable donation to his personal bank account. Blah, blah, blah, French police, blah, blah, blah, out of our hands, blah, blah, blah, always bring your passport when traveling to another country. Long and short, he was not letting me on that train.

The gentleman at the ticket counter took mercy on our sad souls and my welling eyes and switched our tickets for the following morning. So we went home, popped a bottle of Veuve and watched the Thames fireworks from our flat. All in all, it wasn’t a bad New Years Eve. I actually would’ve been perfectly content had I not completely blown our chance of ringing in 2011 beside the Eiffel Tower in my new blue dress. C'est la vie.
Big Ben at Midnight (via the TV)

Fireworks from our Flat
We went to bed excited that the trip was still upon us. To be extra safe we both set our Iphones for a 5:30am wake-up call. We wouldn’t want to miss another train. Haha! Famous last words! Let’s just say I wasn’t laughing when I lazily rolled over to check the time and saw that it was 6:47am. I thought I was in the Twilight Zone. What time is it? What day is it? Don’t we have to be somewhere in 15 minutes? Didn’t we both set alarms? With realization came one of those Home Alone moments, where we jumped out of bed, raised our hands in the air and said, “We slept in”. Leave it to the Apple Iphone to be a pioneer of digital technology, but to have an annual New Year’s Day alarm clock glitch.

Surprisingly, we made it to the station in the nick of time. Sloppy hair, unshaven, unshowered, with rolling suitcases and shoes in a plastic bag, I’m sure we looked more like vagrants than world travelers. But the important thing was that we made it on the train and arrived in Paris.

Chocolates at the Christmas Market
We had a lovely afternoon moseying along the Champs-Élysées, underneath the Eiffel Tower and past the Christmas Market. It was the sweetest reward one could ask for. We stopped for lunch at a quaint bistro, sharing a croque-madame and meat-and-cheese platter while the bartender poured us a friendly house red. Our lack of plans allowed us to linger and talk, and watch the rowdy group of French-folk at the neighboring table slosh their champagne and merrily sing about something I couldn’t understand.



Eiffel Tower

Trying to get a pic in front of the Eiffel Tower

Croque-Madame 
Meat-and-Cheese Platter

French Waiter
The evening proved to be just as magical as we strolled by the Moulin Rouge and over to Montmartre. We walked as the rain sprinkled our heads and cold nipped at our feet, pointing out the adorable cafes and artfully shaped breads, wrought-iron balconies set against cream-colored buildings and sparkling views of the city. 
The Square at Montmartre

Moulin Rouge
Eventually we ended up at a little corner restaurant. Its façade, decorated with a tangle of green vines, looked like something out of a fairly tale. It was all going so well and we were finally able to put the past debacles aside with a laugh. That is until Josh’s thin esophagus decided to act up. No, that’s not a typo, Josh has a thin esophagus, which means it’s exactly as it sounds—it’s thinner than it should be. When he eats too fast or eats foods that are too rich, the aforementioned food painfully gets stuck in the esophageal pipe. It’s usually nothing more than a glitch in his system, so to speak. Like the Iphone, it quickly fixes itself and goes back to normal. But in this case, also like the Iphone, it wasn’t going away without causing a scene.

After about 20 minutes of looking into Josh’s crimson face, I came to the conclusion that we might be taking our first trip to a Parisian emergency room. Worried, I asked what I could do to help. I offered to kick him in the duodenum to force his stomach open, but aside from making him laugh it really didn’t prove to be a viable solution. Several times the wait staff popped by to make sure Josh was okay and didn’t need a Heimlich expert. I’m sure they were dying for us to leave, as we were probably scaring the customers. On the way out, I thought about telling the girl next to me to stay away from the filet. Just a little esophagus joke!

Without help from the paramedics, the food eventually unclogged and we left the restaurant. Josh hadn’t really eaten much and I didn’t have a French pastry, but before an anvil fell on our heads or a meteorite dropped from the sky, we thought it best that we go back to the hotel. Josh curled into bed and passed out. I, still raring to go, settled in with a bag of peanut M&M’s and a mini-bar bottle of red wine.

Our Hotel
As I lay in bed with my novel and my nightcap, I realized that with everything that had gone wrong, there was still nowhere in the world I’d rather be. Even though the trip wasn’t a total success—and I complained and cursed and cried at times—we managed to have our moments of fun. We’re getting out there and seeing the world, and that’s what’s important. While our experiences may not always be perfect, they’re still experiences. I feel blessed to even have this opportunity. And as I think about all that’s happened and changed since January 2010—graduating from the Natural Gourmet, changing my career, moving to London, exploring Europe—I can honestly say that life, in and of itself, is something to appreciate. So in closing I offer these resolutions: appreciate life, live each day to the fullest and don’t forget your passport!