Stockholm

I visited Stockholm, Sweden back in April. I don't have much to say about my time there really, except it is a charming and elegant little city. Here are some pictures.

Duty-Free Diva

One of the perils of global work and travel is the duty-free shopping extravaganza found in most European airports. I consider this to be a top hazard of my job.

I recently had to call my mother from the airport in Palma, Spain after a two-day client meeting becuase I had lost control at the Chanel counter and needed an intervention. And I’m not talking about buying makeup that I absolutely don’t need (although I did that) — it’s the sampling. I get so excited by makeup counters and the possibilities of what they will do for me that I almost black out. And this time, when I came to, I had one hand with 3 different shades of black nail polish on three different fingers, one silver finger, and a pink finger. I also had two different colour palettes on each eye and some blue mascara. There were traces of sugary pink lipgloss. Oh, and some bronzer as well, making me a nice shade of shimmery orange (well what do you expect, I might have been in Spain, but I certainly didn’t get any sun sitting in a dark conference room for two days!) There was a nice sales lady standing next to me who seemed slightly befuddled by my frenzy. Fearing what she may have witnessed in that unaccounted-for time (like when aliens kidnap and experiment on you), I grabbed what she had taken from the drawer and got myself to check-out. That’s when I called my mom.

Though I am usually armed for these attacks with makeup remover wipes in my handbag (I highly recommend “Simple” brand cleansing facial wipes sold at most drugstores in the UK), they were making the last call for my flight and there was no time to undo this potential disaster before boarding. Then, to my horror, as I was waiting in line to get on the plane, one of my (very senior) clients who I didn’t know very well tapped me on the shoulder…he was on the same flight. I ditched my mobile phone (and my mother on the other end of the line, sorry mom) and stuffed my hands into my pockets. Oh crap, I didn’t have pockets, so I folded them awkwardly behind my back. I made the conversation as quick as I could without looking him directly in the eye (never good for a PR person) and then, keeping my head down, slunk onto the plane and into my seat. I took out my compact mirror to assess the damage - I looked like a cast member from Cirque du Soleil.

But the duty-free debacle doesn’t stop with makeup. There’s perfume, pink champagne, fine whisky from Scotland, local souvenirs, watches, crazy clothes and fashion, exotic foodstuffs, sunglasses, Swarvoski and Baccarat crystal, handbags, books, cheese, Haribo gummies, technology and gadgets…all the things in the world that I love and hold dear. Or, did I love them until I started travelling so much? I’m not sure. All I know is that the sales staff at Ted Baker at Heathrow Terminal 4 know me by name.

This all leads me to ponder — What is it about aiports and travel that make people feel so indulgent? For me, it’s usually an excuse like: I work so hard, I’m stressed, I had a rough day, I DESERVE it, I NEED it….or in the case of the cute alligator beany baby I picked up at JFK….I’m lonely and will need a cuddle on the long flight back (I don’t know what’s wrong with people, they act like they’ve never seen a grown woman dressed in business attire clutching a beany baby to her chest in one hand and a Louis Vuitton shopper in the other!)

As a marketing person, I see airports as communities and duty-free as a lifestyle. And the pairing of the two is genius when it comes to traveller purchasing decisions. Because for avid duty-free shoppers like myself, it’s usually NOT about saving money — it’s about comfort, validation, convenience, feeling glam, and the suspension of reason you’d normally have when shopping anywhere else. Because when you’re in an airport, you’re likely feeling a heightened emotion of some sort — happiness, nervousness, boredom, stress, exhaustion, accomplishment, excitement, sadness, anxiety, hopfefulness, depression — and there is always something to buy to complement or offset any of those feelings….that’s the magic of being captive in a place where instant gratification can be found in so many forms — for a price, of course.

Room 320

I was in Hamburg, Germany for a meeting today and stayed at a rather inspiring and unique little hotel. The Hotel Wedina is located on a quiet street in Hamburg and is billed as being for “poets, thinkers and hotel guests.” I worry I may only have been allowed in for being the latter.

Comprised of a few different buildings, we stayed in the “Blue House,” which is described on the website as “urban style.” While my colleagues Christina and Heidi found themselves in neat but tiny rooms, I hit the jackpot with room 320 – a four-level suite with hardwood flooring, minimalist furnishings, a small kitchenette, lots of windows and a nice terrace (shared with some other rooms) — all overlooking a pretty and tranquil courtyard.

Upon entering, I was actually struck with the urge to sit down and write — seriously. Their motif works – I felt like I could do serious work and concentrate in the space — it was so open and bright and…..attractively blank. But we arrived after midnight, so needless to say, no brilliant work was done at the hotel. I was too exhausted to even read, actually. Anyway, I think I need a flat with the same design back here in London. I am way affected by my surroundings when trying to work. Some people call this OCD.

The hotel is a supporter of the Hamburg literary scene and often provides rooms free of charge to writers visiting the nearby Literaturhaus for readings and book launches. The rooms are chic and minimalist, with plenty of light, drop down desks and comfortable beds with fluffy duvets and reading lamps. The bathrooms are nicely outfitted with modern fixtures and terrycloth curtains. The staff is friendly and welcoming and there is a nice complimentary beakfast served, which can be taken out in a sweet little garden off the main building. Oh, you can also borrow a bike if you’d like a nice day out. It was a good night sleep for all of us. And best yet, the prices won’t break the bank if you're not expensing it.

Check it out at www.wedina.de. And if you go, be sure to ask for room 320 in the Blue House — you might just be inspired to start that novel.

Fortress

Green fields in a muggy summer haze
a long dirt road
young wheat the color of lavender
(was it purple before?)
I must not have seen it in spring

The pear tree’s gone, the apple tree too
I miss the honeysuckles and blackberries
and the thrill of the warning of snakes
that patio we’d run to soaking wet
and lay face down
leaving perfect prints of bodies that made us laugh

A 17-year fortress with 17 more of returns
so much I love
a bit I hate
its pretty
conflicted feelings about this place
and the people I love

I return and find myself vulnerable again
to the old things that brought comfort and fear
not within my control
sitting in a field under a private blue sky
with clouds rolling by as quickly as life
taking no notice of what’s below

But those stars at night
still the center of my universe
crickets and fireflies most adored
the place I get answers to questions not asked

When I return again that wheat will be gold
the cycle I depend on
that pulls me back
and keeps me same

Barcelona 4am

a dark stairway
lost in something beautiful
four flights of cool marble under bare feet
feels sublime, heels in hand
can't see but I feel
giant doors and wood worn like velvet
invisible arias
sun-drenched day, blue water, orange umbrellas
a long walk with a familiar friend
my green dress, lunch on the beach
gelato … more than I could eat
vale vale
work and more work, the stuff that brings me here
too little sleep
a slip
exhaustion and a headache
cured by coffee
balconies and clotheslines and enchanting winding alleys
mom talks through the phone
while I sit listening on a bench
wishing she could see this
the market and grotesque tomatoes from Verona
cobblestones, Gaudi and gothic lanterns
art and longing
Plaza Catalunya, the Metro to Fontana
evening in Gracia
people scattered across many squares
fireworks and devils
cold beer at a table outside
late night of comedy
in Spanish, only catching every eighth word
laughter and connection
a clocktower
Catalonia and dictators
there are many ways to do something right
so do it your way
chance and Paul Auster
our crisis
you really should send that letter
smokey bar and the old cigarette machine
beer in plastic cups at closing time
then out to the streets for a late-night stroll
her tribe
taxi back to Barrio Gotica
steadying the beer still in my hand
phone in the other
as I leave a voicemail
for someone not there
great cathedral and black sky
others walking home
peace, quiet, fresh air
it's morning
I'm blanc
anything is possible

Self-Discovery: Does Anyone Really Have 40 Days to Sacrifice for It?

About three and a half years ago, I came across this book called "40 Days and 40 Nights" while perusing my local Borders in New York City (um, I was not in the self-help section, it was on the "featured books of the month" table).

It was the weekend and I was delusional (as weekends sometimes make me) thinking that perhaps I might do something meaningful and personally fulfilling on my own time (ha. ha ha. ha ha ha...ha). Anyway, I was really excited because, well just look at the cover -- it was going to change my life and send me down the path of totally awesome self-discovery, somewhere I previously never had any interest in going. But there I was, feeling a sudden sense of urgency to find out who this person is that I call me...bring it on!

So I brought the book home and quickly forgot about it. I mean, get a life already, I have other things to do.

A couple months later, while vacuuming my apartment, I found the book wedged between my stereo stand and the wall, covered in dust. So I opened it (because I'll do anything to get out of cleaning), read the intro, but really didn't have time for the first assignment of listing my goals and dreams and fears and obstacles. So I let it wait awhile longer until I had the proper time necessary to make it thoughtful and quality.

Then, one night (ok, after a few drinks), I finally filled out that first section. It was definitely thoughtful and my list of goals, dreams and fears was loooong.

It's a 40-day program where you have to write and do a different exercise every day. And you can't skip a day or else the "40 day" part wont be true and you will fail, so I stalled getting started out of fear it wasnt the right time. I wanted to feel really clear headed and READY to make those 40 days and nights count so that I could commit and WIN!

But every night, I'd open the book, pick up my pen, realize I was too tired and uninspired, and toss the book aside once again in favor of something more appealing for the moment...like People magazine.

When I was packing up my apartment to move to London, I found the book in the cabinet of my nightstand. And I thought to myself, "Self, there is no greater time to begin down the 40-day path to discovering your true self than when moving to a new country."

But I didn't want to find myself until I got to London --because I might ultimately find the wrong person if I started it in New York -- so I decided to begin once I arrived on the other side of the Atlantic.

Since arriving in England a year and a half ago, I have looked at this book almost every day on my bookshelf while watching TV and discovering someone else's true self (like Robbie Williams or that other guy from "Take That"). But I'm careful to hide it under my bed when people come over so that they don't think I read self-help books.

I tried to start the book again last week, but got thrown off base after reading those hopes, dreams, fears and obstacles I had written down 3 years ago, because none of them really apply anymore. And sweet Jesus, I must have had a ton to drink before I filled that sucker out, because I can't even read my own handwriting! And to make matters worse, I wrote it all in pen so if I want to start it again, I'll need to re-write it all (reflecting my current self) on a new, clean sheet of paper and stuff it back in the book, and I really hate the thought of doing that (hmm, facing my perfectionist OCD may be one of those goals).

So lately, I open the book, only to look at the first exercise and close it again thinking ... "tomorrow."

I have calculated that over the past 3.5 years, I could have discovered my true self about 30 times had I started and completed this freakin' book. I can't even imagine all the sides of myself that I have missed out on and will never know -- a tragic fact, but I try not to dwell on it.

Because every night, just seeing the book on my nightstand brings new hope -- the hope that self-discovery is always and only just 40 days away. And somehow, that seems much nicer than starting down the path, only to know that in 40 days or less it will come to an end.

Domenique's Stuffed Tomatoes Mixed with a Little Magic (another Paris adventure)

I spent this past weekend in Paris following a meeting on Friday. After work, I checked into my hotel - the Hotel Luxembourg, across from the Senat and Luxembourg Gardens (the same place Lauren and I stayed during her visit last summer). Around 8pm, I went out and met my friend Rosanne, her friend Jan, and a few others for dinner at a cosy place called Baci in le Marais. (Recap: Rosanne is my good friend from NYC. She has a children’s clothing boutique in Paris that she runs with her sister, Julie, who lives in Paris with her family. Ro lives in NY, but spends lots and lots of time in Paris so we get to see each other a good deal…she has the little doggie Totoro who I took care of last time I was in NY staying at her apartment). I had some red wine, chicken and vegetables, and we called it a night around midnight. I was tired. I walked all the way back to the hotel, which took about a half hour. Though it was cold and damp outside, it was nice to be out walking in the dark chilled air with the whole weekend ahead of me (God I love Friday night, regardless of where I am!). When I passed over the Ile de Cite, in front of Notre Dame, it was shrouded in a quiet darkness and I looked around to find that I was the only person in the square…I had the place all to myself. It was one of those enchanted moments when I had to stop and consider how lucky I am to have this life. I love walking in Paris at night -- the lights along the Seine are always magical. Moments like that simply make me grateful, even if I do get a little tired and lonely sometimes.

When I got back to my room, I shut off the alarm on my blackberry (which had been set to 4-5am the three days before) and barely remember falling into bed. I didn’t open my eyes until 1pm the next afternoon (oops). That was nice. It was a miserable rainy day (of course), so I started off easy at a brasserie by Odeon where I had a double espresso and a ham and cheese omelette that was positively drowning in butter (with a salad and fresh baguette on the side). It was delicious. I then made my way to the Metro where I went to Montmartre to wander around. I went up to the Sacre Coeur (the big cathedral that overlooks Paris) and took in the view. But it was ridiculously drizzly, cold and flooded with tourists, so I didn’t spend too long in the madness. I ducked into a few little shops, one from which I purchased a lovely little necklace. On the way back to the hotel, I stopped at the incredible Gerard Mulot patisserie in Saint Germain where I picked up a to-die-for dessert for the evening’s dinner party. I don’t know what it was called, but it was a rich, fluffy vanilla custard mixture dotted with fresh, plump raspberries and sandwiched between two layers of crisp, crumbly cake (or was it a meringue?) sprinkled with pistachio slivers and wrapped up in a bow -- perfect bliss in a big pink box!

Saturday evening, Rosanne graciously invited me to her sister (Julie) and brother-in-law’s (Domenique) home in the city’s 11th arrondissement. I stepped through the huge wooden burgundy doors, passed through the inner courtyard, and climbed a flight of black steel stairs up to their flat. Rosanne opened the door and I found myself in a warm, open, lofty space lined with bookcases that I can only describe as if I had stepped into an issue of Dwell magazine -- totally fab.

After graduating from Parsons School of Design in NYC 17 years (ish) ago, Julie moved to Paris. She now owns a super-hip children’s clothing boutique in Saint Germain called “Milk on the Rocks” for which she and Rosanne design their own clothes (www.milkontherocks.net). She has been married to Domenique for 7 years and they have two adorable children: Antoine (5) and Jade (3). Jade greeted me in a sparkly purple Princess Jasmin dress (from Disney’s Aladdin), fashionably layered over a yellow Belle (from Beauty and the Beast) nightgown…she was all smiles and ready to party. Antoine, on the other hand, was very tired and not at all in the mood to entertain…he called it a night around 9:30. They also have three huge, gorgeous kitty cats. Rosanne’s doggie Totoro was there as well, so it was a full house of kids, animals, big people and great food…a perfect evening, really!

While we were busy gabbing and enjoying wine and pate (Ro’s friend Jan was there as well), Domenique was intently focused on making dinner, which I understand is a family recipe. Big, red tomatoes stuffed with a combination of ground beef, mushrooms, onions, tomato, sugar (which off-sets the savory nicely) and some other stuff. After the tomatoes are hollowed out and stuffed with the mixture, the tops are placed back on, a pat of butter is perched on top of each, and they are sent into the oven to bake (see pictures). They come out many minutes later shriveled, warm, ooozy juicy, and perfectly delicious. Domenique plated them like a pro in huddles of three per plate. YUM!

After dinner, we tucked into the dessert I brought from Gerard Mulot. Had it with a side of ice cream (because, um, the pastry alone wasn’t decadent enough). Then (as if we hadn’t already indulged sufficiently), Domenique brought out some little muffins he has been baking and selling to local shops. He makes them in several varieties: lemon, hazelnut, chocolate chip, and a couple others. We sampled, of course.

After dinner, Domenique entertained us with some magic tricks -- he’s really good! He baffled us with tricks using cards, those little spongie balls, and a trick using Jan’s cigarette lighter. Good times. Now, if only he could have made all the calories I consumed that night disappear! Meanwhile, Jade impressed us with her skills blowing out all the candles….I guess that was pretty magical to her and she was not going to be outdone.

I got a taxi home close to midnight. Jade was still up watching movies and smiling when we left – talk about a 3 year old that can totally party!

This morning (Sunday) I woke up around 10:30, checked out, and then went to Café Flore (used to be a massive hangout for the literary greats) on Saint German for a breakfast of broiled eggs with salmon, salad and lots of coffee. Then I went to Le Bon Marche department store where I managed to escape without buying anything. Around 2:30, I met Rosanne in le Marais and we went on a very fast 2-hour shopping tear where I managed to do a little damage in the form of a dress, belt and some bath products. We stopped into a little smoky bar we like called Le Perle, where we had a fast glass of red wine. Then, I took off to get a taxi to the airport, after a mad run through a chocolate shop by Place de Vogues where I snagged a chocolate bar for myself, and an assortment of truffles for a work colleague. The flight home was easy and uneventful. I sat next to a very handsome French man who I couldn’t work up the nerve to speak to, even though I really, really wanted to.

Oh, and speaking of French, mine still sucks. Oh well…third class is tomorrow, so onwards and upwards!

Hamburg, Dove, and Helene Schjerfbeck (I can't pronounce it either)

I spent a couple days in Hamburg, Germany this week for work -- getting immersed into the workings of my newest client, Dove (as in the stellar "Campaign for Real Beauty"). Edelman has a great office there and the team I’ll be working with is an awesome group of gals (Heidi, Jessica, Anna and Pia). Tuesday evening Jessica had us over to her home for a totally fabulous old-school American/Mexican dinner. We’re talking tortillas, guacamole, black olives from the can, grated cheese, sour cream, salsa, ground beef, refried beans, rice…and beer, of course. It was serious good times and so yummy. She had to go out of her way to find all those ingredients in Germany, but go figure, there is a Wal Mart nearby which provided most of the goods. From what I understand, the Germans are not big fans of the American mega chain, but we sure were after dinner…ole!

The weather was pretty cold, dreary and rainy, but we got lots accomplished Tuesday and Wednesday. It’s a nice office to work in…it has lots of windows and sits alongside a small canal, which I’m sure is charming in the summer when you can sit out on the terrace by the canal and enjoy your lunch.

Wednesday evening after work, Pia and I went to the Hamburger Kunsthalle – the main art gallery in Hamburg – to see the Helene Schjerfbeck exhibition. She was a very well known Scandinavian artist (1862-1946) known for her portraits, landscapes and still lifes. I saw a brochure for the exhibition at my hotel and was captivated by some of the pictures of her paintings, which put me in mind of Modigliani (one of my very favourites). And I wasn’t disappointed…there were about 120 wonderfully-curated paintings. It was a great exhibition with some very touching pieces….my favorites being “Dancing Girls” (a really tiny one), “Madchen von dem Bildteppich” (that’s the portrait at the beginning of this post), and “Maria.” After the exhibition, Pia drove me back to my hotel. I went next door to an Italian restaurant for dinner, where I also finished my book “The Memory Keepers Daughter” (by Kim Edwards), which was really excellent. I managed to get a few hours sleep before leaving at 5am the next morning to head to Paris for another meeting….

A Night With the History Boys

My friend Olly and I saw the play “History Boys” (which was recently made into a movie). After debuting a massive stage success, it recently moved from the National Theatre to the West End -- although that was news to Olly, who mistakenly went to the National first, arriving at the correct theatre just minutes before curtain.

Our seats were crap (my fault), but it was a good play, although it tried a bit too hard at times…most notably in the first act when the boys enact an unnecessarily long scene in French, which I found to be a bit gratuitous and pretentious…I suppose if you don’t understand French, Alan Bennett does not deem you intellectual enough to enjoy his play. The idea of the scene was very funny, it just droned on too long.

My criticism overall is that it reeked a bit “Dead Poets Society” wanna-be (I think I just dated myself to all the high-schoolers that were in the audience….”Dead Poet who??”). But for all you TRUE GenXrs out there, let’s face it, nothing can really match that. BUT, in it’s favour, I will say that the acting/casting is really brilliant, there are many funny moments, and the scene changes are filled with a series of punchy black and white film sequences set to catchy music showing the boys going about their days and bringing bits of the storyline to life…that was a nice touch.

While I was not left pondering it (ok, ok, I am a theatre snob, I know), it was an evening well spent and certainly one of the better plays I have seen lately…it’s modern take on the competitive education environment in England was timely and topical, though it probably would have been more compelling to me if it were a system I knew anything about. I mean, the fact that “public” school is a more elite level of education here in the U.K. is still a regular point of confusion for me given that in the U.S. it means everyman education for the masses (I am a proud public school girl).

After the show, Ollie and I had a lovely dinner at Palais du Jardin near the theatre. Very good…my favourite part being the exceptional crème brulee that capped off the night. Oh, and Olly’s consistently captivating conversation, of course (he reads this blog). ☺

I Speaka French!

Ok, well, not exactly yet, but tonight was my first class of a 20-week beginners French course. I figure since I go to Paris just about every month these days, I should learn to say something in the language. Someone once told me (actually, several people have told me) that because I know some Spanish, French will be a zip. But guess what -- that is complete crap. French is totally hard. And despite my weak attempts to learn some vocabulary and verb conjugations before visits, whenever I try to put it to use in France I am stared down coldly for several uncomfortable minutes before the highly annoyed and insulted French person I am speaking to begins shouting English back at me until I slink away. But not for long!

So, my company has graciously brought in an instructor from the Institut Francais here in London to teach us the basics at a pleasantly discounted rate. There are 8 of us in the class, which will meet every Monday here at the office. Our instructor's name is Alexi. He is a very nice and patient man with gray hair. Oh, and we have workbooks...I love workbooks.

About 5 minutes into the class, after being spoken to (in French) and having not understood one single thing, I was signalled out as the first person to speak (in French). I had to say "My name is Catherine." When I tried to repeat after Mr. Alexi and say it, everyone laughed at me. It's really funny how I think I'm really cool, but after a small incident like this, I want to cry, kick the teacher and run away and hide (like I did in tap class once when I was 6). Very humbling these language classes.

So, an hour and a half later, I can now sort of tell someone what my name is and say "hello" and some other basic greetings. I can't spell, write or read any of it, but I can sort of say it. I also learned the verb "to be" (Être) and am now familiar with the alphabet, although I cannot pronounce my Es and Us properly ("oooh" and "eeew," or something like that). But I have a whole week to practice and perfect before advancing to the next level.

I figure it's probably another 2-3 weeks before I'm dreaming in French and forgetting my English. I will conquer this language -- with an espresso in one hand and a pain au chocolat in the other! And then, the French people will love and adore me. France will make me their goodwill ambassador. I'll arrive at the Gar du Nord to cheering crowds. I will make the poets cry with my perfect accent. The Musee D'Orsay will give me a Renoir as a gesture of gratitude for learning to speak their language so well. They'll name a street after me in Saint Germain des Pres...my efforts will not be in vain!

Au revoir.