Miscellaneous Mobile Phone Cleanout

While waiting around bored in the Palma airport this week, I realised I had a bunch of random photos stored in my mobile phone from occassions where I had left my camera at home. So here they are, some pretty old, in no particular order. Half of it I would have forgotten had I not come across these pix!

This is an alligator made of shoes on display at a Puma art exhibition in NYC.
This is me and a monkey, also made out of shoes at that same exhibition.
Me in a NY taxi.
A cocktail. I'm not exactly sure where. I think in Paris.
A "beach club" in Hamburg, Germany. I went there with my friend and colleague Pia after work one day.
This is Muji -- one of my favourite shoppes in London. I took this for my friend in NY, Nana, who loves the place. But I don't think I ever sent it to her.
This is me and an ex-boyfriend in Paris earlier this year. I thought about not including it, but what the hell, it's miscellaneous mobile phone cleanout, everything must go!
This is my friend Olly on his Vespa that I beleive he calls "Mildred."

These are seats on the London tube. Colourful, no?

iChattin'

My sister and I both have Macs with iChat, so despite the fact I'm across the ocean from my family, I can see and talk to them every day at no extra cost beyong my broadband bill. All three of my nieces are completely computer-literate (inlcuding the 2-year old) so it is truly fun for the whole family. One night, my neice Elise read ME a bedtime story...my how the world has changed.

Following are some snapshots from a recent web chat. Catherine (8), much like her namesake, does most the talking in the family. You can see in the picture above she is honing her stand-up comic skills with some help from her "Jokelopedia." She also likes to IM (instant message) simultaneously WHILE she is video chatting with me -- talk about multi-tasking!

Eva (almost 2) is the little one. She waves, jabbers, and we play peek-a-boo. In the pictures below, she was really revved up, doing a dance I can only liken to that old Bangles song "Walk Like an Egyptian."

There aren't as many appearances by Elise (6)...she's far too coy to be overly impressed by iChat....she'd rather just sequester herself somewhere with her Game Boy or a Disney Princess video. Although she ran on screen last night from the shower with nothing on but a towel. I got flashed a few times...she's quite the exhibitionist...her mom and dad are gonna have to watch that one.

Marrakech

Though it’s more than four months behind me and I’ve made several trips since, I need to backtrack and write about my Easter holiday in Marrakech, Morocco. It was my first time setting foot on the African continent, certainly not insignificant!

In short, Marrakech is a grimy, beautiful, loud, colourful, chaotic place. I went with my friends Margot, Kate and Alyson. None of us had been to Morocco before and had done scant research for the trip, so we were making it up as we went along….which seems to be the only way I travel anymore, but that keeps it interesting and always humorous.

Getting There

I think I’m a culture-shock junkie. Driving into town from the airport in a very rickety car with a questionable driver who spoke no English and a trunk that couldn’t close because of all our luggage, the “I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore” realisation set in pretty quick. I was in the front seat, mesmerised by the onslaught of humanity (and animality, though I don’t think that’s a word) coming straight at us the closer to the centre of town we got. Kids, donkeys, carts, people, food, motorbikes….it was all coming head-on with no end in sight. I felt like I was on the “This is Morocco” ride at EPCOT Center. But these people were not animatronics and I was not going to get off the riverboat ride and find myself in Orlando.

There are several layers of old, crumbling walls you drive through to get into the old city centre – called the Medina – where we stayed….protection was clearly key throughout the city’s history (or, they were just terribly antisocial).

When we arrived in a small, bustling square near the Riad where we were staying, I don’t think any of us were ready to get out of the car. There was a palpable “oh please God do not let this be where we are staying” feeling in the air. It was dirty. There were kids running around yelling in languages we couldn’t identify much less understand. A man was sleeping in a doorway. The square was populated by rickety shacks with thatched roofs. It was hot. There were donkeys. And lots of food and produce carts in the street. Everyone seemed to stop around us, staring at the white girls with their Chanel sunglasses and clueless expressions. They must see it a million times every week. I wanted to laugh out loud….it was funny. I was awake.

Riad Dar Thalge

But we did have to get out of the car. Our driver led us down a series of maze-like stone alleyways (he had my suitcase so I made a solid effort to keep up with him). Finally, we ended up in what appeared to be a dead end with a black iron gate. A man met our driver, thanked him, and then led us through the gate and into the riad (a riad is a typical Moroccan home with a central courtyard…it’s the type of accommodation where most people stay when visiting Morocco).

Our riad was called Dar Thalge. And the man who greeted us was the manager, Mourad. It was very calm and zen once inside the gate. A solid white structure, the riad consisted of three levels all looking down into a central courtyard with a small blue pool crowned by a black cast iron chandelier that hung from the third level. There was a nice roof terrace with views across the city that overlooked all the other rooftops and a sea of hundreds of white satellite dishes (you’d think they were contacting the aliens). You could see out to the edge of the region, barricaded by the majestic snow-capped Atlas Mountains.

The ground level of the riad was lined with a series of cozy living rooms around the pool – they each had sofas, chairs, fireplaces, and coffee tables. Nice little private sanctuaries to sit with your friends, talk and hang out.

Once we got settled into our cozy suite (two bedrooms adorned with nice art and connected by a shared bathroom), the staff brought us traditional Moroccan tea to enjoy on the rooftop. The tea is served from an ornate silver pot into small, colourful glasses. It’s a potent brew of black tea, spices, mint and lots of sugar.

The first morning at the Riad was quite “refreshing.” We didn’t have any hot water so my first shower was a freezing good time. But Mourad called in the troops and the problem was resolved by the second day. They really were so gracious and accommodating at the riad, we couldn’t have asked for nicer people and kinder hospitality.

Each morning we had breakfast on the roof which consisted of coffee, juice, and a selection of flat breads, butter and jams.

Language

The languages spoken in Morrocco are French and Arabic. None of us really speak either, except Kate who knows a dusting of French, so we were pretty clueless. Trying to settle our bill with Mourad (who spoke no English) at the riad before we left was particularly humourous. Well, at least for me, because I made no effort to help.

The Jemaa El Fna

The Jemaa El Fna is the main square of Marrakech, and a place that after one visit should be avoided at all costs. On our first tour through, I was approached by a woman who grabbed my hand and to my horror took to the back of it with what looked like a 7-8 inch syringe. Despite my failed attempt to regain control of my hand, I was relieved when out of the “syringe” came henna – she was a henna tattoo artist. I tried to tell her I did not have any money (we hadn’t hit the cash machine yet), but it was over in 10 seconds and I already had a design on my hand. I tried to tell her again no money and gave her some British coins. I don’t think she was pleased by this and walked away somewhat in disgust, but what can you do.

I had never had a henna tattoo before and wasn’t sure what to do with it….it looks like mud when it first goes on. But it dries, at which point the “mud” rubs off and you’re left with an amber-brown-coloured tattoo. It went through a few colour changes while fading and lasted almost two-weeks. Good times going to business meetings the next week with the very visible remnants of my fun for all to see.

But henna tattoo artists are only some of the people that will accost you in the square. It’s a freaking crazy circus. There are
snake charmers (and…eeew…snakes!!), people with monkeys and other assorted scary animals, bands of musicians playing recorders and drums, carts full of nuts, dried fruits, oranges, spices, and vegetables. There are kids running free everywhere (they are not homeless or anything, it’s just that Morrocco is apparently very safe for children and they are allowed to run free as they wish with no fear of anyone harming them).

But at night, the vibe of the square totally changes. It gets even more crowded and loud as a full city block’s worth of food stalls are set up, along with cooking units and communal tables. People crowd in, filling the tables to eat and come together….tourists and locals alike. It reminds me of a Moroccan version of an American county fair. Lights are strung up and the air is completely filled with white smoke from all the cooking, illuminated by the lights. And it’s mostly various meat being cooked, so we took to calling it the “meat smoke,” not all-together appealing. But I liked the square at night better than in the day, it’s like a big, giant party.

Street Life

The streets of Marrakech are what I vividly remember the most, because they are nuts and you face them at your own risk. Motorbikes are king and they zoom everywhere, creating mass pandemonium and kicking up dust as you try and get from one place to the next. I liken it to “Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome.” How we didn’t get run over by one or seriously hurt while there is still a complete mystery to me..your senses become acutely focused on where they are and getting out of their way. Noisy too.

Finding your way around is no easy feat either. The Medina is not driver/car friendly, so most of the streets are not made for cars -- they are mostly limited to pedestrians, donkeys and motorbikes. And like that brilliant U2 song, “the streets have no name” in Marrakech, so you never really know where you are or where you’re going. We found it odd how difficult it was to find maps of the city, but once Margot located one, we realised why: When you have no street names, maps are difficult, perhaps even uselsss. So, you inevitably get a sense of the direction you’re going in, and then wander, getting lost many times along the way, until you reach your destination, tired and somewhat frazzled. Or, at least that is the way we did it. In Marrakech, “getting there” truly is half the fun (depending on your twisted definition of fun, of course).

Alyson had the most adventuresome time of all of us on the streets of Marrakech. We think perhaps it’s because she’s a blonde and stood out a little more. In the span of one day, she almost got run over by a motorbike – though it did narrowly miss her, a carpet strapped to the back brushed her on the drive-by leaving a mark on her dress. Soon after, she got sneezed on by a donkey. Then, later that evening while walking through a crowded mass of people on the outskirts of the souks, she had her butt pinched. After it happened, she yelped and looked behind her to see who it was. There was a man standing there, who quickly and defensively pointed to a little girl walking past. Kids. Hmph.

If you are a white girl in Marrakech, it will likely be assumed that you are English, to which some of the men will call out “fish and chips!” when you walk by. We heard that lots. As a woman, I don’t mind occasionally being referred to as foodstuff such as a “peach,” “tomato,” “lamb chop,” or even “cupcake” (my personal favourite). But “fish and chips?” Not so much.

Next to motorbikes, the next thing that permeates street life in Marrakech are the smells….good and bad. Marrakech is known for its spices, vividly displayed in market/street stalls all over the city, so it’s not unusual to walk down the street and through the markets and be greeted with more spice fragrances than you can possibly take it and identify. That is a smell I like. Among the spices most commonly seen everywhere are cinnamon, cardamom, saffron, ginger, cumin, even star of anise (which I don’t think is classified as a spice?).

There are also various stalls that sell what look to be blocks of soap, but they are actually solid perfumes, usually in musky strong scents like amber, sandalwood and lavender. There are also the smells that come from the dried flowers that are also sold on the street – mostly dried roses, lavender and grenadine.
Those are good smells too. Of course, there are also all the food smells, like at night in the Jemaa when all the grilling is taking place.

There is also the smell of oranges, a predominant fruit in the city that you see on carts and stands everywhere. Orange stands are set up all along the Jemaa, where they will fresh-squeeze juice for you. They then load all the empty orange peels into a cart which is hauled away by a donkey. When a cart goes past, you get a nice fresh whiff of citrus.

Then there are the not-so-good smells…primarily emanating from the street stalls filled with raw meats and other animal parts (there was a moment walking through the grimy streets of the old Jewish quarter that I thought I’d definitely be sick), the smell of donkeys, ferial cats and other animals that you’ve come in too close of contact with, and general unidentified bad smells, like walking around at night through dirty, narrow alleyways. But I choose to remember the good smells, because when they are good, they can be heavenly and completely unique.

The streets are a place of commerce in most places in the city, so you are always walking through passageways lined with food, shoes, fabric, clothes, jars of bright colour pigments, everyday sundries like soap, shampoo and socks, and even small animals in cages like birds and lizards. I saw a chameleon…don’t think I had ever seem one before in real life.

At night, the city streets have a different feeling, though it is just as bustling as during the day. Walking out of our riad and through the dark alleys to the city center, everyone is out in their evening wear, usually long robes and hats for men and long robes and headscarves for women. Everyone seems to be out strolling and the kids continue to run free. To where everyone goes exactly, I could not tell, but going out to be out was clearly the thing to do.

The Sights

We toured the Bahia Palace – a gorgeous old structure boasting gardens and ornately tiled rooms; the Saadian Tombs where the Saadian Sultans are buried (this very holy site remained hidden by the locals for many, many years….I think we might all be cursed for seeing them); the GORGEOUS Bab Agnaou gate, built by African slaves (it’s an amazing carved stone gate with detail and weathering so fine it almost looks like wood….a truly gorgeous thing to see); and the Madersa Ben Youssef, an old Koranic School built in the 14th century. It is a beautiful building filled with small study spaces and a central courtyard with splendid tiling and a lovely blue pool in the center – quite zen and relaxing. We also walked around the picture-perfect Koutouba mosque which is an iconic landmark visible from the Jemaa, however we couldn't go inside, not being Muslim and all.

The “Pigeon Doughnut” and Other Culinary Delights

I love Moroccan food. I think it is my favourite behind Turkish. The tagine is one of the most delightful forms of cookery ever, and I ate one every day while there. A combination of meat and/or vegetables baked to perfection in a triangular-shaped clay pot, I had both chicken and vegetable tagines, often with a plate of fluffy cous cous.

But let me tell you about the pigeon (or chicken) doughnut. It’s actually called a “pastilla,” but you know how I like to bastardise the name of all things to reflect my interpretation. The pastilla is like a meat pie…kind of. It’s a pastry stuffed with either pigeon (the traditional way) or chicken, mixed in with almonds and spices. On top it is dusted with cinnamon and sugar – so it’s got that sweet/savoury thing going…though mostly sweet. Sounds gross maybe, but it is delectable – mmmmm….I still think about it sometimes. Puts those English pasties to shame.

We ate very good dinners every night. The first evening we treated ourselves to Marrakchi, a posh place overlooking the Jemaa El Fna with elaborately tiled walls, ornate ceilings, and very traditional Moroccan fare. We also had a lovely dinner at Café Arabe, a modern spot in a trendy neighborhood with an outdoor courtyard, a romantic ambiance, food that tended toward the Mediterranean style, and the best darn caiprinhia I have ever had. The last night we found ourselves at the ritzy 5-star Les Jardines de la Koutoubia hotel where we started off in the courtyard by the pool having cocktails, then moved to a quaint outdoor grill situated by a lit blue pool with waterfall where we enjoyed fish and wine for dinner. You could see the illuminated tower of the Katouba looming over the wall of the hotel courtyard in the distance -- it was a quiet and tranquil respite from the city outside.

Shopping the Souks

If you’re not prone to claustrophobia, social anxiety or panic attacks, the Souks are an essential part of the Marrakech experience. Upon entering the covered marketplace which begins off the corner of the Jemaa El Fna, you find yourself in a labyrinth of stalls and shops filled to the brim with spices, pottery, food, sequined slippers and shoes, jewellery, baskets, glass, tea sets, rugs, tapestries, clothing, small animals (mostly reptiles and birds), and all sorts of other bric-a-brac. Haggling is the expected norm, and I found it much easier and less intimidating than in Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, which was no where near the easy experience as the Souks. On average, you could get prices down to about half of the original offer. And the salesman were not stubborn, most seemed more than happy to bargain.

There’s no hope once in the Souks of knowing where you are going. It is inevitable that you will only be able to wander aimlessly and become completely lost and disoriented, eventually relying on one of the many kids who will run ahead of you yelling “The square! The square!” to help point you in the right direction out.

I think we spent about 3 hours in the Souks. Once we emerged back into daylight, I had a few bags filled with a set of clear glass and silver tea glasses (I had already bought an elaborate tea set with a silver pot and tray and a set of coloured glasses at another shop the day before), two beautiful silk table runners (one for me, one for mom), a woven silk bag for Elizabeth, 3 colourful ceramic mini tagine sets (good for salt, pepper, butter and jams for the table), 2 glass rose water bottles for Mom (blue and red) and a green one for myself. The day before, at the same shop from which I purchased my tea set, I had also bought a pair of earrings and a necklace charm (for me).

I would have liked to have also bought some spices (there was gorgeous saffron), but that would have required that I eventually cook, which can never be guaranteed. However, I would love to return to Marrakech at some point just for the sole purpose of taking a cooking course and shopping the markets with someone who knows what they are doing.

I think the Souks are overwhelming for many, but I really enjoyed them. Compared to Istanbul, they actually seemed quite relaxing and calm to me. Which some of my friends who have also been there say is crazy, but I was very uncomfortable in the Grand Bazaar -- everyone was at me all the time and they were NOT easy to bargain with. I was completely overwhelmed, which rarely happens to me. But then again, I was alone and tired when wandering Istanbul, so that may have made all the difference. Regardless, the Souks get a big thumbs up in my book.

Tedious Departure

Leaving Marrakech was not easy. We arrived at the airport the obligatory two hours early, only to find that none of the check-in desks had even opened. After taking about 15 minutes to determine which line we needed to be in, and getting some bread from a food stand for breakfast, we proceeded to wait almost two hours for the check in desks to open. And that was for ALL flights, not just ours. After those two hours of standing (there was nowhere to sit), the airport (a large, almost perfectly square building with one great room for check in) had completely filled with a mob of people, crowded into the space with no rhyme or reason. It looked like a high school gymnasium. Once the check-in desks did open, it was mass chaos, but luckily we did find ourselves in the correct line. After checking in, we spent about another hour in line for immigration and security, although security was very quick…I questioned that screening process given everyone filed through seamlessly with no real checks -- but at that point, I wasn’t going to complain. Our flight was (obviously) delayed, and once we got on the plane we sat on the runway for about another 45 minutes before taking off.

What I find funny about all this is that we flew EasyJet airlines, a discount European airline. But given our almost 4-hour debacle to leave, I’d hardly say it was “easy,” or a bargain, given we paid about $800 per ticket.

In Conclusion

I loved Marrakech. It’s a crazy place, but so enjoyable. I would love to go back to Morocco at some point, to take a cooking course, and to also spend time outside the city in one of the many small towns and retreats in the Atlas Mountains. Also, I’d like to visit Tangier and Casablanca.

The more I travel, the more places I realise I haven’t been, and instead of getting shorter, my “to go” list is only getting longer. One must keep an open mind to not get frustrated and overwhelmed by this…life simply is not long enough.

More Pictures!

Check out more photos from the trip on my Flickr site:
www.flickr.com/photos/catsview/sets/72157601657264890/

Die Hard 4.0

It's not summer until you've paid your hard-earned cash on a really bad Hollywood blockbuster which, after watching, makes you want to go back and slap the ticket lady until she gives you your money back.

Tonight, Olly and I saw the stupidity that is "Die Hard 4.0," so despite the fact that it is late July and only 50-60 degrees in England, I guess summertime is here!

You often hear about "gratuitous" violence and/or sex in movies, but this movie boasts gratuitous....action. It's a 2.5 hour armageddon that very badly ties together car crashes, massive explosions, SUVs crashing down fiery elevator shafts, nation-wide blackouts, a fake exploding U.S. capitol, endless shootouts, the token hot Asian chick kung-fu fighting and killing her way through an ocean of men, an airborne police car (containing Bruce Willis) that crashes mid-air into the bad guy's helocopter (that's the best stunt of the film), a wild tractor trailer chase, computer hacking at gunpoint, and finally, some madness that culminates with an F-35 Joint Strike Fighter jet hovering and weaving its way through a maze of urban highway overpasses as they crumble like a mile of toppling dominoes. And LOTS of blood all the while. And I'm sure I've left a whole lot out.

And now a word about the horrific acting. I am serious when I say there were kids in my neice's 3rd grade play that could have out-acted the stone-faced and monotone-voiced mokeys in this movie. And the writing...I don't think mass cringing after one-liners like, "John, you're a Timex watch in a digital age" was the desired response.

There were many questions in the "storyline" that really threw me. Especially at the end: Bruce Willis kills the bad guy and the world is safe from a complete computer-programmed infrastructure shut down. But last I had heard, the bad guy was the only person on earth who could undo the damage. I wonder what happened to the world after the credits rolled...

Finally, I beleive a hallmark of the Die Hard franchise must be geographical idiocy and bad editing. The first movie was supposed to take place in the Washington, DC area...a detail that was foiled by the frequent calls Bruce Willis made from pay phones clearly labeled "Pac Bell" -- the California phone system. Though this film is again supposed to be set in the DC area, I could not identify any streets that remotely resembled DC, even with the super-imposed Washington Monument and Old Post Office Building in almost every car chase scene. Oh, and DC does NOT have yellow cabs or skyscrapers. And there was a very dubious toll tunnel that I had never encountered in my 6+ years in DC. But it's clearly the tunnel that connects DC to New Jersey and Baltimore in a matter of minutes. My favorite geo detail, however, was at the end when the helocopter, car explosion and firearm spectacular spectacular ended in a sunny blue harbor surrounded by mountains. Um, where is THAT in the DC area? (It sure looked a lot like southern CA to me.)

By the end of the film, I could only smack my forhead and groan. I didn't quite recover until afterwards when Olly and I had a pint at the pub and talked about something else.

Hamburg Beach Clubs

Why pay all that money for a holiday in the Caribbean when you can just go to Hamburg, Germany? I was there for work this week, and Thursday evening my colleague Pia took me for a cocktail at Lago Bay, one of Hamburg's four "beach clubs." Located in Hamburg's harbour neighborhood, the beach club attracts a well-behaved "yuppie" crowd of beautiful people who sip cocktails on a man-made beach that has been imported to the side of the river. The club is blanketed with plush white sand and palm trees, and is situated across many tiered levels surrounding a clear blue swimming pool. There are a few bars and plenty of seating in the form of lounge and cabana chairs, and many large beds on which groups of friends can lounge. There was also a live band playing that we enjoyed while sipping our caiparinhas.

The effect is quite successful...Hamburg has turned what could be a bleak and barren industrial port into a relaxing, fun and pretty environ that is quite transportive in it's ability to make you beleive you are in a tropical beachside summer locale (despite the fact you can't go in the water). And given Hamburg's weather, the clubs are a seasonal occurrance -- once summer is over, the clubs pack up their props and close down for another year.

This is a concept New York City should totaly adopt -- I think it would be a huge win as the substantial waterfront space is something the city has been slow to turn into a new entertainment concept the public can embrace.

Top 10 Signs You're Travelling Too Much

10. You frequently wake up in the morning not knowing where you are. Even when it's your own flat.

9. You travel on planes more than cars and trains combined. If there's any truth to that carbon footprint thing, you are single-handedly destroying the earth.

8. Most all your shopping is done in duty-free. As a matter of fact, you realise airports have all you need to survive.

7. You have the desire to speak Spanish in non-Spanish-speaking countries. And you think German would be an "easy" and "fun" language to learn -- even though you are totally failing your French class.

6. In your prayers at night, you thank God for health, family, friends, and universal travel adaptors. Then you pray that someone will invent a singular power cord and charger that will work with all your gadgets.

5. Your handbag contains 2 mobile phones, a blackberry, an iPod, and a digital camera...but the batteries in all of them are dead.

4. Every city in Europe begins to look exactly the same to you.

3. You sheeplishly start questions with, "Excuse me, do you speak English?" But you're in London. Then you say "Merci" after they've answered your question (in English).

2. You consider your daily interactions with friends on Facebook to be your "social life."

1. People ask where you live...and you have trouble answering the question.

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