The (Un)Christmas Spirit

I often wonder what goes through people's minds, especially around the holidays.

I woke today and turned on the news. Lead story: Gunman in Santa Suit Kills Three at L.A. Party. I won't dignify the title with a link to the story, because it's just wrong. What could have been so wrong with this person? As I left the apartment today, I found myself asking the same question about people I ran into on the street.

I left my apartment at 1:30 and made my way to the 2:20 p.m. showing of "Slumdog Millionaire." I had my iPod on and turned up louder than usual... maybe it was because I really loved the song that played on 'shuffle' mode, maybe because I was subconsciously tuning out the rest of the world. I made it to the end of the block and a white pick-up truck was approaching. A 20-something year-old man slowed down and waved a bouquet of roses at me. I turned around to see who was behind me. He kept yelling something, but I couldn't hear. I shook my head and held up one finger - the universal 'one minute' signal - so I could turn down the music. Maybe he was looking for someone? Maybe he was lost and needed directions.

As I took the earplugs out of my ears in enough time to hear him yell, "...ungrateful bitch! Merry fucking Christmas!" just as he threw a bouquet of one dozen roses at my head. The roses landed in the middle of the street and I just stared at them.

Stunned and confused, I picked up the roses in hopes of finding a card with an address. No card. No address. I placed the roses on the snow bank and walked off. There was something so un-friendly about the beautiful bouquet that I couldn't take them with me. I could have given them to a homeless person, but something stung inside and I couldn't bring myself to walk with them.

I walked to the movie theater wondering what could have possibly happened that this man thought it was OK to throw roses at me and call me an ungrateful bitch. Maybe his girlfriend just left him. Or his wife. Maybe he had a fight with his family. Maybe there was no one else to give the roses to. Maybe he should have just thrown them out.

I arrived at the movie theater and found a quiet spot on the left side near the wall. It was a row with only two seats, so I was either going to get lucky and have the seat next to me for myself, or have to share the row with a stranger. Enter: the stranger. He was a nice enough older man, and we made small talk for three-minutes until the lights went down.

The theater went dark, and I began to cry. I don't know why. What a year it's been. I'm tired. Maybe I was crying because I miss my family. Maybe I was crying because I don't. Maybe I shed a few tears because the first time I received flowers from a man this year, he was a stranger in a pick-up truck who called me an ungrateful bitch. There was a part of me this year who craved a warm body next to me in bed. Many of my friends say I have a life they envy - carefree and no strings attached. There is a simple pleasure to being unattached, but that same part of me wished I woke up this morning to a loved one handing me a gift. Instead, a stranger threw thorns.

I had a voicemail after the movie. It was one of my cousins in New York calling to tell me she missed me. I miss her, too. I don't regret not driving to New York this year, but I will make a concerted effort to get there more next year.

I'm home, safe and sound. I have a bottle of Barolo breathing and an amber candle scenting my apartment. I'll throw in a frozen pizza for dinner and enjoy the comforts of my home, sweet home.

Roaming Around Boston

Today I left my apartment. I realize I can't sit here all day and "protect" my home, so I ventured out to meet my friend The Missus in the South End. We walked to the South End artist's market and I bought a particularly cool necklace for my fall jewelry collection. It's blue agate (I think it looks like a bunch of Earth's on a string) and Jewelry Central tells me that agate, in general, "is good for transmutation; helps with the emotion of acceptance; gives a mellow, blended aspect; and is beneficial in the stomach area."

From there we strolled to the movies and took in the new Woody Allen flick, "Vicky Cristina Barcelona", which was excellent (if you're a Woody Allen fan). I wonder why men like Javier Bardem don't approach me in bars when I'm traveling and ask me to go away for the weekend and make love in mysterious places. Note to self: Plan vacation to Barcelona.

We met up with our friend Bail afterwards at a local pub and noshed on some rather greasy and suspect bar food while recounting the last 48 hours of our lives. 

I came home and settled into my place. Taking deep breaths and moving the kitchen table back in front of the front door to act as a block to the outside world. I opened a glass of Merlot, sipped quietly and breathed deeply. Tonight, I will be safe.

So Far, So Good Tuesday

I slept a little better last night, and I think that made all the difference.
Today, the US boss and I are taking out the UK boss and her husband. Should be fun and insightful. Everything is more fun and insightful with wine.

Hot Time Summer in the City

It's oppressive, and it's going to get worse. The city is sweltering.
'Tis the weekend for dark movie theaters and air-conditioned restaurants.
Then again, do you really want to waste a summer day inside? We spend enough time indoors during the winter months.




When the sun gets going, the going get outside...

Maybe Castle Island, the Esplanade, or just the roof deck. Either way, I plan to soak up the sun before summer ends.

Late Night in the City

The heat is scorching in Boston this week. My window unit a/c is working the best it can to keep the place cool, but sometimes even an air-conditioner can't cool the place entirely. Thankfully tomorrow the heat is supposed to break. In the meantime, I'm trying to stay cool with the shades drawn and the lights off.

Last night was one of those odd nights in the city where all things weird seemed to happen. I was up watching the 11 p.m. news. The lead story: Police Release Sketch of Neighborhood Attacker. Yet another summer-of-fear in the 'hood, where women walk around looking over their shoulders and men peer out of windows and cars attempting to question anyone who looks suspicious. Sometimes I hate being alone in my apartment in the dark. Then the phone rang.

A cab driver, I think, is calling me from my friend's phone. He wants to know where I live so he can drop off the phone. No, I tell him. Just hold on to the phone and we'll pick it up in the morning. He's insistent and starts yelling. I hang up. Then I worry -- what if something has happened to her?

The past week, Boston has been witness to a number of attacks and murders; I'm concerned, and also paranoid. But then, I know this friend. It's very likely she took a cab home from the gym and left her cell phone in the cab, and since she doesn't use her cell phone that often she probably didn't panic like I would over not having the cell phone, so the story is pretty valid. Will wait until the morning -- she'll work out the details then.

Something is crawling around the alley below and the noise is seeping through my bedroom window. Another restless night's sleep in the city...

Travel Within

"A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it."
--George Moore, writer

Sometimes, the best weekends are spent at home enjoying quality time with your surroundings. I enjoyed a weekend in bed -- I finally slept well after weeks of restlessness and anxiety -- and spent a total of six hours at the gym. My head is clear, my body feels good and I feel prepared for Monday morning. Nothing can replace experiencing first-hand new cultures and countries, but sometimes a little soul-time is needed to cleanse and rejuvenate.

Embracing a Little Europe in the U.S.

Still not quite ready to admit I'm back in the states, I opted for a Saturday night out with friends that started just a little later than usual: Cocktails followed by a late-night dinner - dining, ala Europe-style.

We choose one of the city's more eclectic restaurants, Eastern Standard. This French-fusion restaurant features some of the best delicacies in European culture, including foie gras, frog legs, ceviche, and escargot. I ordered a glass of red wine, which was generously poured into a long-stemmed glass, and a large plate of mussels cooked with fennel and tomato.

Before we knew it, 11:30 p.m. rolled around. I stayed for one last bite of my strawberry shortcake dessert before pouring myself into a cab for the ride home.

One thing I'm noticing about American restaurants: most of the food is pre-made and frozen until ordered. Maybe it's that way in Europe, too, but every dish I enjoyed in Italy tasted fresh, new and never frozen.

Travel Depression

Since coming back from Rome I've been extremely busy, which is a good thing, because when I look at my calendar I have no upcoming travel plans. It's travel depression - I feel lost not having a place to pack for or a destination to focus on. Where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do? I'm contemplating a day at the airport just to feed my soul.

So it got me thinking... what can I do around town to not feel like I'm in town? My solution - explore other neighborhoods. Tonight, I'm heading across the river to a bar I haven't been to in about 10 years to hear a band I've never heard of. Why? Heh -- why not? Maybe it will cure my travel depression, at least for the time being. And who knows... maybe I'll find new sound to groove to until my travel starts up again.

Hump Day From Hell

I drank too much last night. The a/c is not working in the office. It's hot, I'm hungover, and the Benadryl I popped this morning to cure an unfortunate bout of hives isn't helping the situation.

I left the office at 5:30 to meet my friend J, eager to hear about his weekend(s) of debauchery which included rooftop hotels in NYC, one Gay Pride parade in Boston, and one rendezvous in the back of a parked ambulance. Clearly, cocktails were needed for these stories.

We found ourselves at an outside bar in Boston called "The Times." The food was blah. The atmosphere was fine, but mostly because we were sitting outside. There was an intense game of darts happening inside, which is fine except that the dart board was located next to the women's room (reserve comments, please). I was forced to do the duck-and-squeeze maneuver every time I needed to go to bathroom. This became increasingly complicated as I continued to drink the cheap red wine they were serving. I miss Rome.

I also miss being young. Ok, 32 isn't old, but it's not 23. I used to have J's stamina. His stories of
bar-bathroom escapades and secret sexual encounters in forbidden places are sinful, and yet, I wish I had the energy to do one-quarter of the living he does.

J and I stayed until 9:30-ish -- I'm guessing our departure time by the time of my last text message (according to my phone, which I checked this morning). I don't remember too much more of the night, but unfortunately, I remember this morning.

I woke up, thanks to a horrible allergic reaction I was having from something that clearly bit me in the middle of the night. That alone pisses me off, but now I have to find the Benadryl and hope this goes away. I crawled into work around 8:00 a.m. and attemped to revive myself with a large iced coffee. I'm still waiting for the caffeine to kick in. To make matters worse, I've indulged in greasy pizza for lunch and it is making me horribly sick.

This is the Hump Day from hell.

Home From Rome. Back to Reality

I already miss the food, the wine, the people and sights and the aura of Rome. Looking forward to returning to Rome (thinking next Spring).

The worst part about coming back from vacation is being slapped back into reality. After dragging my luggage up the four flights of stairs, I walked into my semi-clean apartment and immediately realized, I forget to take out the garbage before I left. Good thing it's trash night in the city. Starving, I went to find something in my refrigerator but alas, having been traveling for the past three weeks there is nothing more than moldy cheese and stale grapefruit juice. I opt for a nap and wake up at 9 p.m. Famished. I drag myself and my trash downstairs and after dumping the foul-odored bag on the street corner, I opted for a salad at a nearby take-out cafe. After three bites, I went home and crawled into bed.

On the agenda for Friday:

• Grocery shopping
• unpacking
• cleaning

Reality bites.

Step Back to Beacon Hill

My cousin and his girlfriend came for a visit from New York this weekend. I'm the oldest by 10 years, in this case. My younger cousin moved to NYC three years ago to embark on his financial career. His girlfriend followed suit a few years later.

This was the first weekend in months I've been at home so the visit worked out well. The weather was beautiful, the company was pleasant and for the first time in years I got to play tour guide to my own city. I forgot how much there is to see in Boston.

We started our journey through Boston Commons and the Boston Public Garden. We boarded the Swan Boats and enjoyed the serene ride around the lake. I never really looked at the weeping willow trees before this day. Afterwards, we walked through Beacon Hill and admired the historical homes, the gas lights and the windowsill flower beds that lined the apartments on Mount Vernon Street. Walking through Beacon Hill is like stepping back in time - a gaze down Chestnut Street, Acorn Street, Willow Street or Louisburg Square evokes images of horse-drawn carriages, parasols and three-piece suits accessorized with time pieces and gold cuff links. Further up Mount Vernon Street, we turned right on Joy Street and headed back toward the public garden, where the twenty-first century was in full swing.

Weekend Plans: Alone Time

Some people fear being alone. I embrace it. I love my family and friends, but sometimes you just need a little alone time. This weekend, for the first time in many weekends, I'm at home.

On the agenda:

Movies, wine, take-out.
Time out for hair color/cut.
The gym.

This week has been true test of patience - personally and professionally - and the rainy, dreary outside doesn't do much to lift the spirits. But, that's what weekends are for - rejuvination and reconcilation. Start Monday fresh. Don't forget to call home on Sunday and wish Mom a happy Mother's Day!

The next few weekends include the following:

Fly to St. Louis

Visits from friends in NYC

Weekend in Nantucket

Leave for Rome

The Joys of Jetlag

Your head is fuzzy.
Your eyes are blurry.
The body moves a few beats slower than your brain.

I wonder if I'm slurring my words?

Some say the amount of days you travelled is the same amount of days it will take your body to recover from the jetlag. With that logic, I should be back to normal on Friday. I'm trying to push myself but I'm so.....damn.....tired.

Things I should be doing:

• Going to the gym
• Doing laundry
• Cleaning the apartment
• Buying Mother's Day cards
• Writing articles for work

Things I want to do:
Sleep

I have my coffee, tea, chocolate -- that's a good combo of caffeine and sugar to give me a boost on a normal day. On jetlag days, that combo doesn't do anything but add calories to my diet.

I have a plan: Go home and nap. Wake up, take a Tylenol PM, go back to bed until morning. Should have body/mind back to normal tomorrow morning. Wish me luck.

Back to the Grind

I miss the coffee in England. I ordered a cafe Americano at Pete's this morning and it simply was not the same. It was watery and warm - not hot and strong. It was a rather depressing way to start my morning.

I walked into the office at 7 a.m. (way too early, but my body is still adapting to US time) and I'm still attempting to wake up (it's 10:30 a.m.) My co-workers welcomed me back to the office with a bouquet of tulips. God bless the USA.

Sunday Morning Syndrome

Few things are better than a lazy Sunday morning. Especially after a long week of travel. It's raining in Boston this morning and I've got Sunday Morning Syndrome - I don't want to get out of my bed. Unfortunately, this will get complicated since there is no one here to brew me coffee.

Last night I enjoyed a wonderful dinner at Taranta, a lovely Italian-Peruvian restaurant in my neighborhood. My friends and I took the European approach to dinner and upon arriving at our table we informed our server that we would be having a nice long, leisurely dinner. No problem, she said, and we sat back and relaxed. After a bottle of wine and table of tuna steaks, espresso-crusted filet's, and antipasto, we called it a night.

I think my body is still adjusting to the time zone changing -- I came home and immediately crawled into bed. Now I'm enjoying the quiet sounds of a Sunday morning.

Checkpoint: Home

I arrived last night at 8:03 p.m. local time (1:03 a.m. London time). I was exhausted. I wanted a shower. Someone had horrible body odor on the plane. I wanted out. Finally, the cabin doors opened and I was set free. Off to customs, which surprising wasn't that long considering it was an evening international flight. We dragged our airplane-smelling bodies through the customs line.

"Ma'am," the customs official called to my friend the Missus. She walked to line 7.

Seconds later I got the universal finger movement that signals, "come here," and I walked passed the Missus to line number 9. She giggled, "HA! He called you young lady!"
"He called you Ma'am," I said back.

After waiting in line 9 I was finally called forward for re-entry into the U.S. Oh, but you only think it would be easy right? After the long week of work, the weary nights, and the cold showers (when the showers worked), you would think re-entry into the U.S. would be a breeze. In fact, it was likely the customs officials would have held up a sign that said, "Welcome home!" when they saw me, and paraded me through customs on their shoulders. There would be balloons and music and everyone would be celebrating my return. But no. I got the one customs official who wanted to play "mess with the tired chic" at the customs line. It's got to be funny, f---ing with people when their minds are on a completely different timezone.

"Where were you?" he asked.
"London." I said. I could see my bed hair reflected in his bald head.
"Business or pleasure." He wanted to know.
"Business," I told him.
"What do you do?"
"I'm a travel writer."
"What did you write this week?"
"Nothing," I replied, and was met with a blank stare. This, I realized, was the wrong answer.
"You're a travel writer in London on business and you didn't write anything?" he asked, his bald head mocking me.
"That's right," I said. "I was stuck in meetings with our corporate office most of the week and didn't get any writing completed."
Blank stare. Blank stare. Blank stare. Passport scan.
"Bring anything back?" He asked.
"Nope." I said.
" Nothing?" He asked.
"Nope." I said.
"No tobacco, no alcohol, no fruit?" He questioned.
"No, no and no." I replied, trying to fight off the urge to jump over the desk and mark all over his bald head.

He stared at me a little while longer, then looked at my passport again. Finally, and I think with a slight hesitation, the bald man at the U.S. re-entry checkpoint said the two words I had been waiting for, "Welcome home."