The Last Three Months: Switzerland, Paris, Venice, and New York (three times)

I was surprised when a few people emailed me with similar notes like:

“Um, ok, so….why in the hell haven’t you written anything in the past three months??”

or

“Are you dead?”

Um, ok, so…not dead (thank goodness) and am catching up now. It has been awhile. Things have been a little hectic to say the least. Since September, I took a week holiday in Switzerland with my Grams (and entertained her in London); spent a weekend in Paris with my friend Rosanne; spent another weekend in Venice with my friends Kim and Kate (and two of Kate’s friends from Amsterdam); and have been to New York three times for work. As a matter of fact, I am sitting in JFK as we speak waiting to fly back after a small circle of flight cancellation hell that over the past 24 hours has left me sitting on a grounded plane for six hours (only to be sent to a scary hotel in Queens to stay the night when the flight was cancelled at 2am), and has me waiting at the airport today for 8 hours until I can catch a British Air flight out (I hope). Good times. Although I did allow myself to eat McDonalds in the food court to make me feel better (? I think) and boy are those McFlurrys good! I like the M&M kind because the colors from the candy runs and swirls into the vanilla ice cream. It’s pretty -- looks like tie-dye.

With all my free time here at JFK airport in lovely Queens, NY, I’ve been working and reading. Read an interesting article in New York Magazine on “burnout” and think I may have just self-diagnosed. Not that I expect anyone to feel sorry for me, it’s not a terrible life…I enjoy 90% of it. But right now a weekend on the couch watching “X Factor” in a semi-comatose state eating Ben & Jerry’s sounds damn appealing. Being here in the JFK food court for another 8 hours does not.

I’m also on drugs. I’ve been sick for the past month with an insane cough that started in smoky Paris, and later caused me to tear some cartilage in my ribcage….it hurts to move and breathe and laugh. So I went to my old doctor in NYC who gave me some codine for the cough, nasal spray for whatever I have, and serious pain killers for the rib since there’s nothing they can do for that besides give you drugs for the pain while you wait for it to heal. So I’ve tried to balance the last week and a half of work in NYC while on the meds without getting too loopy….that meant no cocktails.

Ok, I’m an optimist though, so enough griping, there’s good stuff too! Here is the 10-minute recap of what you’ve missed:

Gram’s Visit & Switzerland (October)

Like I said, my 85 year old Grams came to see me which was really fun – she is such a trouper and in amazing shape! We spent a couple days in London where I took her up in the London Eye and walked her all over the city. We ate at “The Rules,” London’s oldest restaurant, which also happens to be downstairs from my flat. We spent another whole day touring Hampton Court Palace which we both LOVED – gorgeous palace and gardens….honestly, I can’t get enough of that stuff. We also did the garden maze there – it is the largest in the world! They say it takes an average of 20 minutes for most people to find the center, but we found it in about 15, so I think that means we are above-average smart.

In Switzerland, we landed in Zurich, then took a train to Lucerne where we spent a few days. Went to the top of Mt. Pilatus which was very fun and pretty. We did a lot of walking and browsing, and stayed at the great Hotel Montana overlooking Lake Lucerne. We had a balcony off our room where we enjoyed local cheese and wine each night. The view of the mountains around the lake was stunning. We also visited the nearby town of Hergiswil where we toured a glass factory. After the (very well done) tour, we shopped and I blew a glass bauble of my very own which is now hanging in my flat.

After Lucerne, we took the train to Interlaken in the Jungfrau region where we did a day’s excursion to the top of Mt. Schilthorn….which is best known for the James Bond Movie “Her Royal Majesty’s Secret Service” which filmed some scenes there. We also ate at the revolving restaurant at the top where I had the “spicy James Bond spaghetti.” I must say travelling with your Grams gives you good reason to do all that fun kitschy tourist stuff you’d be too embarrassed to admit you did otherwise.

On the way down from Schilthorn (you go up and down completely by cable cars), we stopped in the mountain town on Murren, which may have been my favorite place and somewhere I definitely want to return. It was mesmerizing and gorgeous.

After Interlaken, we went to Montreaux, on the shore of Lake Geneva. Very foggy while there, so we couldn’t see much of the mountains around the lake, but we did tour the Chateau Chillon (castle) which I loved, loved, loved; toured the old town up on the hill; and ate at a yummy French Brasserie -- the best food we had on the whole trip. One thing I must say is that Swiss food is not very good or diverse….ick. But they do serve everything piping hot, which really impressed Grams. Oh well, with stunning scenery everywhere we went, I guess it can’t all be perfect.

After Montreaux, we took the train to leave out of Geneva….we went around the shore of the Lake which boasted quite a few vineyards, layered and tiered on the hillsides. That was rather pretty.

I would love to go back to Switzerland (the Interlaken region in particular) to do some hiking. It is a very beautiful and perfectly clean country – rather hard to believe it’s real….very Disney-esque. Crystal blue lakes, green hillsides, snowy peaks, adorable brown cows and the sound of cow bells everywhere….it was magical.

Mostly, having that time with Grams was priceless, it was hard to say goodbye. Although I don’t think I’d be a good candidate for elder care – I dragged her on long walks up hillsides, around bustling cities, and through a rickety medieval castle that I could barely navigate. I kept thinking that if my mother saw what we were doing, I might have had my “responsible granddaughter” license revoked. But Grams loved it – she is such an adventurous soul. It’s something neither one of us will ever forget.

Paris (November)

My friend Rosanne, from New York, goes to Paris a few times a year to stay, work (she is a graphic designer and has a kid’s clothing boutique in Paris with her sis), and visit her sister and her family who live there. She usually stays about a month and rents an apartment. This time, I came to play with her for a weekend.

We mostly shopped. Rosanne is the best and worst kind of friend to shop with because, like me, she enthusiastically encourages purchases. We did some good damage…I especially cleaned up at Le Bon Marche (fancy French department store) and Sandro, my favourite boutique there. Got a cute coat, a fun black party dress and a sweater dress, two chemises, and a few bracelets. I also bought some kids clothes for my nieces at Rosanne’s store in Paris, “Milk on the Rocks” (www.milkontherocks.net) – TOTALLY cute urban kids’ wear.

Oh, and Ro has an adorable little dog named Totoro who came out shopping with us for the day, she is the cutest little thing ever! She travels to and from Paris with Rosanne, a jet-set pup!

We also ate a bit (of course) – Saturday night we went to Terrance Conran’s restaurant Alcazar.

Rosanne’s friend Stefan (also from NY) was also staying in Paris with her, so we had a couple fun evenings out with him. I wrongly assumed he was gay at the start, but he still managed to like me after nonetheless. I think. (He’s probably still damning me to his friends as we speak.)

“So, you just had a break up, sorry to hear that. How long were you with him?”

“Him? Cat, I’m not gay…..”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Friday we went to a club that we were WAY too old for (didn’t stay long), and Saturday we went to another club Paris Paris which was a bit older, but just not our scene…regardless, it gave us some fun material to rant about after. We stayed out all night both nights and slept most of the morning, then went shopping in the afternoon -- not a bad life!
Rosanne made us an amazing preventative hangover meal around 5-6am Saturday morning after returning from a club. It was this amazing pasta dish (using Barilla, of course), that she concocted from the remnants in her fridge….food from the gods. I need to get her to write that one down for me if she can remember it. She should actually compile a cookbook of improvised hangover recipes from what’s in the fridge…I think that would be a big seller. But then again, I guess putting improvised recipes into a cookbook kinda defeats the art of it.

On Sunday, we went and got massages at some Indian spa, which was funny, because we had them in the same room. A bit of a “couples” massage as we jokingly called it. After the R&R, we had lunch at a cute little brasserie. Then we shopped….until I had to run and catch my 7:30pm train. It was a nice day -- one of those days in Paris with the pretty early-winter light.

I also lost my voice – I started to feel it go in a super-smoky brasserie on Saturday, and it was all down-hill from there….by the time I got home to London on Sunday, I was completely unable to emit sound, and that lasted for three days. Me, silent, is very hard, as I have one of the biggest mouths in the history of the world. After about a week it all came back, even though the last four days I sounded like a pre-pubescent boy. But who cares, it was worth it, Paris is fun.

Venice (November)

My friend Kim and I both said we would wait to visit Venice when we had boyfriends, but then decided that was pretty stupid given our track records of late, so we said “screw it” and planned a girls weekend instead. My friend Kate, who lives in Amsterdam, met us there, along with two friends of hers.

Venice is great -- really cool and pretty. And completely and utterly overrun with tourists. I call it the “toy city” -- it doesn’t seem real.

We did our share of aimlessly walking the canal-lined streets and taking in the many piazzas that can be found all over Venice. We stopped in to tour St. Mark’s Basilica and wandered across the famous Rialto Bridge. We didn’t make enough time to tour the Doges Palace or take a gondola ride, so those will have to wait for the next visit.

We shopped (I bought a sweet little black dress at Giorgio Armani), ate (at a couple good but nondescript restaurants), spent a day on the island of Murano where we went in and out of all the cool glass shops and galleries (we bought trinkets) and had drinks at Cipriani’s. But I did not have the heralded Bellini, as everyone was drinking them and that would have been way too cliché….I had a Vodka Collins instead and Kim had a prosecco. We also bought blocks of nougat (I got pistachio) which took only about two days to polish off. And I didn’t even think I liked nougat.

We also went to see the Peggy Guggenheim collection, which is a pretty nice collection of modern art in her old canal-front home. We arrived 30 minutes before they closed, so it was an expedited tour. But that was really about all we needed anyway to see everything.

We stayed at a really cute hotel on a canal (which says nothing since everything is on a canal there) with a big chandelier in the centre of the ceiling, two floor-to-ceiling windows, and a cushy sofa. But our room had the smallest beds I’ve ever seen….I’m talking Goldilocks/Three Bears small. I felt like I was in my niece’s toddler bed.

As much of a pretty novelty as Venice is, the highlight I think, for both Kim and I, was the water taxi ride from our hotel to the airport. We met the long, white speedboat about a block from our hotel where the very cute blonde driver loaded in our bags. We were the only two passengers in the boat. It was night time and dark outside, and we started off slowly, peeling through the canals. We popped our heads out through the sunroof of the boat and stood the entire time as we said goodbye to the city from the water. It was only about five minutes in all, but it was kind of magical. We felt like characters in “The Italian Job.” Once we got out on the open water, we really took off at top speed and were at the dock at the airport in about 10 minutes. We jumped off the speedboat and jogged into the terminal. That was a moment in time where I realised once again how totally great life is right now. The boatride was 90 euro, but worth every cent.

New York (September, October and November)

It’s hard to miss NYC when I keep returning every month. Not that I’m complaining in the least, it’s ideal to have a business (i.e. paid-for) reason to return State-side and a great excuse to see my friends and stay in touch with the latest and greatest in Manhattan.

I went in October for 5 days for a new business pitch (which we won, yay!) and returned again in November for a almost two weeks for two different client meetings. Both visits were a little stressful and involved late nights (revisionist history – I love how I make it sound so light now post-nervous meltdown…), but there was some fun mixed in with friends. On the most recent visit, I finally got to eat at Mario Batali’s restaurant Babbo (very yum) with my friend Molly, as well as Japanese Star Chef Morimoto’s restaurant called “Morimoto” (with my friend Adeena). I forewent booking a hotel and split my time instead between Molly, Adeena and Rosanne’s apartments. That was really fun and a good excuse to catch up with them. I love them. Molly and I also went to the “Tenacious D” concert at Madison Square Garden….that was pretty good for a laugh, even though we all left with contact highs from the secondary pot we inhaled from all around us.

I still love Manhattan but am not anxious to run back for good. Short visits are nice to see the people I like and get a fix for all things great about the city (and there are still plenty of those), but London has become remarkably “home” to me and comfortable. The life there just seems so…normal…compared to NYC. The pace is more reasonable, it’s not as fast, and you don’t have to be a size 0 supermodel to get a date. Very liveable.

Ok, I think this is a good place to stop with the recap. I can now go back to “real time” blogging -- hopefully. Sorry again for the wait, I’m baaaaaaaaaaack!

The Rest of Russia (Warning: This is Killer Long)

Between my blackberry running out of juice (ha ha that's funny, get it?) and our crazy pace of tourism, I was not able to keep up in real time…so here’s a recap of the remaining days of our Russian holiday.

Our last day in St. Petersburg we toured the Winter Palace, the Hermitage, and St. Isaacs Cathedral. The Winter Palace was (as you can probably determine) the winter residence of the Tsars/Tsarinas in the city center. Painted a rich green with white and gold accents, you can’t miss it. Inside and outside, it’s equally as opulent as the Summer Palaces we toured on Sunday. Attached to the Winter Palace is the Hermitage, which is one of the top art galleries in the world. It houses some great treasures, arranged in spectacular rooms of the former palace, where the lavish inlaid wooden floors and sculpted moldings are as mesmerizing as the art itself. We saw lots of fancy furniture and décor: Florentine mosaics, fresco-like paintings, the elaborate gold peacock clock built during Catherine the Great’s reign, enormous golden chandeliers, and ornate sculpture. Every type of art is featured in the Hermitage – Italian, Early European, Dutch, Americas. We started in an amazing room of Rembrandts that boasted about 20 paintings (the ones Stalin didn’t sell), including “The Return of the Prodigal Son,” “The Sacrifice of Abraham,” “Flora” (my favorite of the Rembrandts) and “Danae.” There are also two famous DaVincis (one is the Madonna Child) and a sweet Michaelangelo sculpture (“Crouching Boy”). The French Impressionist wing is quite healthy too – with a room full of Gauguins, a nice pick of Van Goghs, a few Monets, some very colourful and familiar Matisses (including “The Red Room” and the giant “Dance”), a selection of Picassos, some Renoirs (including the famous “Boy with a Whip” – which everyone thinks is a girl since little boys in France used to be disguised as girls up to a certain age so they wouldn’t be kidnapped) and a few (always lovely) Rodin sculptures. Pure heaven. There is also a floor devoted to Greek and Roman sculpture that I had to jog through due to time, but it was at least a scenic run.

An interesting factoid: During the war, the Russians painted the roof of the Winter Palace as well as the domes of St. Isaac’s cathedral to camouflage them from the air so the Germans couldn’t see/bomb them. Thank goodness it worked, I can’t imagine if they had been destroyed.

We had lunch at the Hermitage and said goodbye to our guide Olga. We also said goodbye to Kim, who headed back to London that evening.

After a few more hours in the galleries and browsing the gift shops, we walked over to the gold-domed St. Isaac’s cathedral. We toured the inside (gorgeous and lavish, like all the others…Russian Orthodox churches are definitely all about the “bling” factor.) We walked the many steps up the dome to the observation deck, where we got good 360 panoramas of the city…it was a pretty, sunny afternoon. Before departing the church, we bought some shot glasses (yes, we bought shot glasses in a church) from which we could enjoy some of the Russian Imperia vodka Margot had purchased for the train ride to Moscow.

After St. Isaacs, we walked across the street to the fancy Hotel Astoria (again) for some drinks and snacks (Hitler had planned to throw a lavish party to celebrate the siege of Leningrad at the Astoria...he sent out invitations for the event before a victory was claimed, but of course, that never happened, thank God. What a bastard.)

After the Astoria (or the Waldorf as I kept calling it), we went to a yummy and cozy little restaurant alongside one of the canals called “The Idiot” (after Dostoevsky’s book, not the ex-pats that like to eat there) where we had a really good dinner. The atmosphere and service were great, it was like being in someone’s living room. (There were complimentary shots of vodka as we found in so many Russian restaurants. As if we weren’t drinking/paying for enough on our own.)

After dinner, we went back to the hotel to retrieve our luggage and meet our driver Valerie who took us to the train station.

The train was kind of neat. Old red train with the Russian double-headed eagle on the cars. The attendants stood at attention outside each train door to collect tickets. They wore sharp red suits, hats and white gloves. Our cabin was tiny, two sets of bunk beds with a small table, stocked with snacks and water for the ride. We read our books, had some vodka and snacks, gabbed, pretended to smoke our pretzel sticks like cigarettes (that's so fun), and managed to make it to sleep. Perhaps not the most restful sleep I’ve ever had, but I did manage to get some.

Welcome to Moscow: “The REAL Russia”

We arrived in Moscow around 7:15am. I was tired and a little cranky. Our guide met us at the train…his name was Arsen. He asked us if we enjoyed St. Petersburg. We told him yes and he said, “Well, you must like copies then -- St. Petersburg is copy of Europe -- welcome to the REAL Russia!” When we got in the van he asked, “What’s Moscow’s biggest problem?” We guessed traffic, pollution. He answered: “No -- Moscow’s biggest problem is that it’s surrounded by Russia on all sides!” We had a giggle. This guy was a character. He also happens to be a cultural anthropologist, and as we found out over the next few days, he did know his stuff.

The first induction into Moscow is the traffic. It’s bad. The train station parking lot was crammed full, and for some reason we were going the wrong way, so we had to back out of it in reverse for quite some time (Arsen was clearly annoyed with our driver, Alexander, telling us in a grumpy voice that Alexander was “special.”) There were policemen everywhere trying (or maybe not trying) to organize the chaos (“Generals everywhere!” Arsen said).

We arrived at our hotel, the Hotel Cosmos: An eyesore monstrosity of tourism hell, complete with neon lights and a full casino in the lobby. Definitely not the cozy and quaint Petro Palace we had in St. Petersburg. But, after checking in around 9am and making the decision to stay there and make the best of it, we had a couple shots of vodka, a few laughs, and got on with our day (the hotel did have a great power shower, so that was the best part after the train ride).

After sampling some fast food for lunch (baked potato with fixings) from a street vendor, we met Arsen and Alexander and went on a 3-hour city tour. It was a very rainy afternoon. We drove out to the Sparrow Hills, which provide a sweeping view of the city where you can see the 1982 Olympic Stadium (we saw a few Olympic complexes on the tour), all of the Stalin Skyscrapers, and cathedrals. The viewpoint was across the street from one of the skyscrapers housing Moscow State University, so we got to see one of Stalin’s masterpieces up close and personal. After the Sparrow Hills, we went to the pretty Novodevichy Convent (founded in 1524 by Tsar Vasily III) -- situated alongside a serene pond, surrounded by a lovely park. From the convent, we went to its resident cemetery -- the New Maiden Cemetery -- where the “Who’s Who” of Russia is buried, including Chekhov, Stalin’s wife, Gorbachev’s wife, cosmonauts Belyayev and Beregovoi, Molotov, violin virtuoso Oistrakh and a slew of famous Russian writers and poets. I must say, it was a really beautiful place…the sculptures at the graves were magnificent and elegant. After the cemetery, we drove to the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, admiring its stark white façade and massive golden domes. We also took in the river view behind the cathedral, which included a view of an old chocolate factory and enormous statue of Peter the Great. We ended the tour in Red Square where we got our first view of the Kremlin, Lenin’s tomb and the gorgeous St. Basil’s Cathedral (another colorfully-domed cathedral like the Spilt Blood in St. Petersburg).

After the tour, we went into GUM, a department store on Red Square we had drinks and snacks and rested our feet. I must say, it is rather odd to be in a post-communist country, in a massive, modern shopping mall, right next to the Kremlin -- boasting stores like Louis Vuitton, Monsoon, Estee Lauder, Mandarin Duck, and a Sbarro pizza. And that’s just one of many malls in Moscow…capitalism is alive and well.

After the mall, we walked up Tverskaya, a main shopping street through the city. We stopped in Yeliseyevsky’s, a glorious gourmet food store, similar to the Food Hall at Harrods. Housed in a beautiful old 18th classical century mansion with gigantic gorgeous chandeliers, the store is packed with chocolates, bread and pastries, caviar, vodkas (and other spirits), fruit, vegetables, meat, fish, souvenirs….it’s an epicurean wonderland. I bought some chocolate to go into Christmas presents. And some treats for myself of course, Russian chocolate is pretty good.

We had dinner at a trendy restaurant with a DJ called Pyramid where we had Asian food. It was pretty good, and the crowd was hip. I was glad the menu had pictures though; otherwise we would have had no idea what we were ordering. I’ve never ordered so much before just by pointing. But again, that’s what happens when you can’t make heads or tales of the alphabet to even try pronouncing anything.

After dinner, we strolled back to Red Square to see it at night. It’s very pretty with everything illuminated, especially St. Basil’s. Another very cool part is the four towers at the edges of the Kremlin. They are topped with stars made of ruby that glow red against the night sky. Very iconic. We snapped a few pictures, then took the Metro back to the hotel, which was about a 20-minutes train ride from the city center.

Thursday we met Arsen at 10am and took a tour of the Metro (subway). You might think this odd, but the Moscow Metro is an artistic marvel. Stalin built underground palaces to represent the promise and paradise of communism…ok, whatever, but these stations are unbelievable. We toured 11 in total…spent all morning underground in a maze of Florentine mosaics, frescos, stained glass, sculptures, chandeliers, paintings, elaborate tile work...it was like an extension of the Hermitage. No two were alike and each had an interesting story behind the inspiration and theme for the design. It was a top honour at the time for artists to be selected to design these stops. We finished our tour at the Arbat, a popular shopping street (mostly for tourists). We came above ground, saw the former home of Pushkin (bright blue!) and a memorial dedicated to he and his wife, and then said goodbye to Arsen for the day. We took a rest in a really cute and cozy coffee house where I had a cappuccino. It was a good break from the wind and bit of rain we had that morning.

From the Arbat, we walked to the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, which we had seen from the outside on the city tour. We went inside and walked around. It is as gorgeous inside as you would expect from the gold-domed interior. Completely covered in gold and icons in the typical Orthodox fashion. After walking around in these churches, you get a little crazy by all the ornateness and gold and splendour…they put some of the great Italian catholic cathedrals to shame. But then you remember this is supposed to be a place of God…and that turns your stomach a bit given the money and sacrifice that was no doubt given to build such structures at the expense (I’m sure) of so many people and other priorities. Margot made the comment that “if Jesus saw these places he’d roll over in his grave.” I reminded her that Jesus was no longer in a grave, but we had a pretty good laugh over it. Oh well, I still consider these cathedrals great works/places of art, even if I don’t believe that type of lavishness has any role or purpose relevant to faith and worshipping God.

After the cathedral we went to the Hotel Metropole in the city center for a fancy (late) lunch. And boy was it fancy. We started with a (complimentary) shot of vodka followed by a bottle of champagne and a lovely silver dish of black Beluga caviar with blinis. Serious yum factor. For our main plates, Margot and I ordered the “Appetizer Russian Soul” – a traditional Russian plate of smoked herring, mackerel, a blini stuffed with vegetables, cabbage, pickles and red caviar. It was an amazing plate of food. For dessert we had an apple tart with ice cream and I had some coffee. The check was as impressive as the food, but certainly not as enjoyable.

After lunch, it was pouring rain outside, so we spent some time stalling inside the hotel lobby perusing the gift shop. I bought some old cool communist propaganda postcards for my colleague Rory who likes stuff like that (not communists, but old postcards). Once the rain calmed a bit we made our way back to the hotel…we were all a little tired and wanted to have an early evening in at the hotel to rest. We got back to the hotel, had a rest, and then wandered down to the casino to cash in our free drink coupon we received upon check in. The casino was a dodgy and dismal little place, so we enjoyed our vodka quickly at the bar, then made an exit (the bartender -- not friendly). That night we had a light dinner at a Japanese restaurant in the hotel. I had a pot of green tea, which was really caffeinated and stupid of me…I spent most the night wide awake in my bed.

Friday we met Arsen for a tour of the Kremlin. We started in Cathedral Square and went inside the Italian-designed, golden-domed Assumption Cathedral. Next, we went into the Archangel’s Cathedral where the tombs of the first Romanov Tsars are. Of course, there are more gold icons and elaborate paintings everywhere in these too. There are actually five cathedrals stuffed in this square, but we only had time for those two. Which is probably ok, if we tried to see them all we’d get “church head.”

After the churches, we walked through more of the inner Kremlin where we saw the world’s largest cannon (it was never used, but it’s pretty), the world’s largest bell (it’s chipped), and Putin’s offices (they are yellow).

Next we headed to the Armory where we spent a couple hours looking at the elaborate treasure that Russia has accumulated over the centuries. There are cases upon cases of gold, silver, china and antiquities…many given as gifts from other countries. There are Faberge eggs that belonged to the Tsars. And of course, armor and weaponry. There’s a full room of exquisite coronation robes and gowns…worn by everyone from Catherine the Great to Peter the Great to Alexander and Elizabeth I. There’s an amazing room of carriages….I think perhaps the best collection in the world. I think my Grandfather would have loved that. We actually went through all the rooms twice…once with Arsen and once on our own…there was so much to take in, we saw lots of new things the second time around.

After the armory, we went into the Diamond Fund, which would be the Russian equivalent to the Crown Jewels or the Gem Room at the Museum of Natural History in DC. Only this room is CRAZY CRAZY OUTRAGEOUS BLING. Diamonds everywhere. Completely encrusted crowns, vibrant tiaras, loose stones galore (diamonds the size of quarters and bigger), a black diamond, rings, earrings, necklaces, bracelets….it was insane. They only let so many people in at once, then they lock the doors behind you and don’t let you out until a specified period of time goes by (I’d say about 20 minutes). Then they let the next group in. It was dazzling.

After diamond shock, we left the Kremlin and walked along the outer wall where we saw the tomb of the unknown soldier. Then we went to Red Square where we had lunch at GUM (the department store) at a little food bar with traditional Russian food.

Next, we walked about 20 minutes to the Tretyakovskaya Gallery, which houses Russia’s largest collection of Russian fine art. We tuned into our audio tours and sailed through. I discovered the great portraits of Levitsky, fell in love with Perov’s “Reapers Return from the Field in Ryazan,” saw the famous and beautiful “Unknown Lady” by Kramskov (they say she may be from Dostoevsky’s “The Idiot” or Anna Karenina), enjoyed a room of Repins (“Autumn Bouquet” and “The Ploughman” were my favs), analyzed a few Vrubels and Levitans, and marveled over Grabar’s “Chrysanthemums” which was my very favorite.

Then we went downstairs to the gallery of (religious) icons. It was gorgeous. And huge -- an underground labrynth of spectacular and ornate panels. We barely had any time left, as the gallery was about to close, but it was enough time to marvel as we passed through…especially over the most famous trio of icons by Andrei Rublyov (3 panels, one with the Archangel Michael, Christ, and Paul the Apostle). Some of the panels are worn…especially the one with Christ….only his face is left. They are beautiful, dated 1425-1427. There was another series of six panels called “The Deesis Tier” from Constantinople around 1387-1395. These panels sported Peter, the Archangel Michael, the Virgin, Christ, the Archangel Gabriel and Paul the Apostle).

We left the museum around 7:30 and headed to dinner back in the city center at the quaint and elegant Café Pushkin, one of Moscow’s nicest restaurants. Old, wooden, cozy and filled with books inside, the place has a great ambiance. There are 4 floors with four different menus. Each floor gets more expensive the higher you go up. We sat on the second floor (and it was expensive enough). We had a great dinner…the food and service were grand. My favorite part however, was riding down the old lift inside the restaurant. I took a stroll up the stairs to the top floor to see what the other floors were like, then I rode the old elevator down. It’s pretty – encased in elaborate black iron work…and it’s open so you can see outside as you pass through the floors. I thought I may have slightly embarrassed Molly and Margot as I waved wildly and giggled while passing their floor, but then Molly went up and did it, so they couldn’t have been that embarrassed (although Molly didn’t wave.)

Saturday was “City Day” in Moscow -- celebrating the city’s anniversary -- so almost everything was closed. We had gotten up early and gone to the city center where we watched a small memorial-style parade where city officials and a military batallion laid flowers on the tomb of the unknown soldier. We watched that for about an hour, and then wandered around the city for the rest of the afternoon going down some sreets we hadn’t visited and looking more closely at the architecture. The main streets were lined with vendors as they were having a street fair later that day. There were also stages set up for various concerts that were scheduled to happen that night all over the city. We were rather sorry we didn’t know about it earlier so we could have stayed that night and celebrated with the city, would have been fun. Looked like it was a pretty big deal.

We stopped at an English-style pub called the “Big Pig Pub” where we had lunch and then went back to the hotel to gather our things and meet our car to the airport. We got to the airport, did some duty-free shopping, and got on the plane home.

And that was our Russian holiday. Not relaxing, not cheap, but very worthwhile, interesting and memorable. Another box checked. ☺

Five Years Ago

Last Tuesday, I found myself perusing a news stand at the Gar du Nord in Paris, waiting to catch a train back to London. I picked up a copy of Time magazine dated September 11, 2006...the cover touting a serene photo of the New York City skyline at night -- the late Twin Towers twinkling in the distance under the watchful eye of a gargoyle perched high atop the Chrysler Building. The headline, "What We Lost."

Home. September 11th. Five years ago.

Without even being conscious of it, my eyes welled with tears and I started to cry -- a guttural reaction that started in the stomach, rushed upwards swelling my heart, and found release in my eyes -- all in a split second.

Those two towers, every time I see pictures of them, have the effect of seeing an old, beloved friend after a great deal of time. The way I’d feel if I saw my Grandfather again.

It’s a bit of an emotional jumble. If I don’t think about NYC or see a photo, it’s somewhat out of site and out of mind (ok, most the time). Yet any visual cue whatsoever makes me ache with missing it. One glance is all it takes to remind me why I think it’s the best damn place in the entire universe. I can’t explain or rationalize it, it’s just a feeling...a reflex.

But the Towers make me remember more than just New York. They remind me of what is lost and gone forever -- in the city, in America, in the world, in my life. They also make me ponder "home"...the word, the place, what it means.

I entered a new phase when I moved to NYC from Washington, DC...just 6 short months before the Towers fell. I remember the pre-9/11 New York City -- a bit wilder and hedonistic, a bit more carefree...or maybe that was just the high I was on in a new place I had always dreamt of living, and I was finally living that dream. I had a boyfriend I was smitten with, a challenging new job, good friends, a new apartment, an optimistic and hopeful feeling about everything. Life was good and I was extremely grateful -- I guess you could say my rose-tinted glasses were deeply shaded.

Chris (my boyfriend at the time) and I spent many nights those first 6 months on the balcony of his 43rd floor midtown apartment -- relaxing on green plastic Adirondack chairs with a bottle of wine while gazing at the Towers and talking half the night. He had the quintessential panoramic view of the city -- an up close view of the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings, vistas down the narrow streets across to the West Side, the glow of Times Square, a full cityscape that started at the bottom of Central Park and continued all the way down to the Brooklyn Bridge, and (from his kitchen) a sweeping view of the East River, complete with all the illuminated bridges that cross it. It was magical.

But my favorite part of that balcony view was the Twin Towers, as plain as day, 50-some blocks south, towering over the city and dwarfing everything else. Their sheer, unapologetic enormity anchored the skyline. At night, scattered interior lights remained on after hours, floor upon floor in random patterns, creating the illusion of suspended white rectangles floating free and high in the black night sky. I jokingly called it the “Death Star” because it looked like the Star Wars mother ship...a floating city in outer space. How I regret that analogy.

Five years after it all changed, on the Eurostar to London, I remembered what my life was like back then, and on that day in particular. I remember how blue the sky was when I walked out of my apartment on East 78th Street that morning. It was so brilliantly crisp and sunny, flecked with white puffy clouds, I remember Chris and I commenting on it as we walked down the street holding hands. I remember getting off the subway at 23rd Street and seeing the black plume of smoke in the sky (I was underground when everything hit). I remember the chaos inside as my colleagues were trying to make sense of what was happening. The phones were down and there was no information. We were watching it all unfold on TV with no accompanying words to explain what we were seeing. A few people walked over to Broadway to get a view of the Towers to make sure what we were seeing on TV was real. Then the confirmation came that it was indeed a terrorist plot, and not limited to New York -- the Pentagon had been hit as well in Washington, DC. We were all stunned as the reality set in that we were being attacked.

I remember the frantic calls from Chris on his mobile phone, who worked across the street from the Towers and was watching everything unfold from the street below in a combination of panic and disbelief. I remember the worry in my sister’s voice when she finally got through to me. I remember the heart-stopping fear when a coworker told me the Towers had “fallen” -- I was confused, not grasping how that was possible. I remember wanting to run but realizing there was nowhere to go where I would feel safe. I remember walking home many hours later with Chris. He was in a state of shock having fled the area when the towers fell. I felt numb. We walked 20-some blocks home in an eerily silent Manhattan, with the exception of the sirens. We stopped at Grammercy Park, which is normally closed to the public because it is a private park for residents who live around the square, but all the gates were propped wide open (I guess it takes something like 9/11 to make people realize that there is no good reason to shut others out of something beautiful). We walked through the Park, stopping to sit on a bench for awhile. I watched a squirrel, going about it’s day with no knowledge of what was happening. I remember sitting there, blinking my eyes really hard, again and again -- a trick I taught myself as a kid to wake myself up from nightmares once I realized I was in them. It usually worked, but not this time.

Back at Chris’ apartment hours later, we stood on his balcony, fixed on the angry black cloud of smoke that mushroomed over downtown from the fires that continued to burn. We watched Building 7 of the World Trade Center collapse. It seemed the whole downtown area might just successively topple like a row of dominos. I had a sick feeling in my stomach that lasted about two months. I remember the sleepless nights and the reoccurring nightmares. And I didn’t even lose anyone close to me.

I had to travel for work a week and a half after 9/11. I remember flying back in, over the city at night. Ground Zero was illuminated 24 hours a day, as search and rescue efforts were still underway. The whole downtown area, from the plane, was smothered with ash and debris. Everything was gray, as if someone had laid a wool blanket over it. Where the Towers had stood there was now an angry, ugly, gaping hole of rubble....it looked like two teeth had been pulled. It was shocking to see from the sky and a hellish mess on the ground. The city air smelled like an electrical fire for the next two or three months. It permeated everything, as far up as Central Park. You couldn’t get away from it.

Mostly, I remember the thousands of flyers that wallpapered the city months after with faces of the lost peering out. On every free wall of concrete they were plastered -- people were searching for friends and family who had vanished and disintegrated as completely and quickly as the Towers. There was desperation for any information at all -- a last sighting, a last word...anything that would bring closure ... closure that would never be found. I volunteered one night in the armory where people were waiting in lines to provide information and DNA samples for identification purposes for those who were lost. I felt spared for not being one of them.

I still loved New York after 9/11. I loved it more, actually. The city changed, the people in my world changed, but it was still home and I was fiercely loyal. New York made a miraculously fast recovery, all things considered...everyone banded together in the most amazing and inspiring ways. Mayor Giuliani became a bona-fide hero. The city is, in itself, a force of nature, and being part of that force was something I was proud of.

Context. After traveling around Europe this past year and learning more about WWII, I guess 9/11 is a taste of what it must have felt like for millions of Europeans every day of their lives -- only the magnitude of their loss, tragedy and suffering was much greater (e.g. 1940s Russia: It doesn’t get much worse than 30 million people needlessly dying of starvation, cold and genocide at the hands of soulless tyrants while the rest of the world stood by and watched). I think about all the innocent lives that have been lost since and as a result of 9/11 in Afghanistan and Iraq...the consequences of our reactions (for better or for worse) still continue to affect people in all-consuming ways. I think of the Lebanese and Israelis...trying to rebuild after so many homes, families and communities have been recklessly destroyed (the Israelis have lived in a state of war and terrorist attacks since their state was created...so our shock on 9/11 might be considered a day in the life in many other places). I think about the people who have been forgotten, still suffering and homeless after Hurricane Katrina and the Tsunami. It can go on and on and on. It’s all relative I suppose -- disaster and loss have always been part of life and will continue to exist in the world for the rest of time. But as history proves, human resilience has no limits -- though despite that resilience -- I can’t help but feel there is a very fine line between whether or not the human spirit is ultimately lifted or crushed by the pressure, and whether that’s a choice we make for ourselves or that’s made for us.

Maybe we Americans had been naive before 9/11 in our isolated world as the critics say, but that’s not the point. Disasters of any kind, regardless of size or cause, are made up of individual people made of flesh and blood whose lives have been shattered, and that’s equally devastating, despite the circumstances. As members of the human race, we have a responsibility to be compassionate for that individual humanity, no matter who we are or where we live. It’s so simple yet so elusive. If we respect nothing else, can we not at least respect our shared humanity? Can’t it be that simple and clear-cut? As history would prove, I suppose not. Maybe as humans, we just don't have it in us, but it would be nice to beleive it's a higher state we could one day evolve to.

9/11 has come to mean many different things to many different people. Everyone has their own stories, their own set of feelings, and everyone learned something different about the world and themselves from it. We all have our own ways of remembering and reflecting on that day and what it meant. I certainly have new opinions from a political and cultural standpoint, but I need not go into that here.

Today, more than anything, 9/11 brings me home. To New York City and my home in Maryland where my family is. And to Washington, DC where I also lived for several years. A great thing about living abroad is how it enhances your patriotism and love of/respect for home (even though I was born an outspoken and unapologetic American and that won't ever change). When a place is your home, you love it and are proud of it, and no one can convince you otherwise, no matter where you go or what you do in your life. It will bring a tear to your eye when you see a photo of it from thousands of miles away and carve out a longing in your heart. It’s the place you want to return to, again and again. A place you want others to respect and love as much as you do. There has never been an instance where I have returned home to my family, or back to New York City and I wasn’t happy about it -- where I didn’t say a little prayer of thanks as the green fields of Mechanicsville or the Empire State Building welcomed me back. I wish for everyone that same feeling about their home.

As far as NYC goes, New Yorkers love to bitch about the place, but don’t be fooled, it’s a convoluted form of bragging. They wear their grievances with the city like a badge of honor (Traffic! Dirty! Times Square! Pressure! Work! Noise! Crowds! Expensive! Shoebox Apartment! Subways!) -- the truth of the matter is there’s nowhere else they’d rather be. Except maybe on a little break in London. But not for too long.

St. P City Tour, Shopping and “Giselle”

Monday was another good day. We left the hotel around 9:30am and set off with Olga and Valerie on a tour of the city. Of course, the first half hour of conversation was all about the police/money excitement from the night before.

We drove all around the city and Olga recapped the history of Russia for us while pointing out and stopping at all the sights. Correction: Olga TAUGHT me the history of Russia since I don't believe I ever learned it (that's what happens when your High School world history teacher makes you watch videos every day of his 5 year old son wrestling instead of teaching you anything). It's facinating (the history of Russia, not the wrestling...although I did wrestle a stuffed bear outside our hotel, I have the picture to prove it).

SO -- we did our city tour and then hit the shops. We are now loaded up with hand-painted Russian nesting dolls, amber jewelry, and vodka. Amazing how much we all spent in such a short period of time, but I'd say over half my Christmas shopping is done now.

After shopping, we dropped our bags at the hotel then went to see the interior of the Church of the Spilt Blood. It is called this because Tsar Alexander II was murdered on the site the church was built on (someone threw a bomb in his carriage). It's also known as the Church of the Ressurection. The inside of the church is completely covered in mosaics...it is super spectacular. Pretty new too, as the restoration took place in the 70s. But it's even more dazzling inside than it is outside, I can't wait to share the pictures.

Monday night, we went to see the ballet “Giselle” at the Hermitage Theatre, which is part of the Winter Palace where Catherine the Great lived. It was good. Perhaps not the best ballet in the world (the Mariinsky Ballet season does not start until Sept...that's the SERIOUS ballet).  But it was worth seeing just for the venue alone...it is a small, intimate theatre (it was in someone's home, after all) decorated with lovely sculptures of the 9 muses and Venus. The orchestra sits directly in front of the stage (not in a pit), so the whole thing feels a bit more informal and friendly. Not that I am a ballet snob (although Kim is since she has a masters degree in dance history and is a former ballerina), but there were a couple rough patches. The stage is very old and seemingly hollow, so it was never good when the whole cast was jumping around at the same time...a bit thunderous.  And some of the dancers were not exactly light on their feet when dancing solo. But the truly bad mistake was putting ballerinas on a scooter and pushing them across the stage to give the impression of floating (the whole second act takes place in a graveyard with a bunch of dead dancing brides-to-be. Happy, huh?) Everyone laughed...that was not a good move. But really, it was enjoyable and a lovely evening. But I do wonder if there isn't a mint to be made on a ballet done on entirely on scooters. I'm seeing a Broadway or Vegas show at $150 a ticket. Hey, it worked for “Starlight Express,” the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical done completely on roller skates! See, this is why I travel. I get inspiration for a million seriously great new ideas.

After the ballet, we went to a restaurant across from our hotel called DaVinci for a late dinner. More blinis and caviar and then bed. Olga comes at 9:30am each morning for our tours, which is a bit painful for me, so I have to force myself to bed at a reasonable hour....even if it is vacation.

Kim Meets the Russian Police. Or Whoever Comes to Collect Large Sums of Money from People Who Shouldn't Have It. Like Us.

No, I'm not trying to be funny. This is a true story. Yesterday, Kim needed to change some money, so our tour guide Olga said she knew a place with really good exchange rates.

I'll say.

Kim traded $600 USD and walked out with a stash of cash as thick as the Holy Bible. But being it was is rubles and she hadn't traded money yet nor had the faintest idea of the exchange rate, she didn't know anything was up. Plus, there was a dodgy-looking man standing a little too close, so she and Olga made a quick exit after getting the cash.

So we all get back to the hotel and start dividing up the money. And I'm like, “Holy crap that's a lot of money” -- because I had exchanged $400 the day before at the airport and my wad was nowhere near as big. I had gotten a little over 10,000 rubles for $400 and they had gotten something like 150,000 for $600. So the first thought was that I had gotten seriously ripped off when I exchanged. Then we got a calculator, did the math, checked the receipt and realised the exchange lady had mistaken the $600 to be exhanged for $6000. So Kim walked in with $600 and walked out with over $5000/150,000 rubles.

Then we got worried, because Kim had left her passport at the hotel that day so Olga changed the money on her passport under her name. And we didn't have her phone number, so we couldn't call her to tell her what had happened. It was evening, so we decided to put the cash in the safe in our room and would tell her in the morning when she met us for our tour and we would go straighten it out/give the money back.

We went out to dinner and then drinks, rolling back into the hotel around 12:30am. Once in the room, Kim and Margot get a call from reception saying that Olga is on the phone and that there is  a “situation.” They wouldn't put the call through to the room, they said Kim had to come down to reception to talk to her. So Kim goes down, gets on the phone and Olga tells her “the police” had come to her house looking for the money. The girl who traded it was there too, saying she had been working for 24 hours and “made a terrible mistake.” Kim told her she had the money and that we realised what had happened too late in the day, didn't have her number and were planning on giving it back in the morning once we saw her. Olga told her the police were coming to our hotel to get the money. Then, a large man standing next to Kim at the reception desk leans over and says “We're here.” Think that sort of scared the crap out of Kim. They had been waiting for us at the hotel and had been listening to her conversation on the phone with Olga the whole time, I guess not wanting  to blow his cover in the event Kim was planning to bolt with the cash (which again, for the record, she/we were NOT...we are honest good girls). The same exchange girl was there with him, very apologetic (poor thing, if she had already worked a 24 hour day, she must really have been exhausted at that point!) So Kim went up with a hotel escort, got the money and handed it over. (Being the smart woman she is, she also made them sign a handwritten  document that she made a copy of saying they had received the money from her.) They then went off with the money into the night. Certainly not something anyone  wants to repeat, but you can be certain we have had a crash course in counting our rubles and know well the ratio to the dollar. I think Kim's adrenaline also got a run for its money. Breakfast conversation this morning was very exciting. :)

From Russia With Love

Wow. Bet no one ever used that one before when coming here... So, I've started a week holiday in Russia and thanks to the modern marvel of the crackberry, I can blog remotely. Sweet, huh? We're visiting St. Petersburg and Moscow.

I'm travelling with my friends Margot and Kim (from London, same gals I go everywhere with)and Molly, who flew from NYC to join us (so she'll be the most tired with an 8 hour jetlag).

We arrived Saturday to St. Petersburg (formally known as Petrograd and Leningrad for short periods of time), which was once the capital of Russia. We left London around 10:30am and arrived here at 7pm last evening. We checked into our hotel (in the city center), got settled, and then took a  long stroll around the city center on our way to dinner.

St. Petersburg is a nice city. Peter I, who founded the city (hence its name) had a real love for the great cities of Europe of the time and their architecture, so St. P's was designed very much with a European sensibility in mind and it shows. Wide boulevards lined with grand buildings in varied shades of pastels and grays are criss-crossed by a series of wide canals and rivers (65ish to be exact), also lined  with attractive architecture. The canals surprise me -- I wasn't expecting to see so many here. However, St. P's is made up of about 44 little islands, which explains all the waterways.

We walked past the amazing Church of the Saviour on Spilt Blood. Ok, gross name, but gorgeous place. I can't attach pictures from the crackberry, but look it up online...you've likely seen pictures, but if not, it's exactly what you'd expect a Russian cathedral to look like...several onion-shaped domes in different vibrant colours (all made by Faberge), covered in all sorts of elaborate mosaics and designs. The domes DO look like soft-serve icecream cones with sprinkles and they DO make me want dessert.

Dinner was...interesting. We asked the hotel people where to go for typical national cuisine. And of course, being the clueless tourists we clearly look like, they sent us to a fitting venue. The restaurant was called Demidoff. The interior was cozy and posh and the waitstaff very friendly. It was pricey, but everything had English translations. The food was tasty (although so far I've noticed everything's a bit salty here). Then the gipsy band started. Dancers, singers, musicians. Oh my God, they were loud. There was a tap dancer too who I would say was a cross between a Broadway musical and Riverdance. At one point, we were all shushed by the lead gipsy woman so she could sing a very romantic ballad of love to a man at the table next to us. There was also a lovely tall blonde girl whose job it was to dance with all the male patrons. She was very busy. Especially with the table of 8 crazy loud and drunk Italians sitting next to us. They were a group of 4 men and 4 women all in their 50s and maybe 60s. When the gipsy band finished their second set, one of the Italian men went to the piano and started playing. Then, he and another one of the women started singing together (they were not very good singers, although the man on the piano played well.) They were dancing, they were laughing, they were doing shots, toasting and coming around to our table and the other two tables in the room to toast us (although they did not share their vodka). Our initial instinct was to be highly annoyed by them, but it just wasn't possible to maintain. They were too funny...we were all snickering by the end of the night.

The rounded vaulted cielings in the room made for some crazy acoustics, as I spent most the dinner distracted because I could hear the couple sitting across the room from us as if there was a microphone at their table pumped directly into my ear. Even with the band of gipsies and drunk Italians I could hear them. The guy was English and the girl was Russian. And let's just say I think he may have come to Russia on a shopping trip for a bride and was conducting the interview (he seemed very boring though, I hope she decided no). But I learned today that the women in Russia outnumber men 3-1, so it's understandable why a girl may need some outside options here.

We sampled some yummy vodkas, my favorite being a honey pepper variety. I like the little crystal glasses they serve it in. I think most of us had fish to eat, along with some yummy blinis with smoked sturgeon and black caviar.

We knew no one would have the time or energy to figure anything out for ourselves for this trip before we left (and hello, it's Russia, not a stroll through Paris where we can at least recognise the alphabet), so we let a travel agent specialising in Russia book everything for us. And boy was THAT a good move. Our tour guide in St. P's is named Olga. She and the driver (Valerie, although he is a man and I'm sure I spelled his name wrong) are really sweet. We have our own van and the small private tour we are getting is really great. I used to like figuring everything out for myself and making it all very hard so I could say what a resourceful traveller I am. Forget that dude -- having someone drive you around and tell you what's good to see is totally the right way to go. (Hmmm, perhaps I'll start travelling with my Grams on her senior club coach tours...)

Ok, I'm getting way off track here (and my thumbs are beginning to hurt on this thing). SO, Olga picked us up at 9:30 and we drove out to Catherine's Summer Palace, about a 25 minute drive out of St. P's. This was the summer retreat for Catherine I, wife of Peter I. Her original palace was far more modest than what's there now. But then again, Catherine's beginnings were modest. She is known as “Cinderella” because she was the laundry person for one of Peter's friends. Peter fell in love with her and married her making her the Tsarina of Russia. Nice real-life fairy tale, huh?!

Catherine I's daughter, Elizabeth I was NOT modest though. When the palace became hers, she basically had it torn down and rebuilt to a magnitude of complete  lavishness. Think a slightly  smaller version of Versailles (Peter was pals with Louis XIV of France, so it all makes sense). The whole place is bright blue and inside has 9 solid rooms of gold leaf and mirrors (um, she was a little vain too). It's over the top, and frankly, I think the main hall is more impressive than the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.

Another standout attraction is the Amber Room. This is a restored version of the original, a room completely covered in mosaics of pure amber, giving the room a rich  golden effect. The original amber panels were lost to the world though when the Nazis invaded Russia in WWII, took over the palace to house soldiers, tore down all the amber and shipped it all to Germany. It hasn't been seen since (although the Germans did help pay for the room's restoration much, much later).  After the war, the almost completely gutted and looted palace fell into ruin. You should see the pictures of it...an empty crumbling ruin with no roof and snow covering everything inside...almost no trace of the glorious place it once was. But thankfully, the Russian government restored the palace and reopened it 3 years ago as part of St. P's 300 year anniversary celebration. They did an excellent job, the place is magnificent.

After Elizabeth, Catherine II (Catherine the Great) lived in the palace (she ruled the country for 34 years). Her son Paul I had a short reign as Tsar after Catherine died...but he was stangled to death by his adversaries soon after so he didn't have a very long run. His son, Alexander, them became Tsar (he was very popular).

After Catherine's Palace, we had a nice lunch nearby, then went to the summer palace of Paul I (Catherine the Great's son) and his wife Maria (they were good friends of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette). Though not as grand as Catherine's place, this palace is much warmer and more lovely inside, and it's filled with Catherine I's impressive collection of antique sculptures from the 1st and 2nd centuries -- they are scattered throughout. The restored wooden inlaid floors inside this palace are stunning with amazing patterns and colours. Both palaces have them, and you have to put covers over your shoes when you enter so as not to damage them. I've never seen craftsmanship like that before.

In addition to the gorgeous inlaid floors, there is also a porcelain bathroom set that Maria and Paul received as a gift that is incredible. I also took to a beautiful silver vanity and chaise lounge in the bedroom. There are also some impressive paintings in the palaces, including a Reubens in the Paul I palace.

Both palaces are surrounded by lush, beautiful gardens which we spent some time strolling through. It was a gorgeous sunny day, so it was nice to be out in the fresh air among the flowers and ponds and birds.

After the palace tours, we drove back to the city, took a little rest in our rooms and then went out for a walk. We came across river boat tours, so we jumped on one that was an hour long. We cruised up the river and down a couple canals, but it was a bit unpleasant, as we were sitting right in front of the speakers from a which a very loud tour was narrated...completely in Russian. We were all pretty much deaf by the time we got off the boat. But the scenery was at least nice.

After the boat tour, we went to dinner at a Greek place near our hotel. After that, we went to the very posh and swank Astoria hotel for a couple courses of vodka. I started with a Russian Imperial Standard and then had a Russian Imperial Platinum. Delish.

We got back to our hotel about 12:30am. I am in bed now, quite tired from a full day.

I really like Russia so far. The place has a cool vibe and is really a different experience. So far, the people are warm and friendly and it's all going well. Which is good, given that last week, there was a mafia-related bombing at a Moscow market, a Russian airliner crashed, and the day before we arrived, the largest wooden-domed cathedral in the city burned down. (We saw it today, very sad. Most of the church is still there, the dome is just completely gone.). But they say bad things happen in threes, so we should be good now and finished with all the bad stuff. Fingers crossed.

Flex Time

I just found out today, compliments of my colleague Steve, that my office operates under a flex time policy that says employees can come in anytime up to 10am as long as they work a full day. Which is GREAT because that means I haven't been an hour late for work every morning for the past year like I thought! (I was wondering why I never got any dirty looks.) This is particularly awesome because the American TV show "The O.C." is on in the mornings and I've gotten really addicted to it as I eat my cereal -- I absolutely HATE to tear myself away from it for silly old work. So now, thanks to this little flex time ditty, I can actually give myself a little more time to indulge with none of the guilt I've been unecessarily feeling. Sweeeeeet!

The Petersham Nurseries & Cafe

Today I uncovered a little bit of magic out in Richmond, a suburb of London. I met my friend Cristina who lives in nearby Chiswick, and we drove out to the Petersham Nurseries & Cafe, which I had read about in a recent issue of British Vogue. Vogue food writer and chef Skye Gyngell is the executive chef of the cafe, which is nestled in a nursery bursting with flowers, trees and herbs. The conservatory is filled with garden tables and chairs, mixed among exotic palm trees and plants on a natural red dirt floor. There is a long, wooden building alongside the greenhouses which houses the kitchen and a tea shoppe where you can pick up tea and cakes or shop from a variety of honeys, jams, oils and other assorted goodies.

The menu is developed daily based on what's growing in the nursery, garden or available at the market. Cristina and I started with a plate of lentils, heirloom tomatoes, red and white beets, fresh goat's cheese, olive oil and balsamic vinegar. For our main, we both had BBQ quail with salsa verde and white polenta. For dessert, I had a press pot of rich creamy coffee and we shared a heavenly fresh fig ice cream and raspberry icecream (all homemade). It was raining lightly (the staff need to wear wellies to work as you can imagine), but it certainly didn't spoil what was an enchanted lunch. The staff was welcoming and friendly. It's definitley not cheap, but well worth every bite...I can't wait to go back.

On the way out, I caught a glimpse of a little kitty asleep on top of a printer inside the office of the nursery. I went in and asked a gentleman working on the computer if I could pet her (she looks a lot like my Maggie back home in the U.S.). He said sure and told me her name is Mrs. Williamson -- so cute!!!

This all seems like the perfect business in my eyes. So, I have decided what I want to do with my life! One day, I will return home to St. Mary's County and build a nursery and cafe on my family's farm, modeled directly after the Petersham Nurseries here in England. I think it would go over incredibly well!

Isle of Wight, Home of the Stinging Nettle

Last weekend, my friends Margot, Kim, Stefanie and I took a little jaunt to the seaside town of Lymington in Southern England and spent a day hiking on the Isle of Wight (a half-hour ferry ride from Lymington Pier). Lymington is about an hour and a half train ride from London's Waterloo Station, making it a very easy weekend escape.

In Lymington, we stayed at the Angel Inn, a homey little tavern with a lively pub downstairs. Saturday morning, after breakfast at the Inn and a visit to Tesco where we picked up some granola bars, dried fruit and water, we boarded the ferry for the town of Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight. It's a really charming place...lots of coastal walks along the cliffs, quaint towns and pretty scenery. We hiked about 6 miles along the coast, on a trail through the brush that was at times precarious, to say the least (the path would occassionally disappear completely as we were in foliage over our heads and would shout to ensure we were all still together....sort of gave me the creeps like in an episode of "Lost") We occassionally came upon plateaus covered in heather, which was really beautiful, not to mention that these were higher spots where we also got magnificent views of the sea and scattered white sailboats.

We hiked from Yarmouth out to "The Needles" -- a collection of three jagged white rocks that reach out into the sea. About halfway along the hike, we stopped at a quaint seaside restaurant for lunch. That's the thing I love about England...you can hike in wilderness and not see another soul, yet still have places along the way to stop, eat a proper meal, and use a bathroom. That's my kind of hiking.

We also walked through a stretch of flat countryside where there were gorgeous golden fields of hay...one of my favourite things about the country here. It was on this particular stretch that I also discovered for my first (and hopefully last) time, stinging nettles. OUCH! Are they jellyfish, you ask? No. Stinging nettles look like MINT. But they are NOT mint. I thought I smelled mint (think they are from a similar family), looked down and yelled, "HEY GUYS -- LOOK! MINT!" While reaching down for a handful. OH. MY. GOD. Instant fire and pain. I snapped my hand back yelling something like, "OW OW OW OW !!! OWWW!!! OOOOOWWWWW!" I had no idea what had hit me. No one really seemed to care, Margot nonchalantly said, "Oh, stinging nettles." And I'm like, "What the hell is that? Do I die from it? Is it poisonous??? OWWWW!!!!!" Margot explained it would eventually subside, which it did, about 10 minutes later after much more griping (your hands get red with white bumps when you touch it). That was totally not fun. But now I know. I'm just happy the pain came quickly as a warning before I popped some into my mouth, which I was definitely planning to do. Somehow I do not think I'd fare well in wilderness survival. Poor Stef was wearing shorts so she caught a bit of the nettles too in the brush. But she didn't yell or complain. She clearly is more grown up than me and has a higher tolerance for pain.

Toward the end of the hike, we ended up at the famous "coloured sands," a stretch of cliffside that exposes many different shades of sand (if you take the painted dessert in America and put it vertical on a cliffside, this is what you get). The coloured sands overlook the sparkly green Alum Bay (there's also a glass factory nearby). From the rocky beach at the base of the coloured sands, we took a chairlift to the top of the cliff. I saw the chairlift and thought "Cool! Let's take the chairlift!" Then, about a quarter of the way up I began to have an anxiety attack and was pretty much clutching onto Margot and waiting for it to be over. I suddenly remembered one of the many reasons I hate sking -- the chairlifts. Though at least if you fall off a chairlift skiing, the snow below seems like a consolation. Jagged rocky cliffs do not. I was releived to hop off.

After the chairlift, we walked out to an old Battery directly overlooking the Needles. They were about to close, so we took a quick run through (I actually preferred the view of the Needles from the other side of the bay though versus immediately overhead of them.) By this point in the day, we were too tired to walk back, so we waited for a bus to take us back to Yarmouth.

When we got back into town, we caught the tail end of a local parade and then jumped on the ferry back to Lymington. It had been a really splendid day among the green foliage and sparkly water, and we were tired.

Saturday night we had a lovely dinner at Stanwell House, an Inn across the street from where we were staying. They have a comfy, pretty conservatory where we ate. After dinner, we walked down the street to a small bar and cafe called "Graze" where we had a drink. The cocktails there were impeccable. I had ordered an apple martini, then caught a glance of a girl sitting behind me with a pina colada bigger than my head (how totally retro and cool!!!)....so I quickly changed my order. And boy was it good. Splendid little place with a good vibe.

Sunday it was raining. So after our breakfast at the Inn, we took a brief stroll down the high street, then went back to the Stanwell House where the kind staff parked us in a large comfy corner with sofas and chairs and we relaxed there for a couple hours in the sunlight of the conservatory reading the paper, eating scones and english tea cakes and drinking tea. It was soooo nice and relaxing. Perfect lazy Sunday.

Around 3pm, we caught a train back to London (still raining), had dinner at Wagamama together (great Asian noodle chain in London, and my favorite Sunday evening spot) and then went our seperate ways. Good friends. Good weekend. Except those evil stinging nettles.

I'm Quite Proud of the Gays. Especially the Dutch Ones.

Last weekend I went to Amsterdam to visit my good friend Kate who recently moved there from Washington, DC (Kate and I go way back about 10 years when we met in DC and became fast friends). It happened to be Gay Pride weekend, so we spent Saturday on a boat on a canal with about 15 other people (some of whom Kate works with) watching the Gay Pride Parade, which takes place on boats crusing down the canal...gives all new meaning to the term "parade floats." The weather was gorgeous and the whole city was out. Heck, it was so packed, perhaps all of the Netherlands was there...the city was buzzing.

It's impressive how popular Gay Pride activities have become. So popular, actually, that all the straight people go too. It's a bit of an all-day love fest of peace and understanding -- as everyone gets a bit more in touch with their inner disco drag queen. What's not to love about that?? By the end of the evening, one of Kates friend's, Karen, had a huge sticker plastered on her chest that said "I'm Gay." (She's not.)

What I really like about Gay Pride "Dutch Style" is that the parade takes place on boats. The streets and bridges were lined with crowds watching the party go by. After watching the parade pass, all the boats (including ours) went out on the water for a two-three hour cruise, forming a traffic jam on the water full of people partying, dancing and having a generally crazy time. Adults, kids, pets...everyone was out enjoying the disco-thumping boats. I think my favourite parade boats were the "gay grannies" (exactly what it sounds like -- old, gay grandmas); the ING boat (corporations are impressively on-board with Gay Pride these days too) with a cast of smartly dressed IMG employees performing their own choreographed line dance to Dolly Parton's classic song "Working Nine to Five;" a set of topless, blue-painted mermaids with long golden braids; a boat of gay tennis players (most in skirts) dancing with rackets in hand; and the gay Brazilian boat. And of course, no Gay Pride Parade is complete without a slew of men in drag who have better bodies than me and most women I know. Whatever. I was just enjoying rocking out to all the Wham! and ABBA.

Our party cruise ended around 6pm-ish. By this time, the crowds had taken to the streets and everyone was out (no pun intended). Kate and I fought our way through the crowds, got dinner and then went to a cafe for a cappuccino around 8:30pm. We were sitting outside gabbing when two cute blonde guys came and joined us at our table with a pretty endearing pick-up scheme. It totally worked -- we ended up going with them to one of the main city squares for a giant party where everyone under 25 who lives in Holland (it seemed) was packed into a tight space dancing to a DJ playing blaring techo music. We had some more drinks (there were beer stands lining the streets) and danced with our new pals for a couple hours, then slipped off to meet up with some of Kate's friends at yet another outdoor party about 5 blocks away in another city square. This party had a band. We had some more drinks, hung out a bit more (I bought a fun light-up neon lei necklace), and we finally departed the scene around 1:30am. By this time, Kate and I were famished again, so we stopped into a busy Middle Eastern diner called The Pharoah something-or-other where we each got a plate of grilled chicken (we think it was chicken) and a giant side of french fries. nothing says "DIET" quite like that at 2am. Stomachs full, we stumbled home pretty tired. I had a splinter in my toe where I had wiped out on some wooden steps earlier and Kate and I both had a bizarre case of the spins. We are both clearly too old for this.

Saturday we took it easy...met Kate's friends for brunch at an Irish pub near the Dam (city center), then wandered over to tour the Rembrandt House. Rembrandt lived there for more than 20 years where he painted most of his famous works. The house contains many of his etchings and is still furnished/preserved in typical 17th-century style. After the tour, we wandered through a few galleries and antique shops, browsed the storefronts (as most places are closed there on Sundays), and then stopped into the lounge at the Hotel Americain and had a few cocktails as we watched the people go by. We wandered to another more residential square later that evening and had dinner outdoors at a very tasty Turkish cafe.

I flew back to London Monday morning and went straight into work. It's kind of nice...Kate and I are now the same distance away from each other (45 minute flight) as we were when I lived in NYC and she lived in DC. It's nice having an old friend from home so close...and fun that we are both having European adventures together. It's hard to beleive that the last time we were both in Amsterdam back in February, Kate had no clue she would be living there permanently in 4 short months. Funny how life works...

My Canterbury Tale

It seems some of my best-remembered and most content moments involve coffee. Cappuccino or espresso, to be exact. One such moment was in Italy a couple years ago, on a ferry from Sorrento to the island of Capri on a chilly but sunny November afternoon. I remember having my coat and scarf on, watching the island's rocky cliffs draw closer across the surface of choppy blue water, when a steward on the boat kindly brought me a demitasse of hot espresso with a small biscotti. The boat was practically empty, except my two friends I was with and a few other off-season travelers. I think that espresso may have been the best I ever had.

The most recent java moment was last Saturday as I found myself in a rowboat (what is it with the boats and coffee?), on a picture-perfect canal in Canterbury, around 6pm on a lovely warm and breezy summer evening. Warm cappuccino in hand, cute blonde guy rowing the boat telling me and one other passenger all sorts of interesting trivia about the town. It had me thinking that sometimes a simple singular day can feel like an entire holiday -- and this was one of those days. But then again, I think “holiday” is really just a state of mind.

I had woken up unusually early that morning and wasn't in the mood for my usual weekend lie-in. So I got myself ready and walked down to Charing Cross Station and jumped on a train to Canterbury, about a 1.5 hour train ride southeast of London. The trip out was really nice. Quiet. Lots of pretty English country and scenery to enjoy as it whizzed by. My favourite parts were the golden fields with perfect rolls of hay positioned throughout -- the sunlight reflecting off the newly shaved ground making it seem almost illuminated. The colours in England are really so vibrant and beautiful. Guess it's all the rain....anyway, very ethereal and otherworldly at times.

I arrived at Canterbury and made a beeline to the great cathedral. The thing that grabs you about Canterbury as you walk through the cobblestone streets is how old it is. There are still remnants of various ancient civilizations built upon each other...from the Roman walls to the medieval gates through which you enter the old city -- it's amazing to see it all still there, mixed among the modern town of double-decker busses and red phone booths.

The cathedral is a wonder of grey stone and stained glass. In AD 597, missionaries from Rome converted the king of Kent (the region where Canterbury is located) to Christianity. Augustine, leader of the mission, was consecrated as Archbishop and his cathedra (official seat) was established there. The Cathedral has been the home of Anglicanism and the seat of the Archbishop ever since. For a born and bred Episcopalian like myself, this is all very cool.

I spent three hours inside, it was mesmerising. The tomb of St. Thomas is in the church...Thomas Becket, the real-life man, was actually murdered in that very cathedral, and on the spot where he was killed, there is a Martyrdom to which people have made pilgrimages for hundreds of years to pray. The windows go up and on forever and ever, I tried to see as many as I could and read their stories. My particular favourites were the Tree of Jesse window in the Jesus Chapel; a modern window made from old glass depicting St. Thomas; four windows by Hungarian refugee and artist Ervin Bossanyi themed around peace and salvation; The Christopher Whall windows depicting the Nativity, the Agony in the Garden, and the Resurrection; a jewel-like window depicting medieval pilgrims on the road to Canterbury placed immediately overhead an old Roman sarcophagus which is the tomb of Archbishop Hubert Walter; and a small window showing Mary fleeing Egypt with the baby Jesus on a donkey. There were about 50 other windows that had me captivated as well, but I have a feeling to go on about them may cause this entry to get boring fast ("too late" you say?).

There is a wonderfully atmospheric and expansive crypt below the cathedral, with one particular chapel that I loved, called St. Gabriel's Chapel, with a smattering of the remnants of 12th-century wall paintings as well as a Romanesque column. Also a main attraction is the elaborately ornate "Black Prince's Tomb," the burial spot for Edward, Prince of Wales (d. 1376). The tomb depicts him resting in all his splendid armour. There is also a glass case holding his funeral achievements.

The Cathedral boasts peacefully lovely Cloisters surrounding a grassy green. Around the Cloisters there is the large Chapter House (c.1300) with a gorgeous intricate vaulted oak ceiling. This is where Margaret Thatcher and French President Francois Mitterand signed the Channel Tunnel treaty in 1984. During the old days of the monastery, the Chapter House is where the Prior would read out the rules of St. Benedict (there is also an impressive Chapter House off the Cloisters of Westminster Abbey).

The cathedral grounds include the ruins of the old monestary -- its gothic arches, windows and gateways still hauntingly beautiful. There is a well-kept garden in the back perfect for quiet respite. The whole place is a tranquil and layered jumble of stone, glass, colour, art, ruins and a spirit of magnificent beauty.

I left the Cathedral and headed to the very dated Canterbury Tales exhibition (Canterbury is, of course, the subject of Geoffrey Chaucer’s many stories as told by pilgrims and travelers as they made their journeys to Canterbury). This was just downright creepy. Anyone who has read my post about my visit to the Polish salt mine knows I DO NOT like scary fake mannequin people. And the Canterbury Tales exhibit is FULL of them. And it's dark. And to make matters worse, I was alone on the tour -- it was like a haunted house! When you enter, they give you an audio headset and you walk your way through a very dark, musty building -- entering room after room after room where you stand or sit among scary fake mannequins that have not been dusted since 1952. At some points, the audio tour was warped, making it a garbled freak show. It took every bit of nerve and guts I had not to run screaming from the building. After 40 minutes in fright land, I was safely out the back door and into the light of day. I can't tell you much of anything about the Tales I heard, I was too busy focusing my breathing and trying not having a panic attack.

After the scary Canterbury Tales, I wandered around and did a little browsing in the shops. Then I stopped in a Vietnamese Bistro and had a light bite and wrote some postcards. I did some more shopping (stumbled across a neat little health food market where I bought tea) and then thought I might make my way to the train station around 6pm to go home. But while crossing a small bridge, I came across the rowboat tours and the (cute) guy trying to get people on them, so I signed right up. There was a 15-minute wait, so that's when I went into the coffee shop next door and got the cappuccino which I took on the boat with me. The boat ride lasted about 40 minutes down small, lush green waterways surrounded by old stone buildings and gardens. We went under old stone bridges so low that we had to duck with our heads practically in our laps so as not to knock ourselves out.

It was heavenly out, and our guide was interesting and witty. He gave us great little tidbits about the town....like how the French Huguenots settled in Canterbury after fleeing persecution in the Channel Islands, setting themselves up as master weavers (the Cathedral still offers Huguenot services in French at 3pm on the weekends); how many buildings in England feature bricked-up windows from a time when Prime Minister William Pitt (the youngest Prime Minister in England’s history I beleive) implemented the "window tax" that charged citizens for each window they had in their home (so you could tell people’s economic status by looking at a house and seeing who could afford windows); and how there was an old flour mill at the end of the canal that burned to the ground. What's interesting about this is that there is an old pub next door (The Miller's Arms) that also caught on fire, and apparently the firemen had to choose between saving the mill or the pub. The pub is still standing -- although I'm not sure how people could afford a beer at the pub after losing their job at the mill…

After the boat ride, I walked around some back streets of the town, following the old Roman wall and eventually ending up at the Catholic Church of St. Thomas of Canterbury, where I sat in the small garden full of flowers and read my book for awhile as a Saturday evening service took place inside. Then, walking back toward the train station, right outside the medieval gate, I stopped for dinner in a nice little Mexican restaurant.

The train ride back was nice. I was tired and happy as I watched an elaborate pink and periwinkle sunset morph over the fields until darkness fell and we pulled into the city.

Some days here in England are really, really good. Most days, life is good. Especially if there’s a cappuccino involved.