Giving at Christmas

Howdy from Doha. I'm here for the week kicking off a new project with my client here. I'm jetlagged, cranky, have an upset stomach, and am getting a little emotional. So of course, lets blog!

December is a weird time to be in the Middle East; it's really sunny and warm during the day, the adhan sounds at regular intervals, you subsist on hummus and tabbouleh, and yet there are Christmas trees and wreaths adorning the insides of hotels and other Western-expat type areas and canned Christmas music everywhere you turn. Once the sun sets, it's actually cold and you find yourself wrapped in a sweater just like in London, only sitting in a restaurant eating mezze with a lot of berobed people. It's an odd experience to be receiving festive holiday emails and invites and cheer in my via email while in a sandy desert city – and I can't imagine what it's like to be here, away from family and friends, for an extended or established period of time during the holidays.

So while I'm here experiencing a strange out of body experience, I learned that my company is organising a gift tree in aid of Camila Batmanghelidjh's Charity Kids Company. She selflessly gives up her Christmas celebration every year to host a big meal and party for 7,500 lonely kids who wouldn't otherwise have a holiday. She has also teamed up with John Lewis to create a Wish List of toys for the kids she serves (list number 525473, if you're interested) that members of the public can donate. An email came around with the information, and a suggestion that we try to pool our funds together to buy some of the more expensive toys for the kids.

I clicked on the wishlist out of curiosity, and as I looked through the selection of toys I started welling up. Maybe it's the work stress, maybe it's the tiredness, maybe it's hearing canned versions of Disney theme songs constantly from the beach outside, maybe it's reading too much about the Royal Bump, but I got really emotional looking at all of those toys picked out for kids whose parents just can't give them a proper Christmas. Nothing on that list is over £65, which I think made me even more sad – I work for a fancy branding agency that charges a lot of money to clients for our work, and we employees take home rather good salaries for our industry, and we can't afford, each of us, to give some kids some gifts that will hopefully make them think that each of them are special just for one day? I just felt, in some part of me, a big injustice and a need to do something.

So I've decided: of course I will buy some gifts, myself, to donate for these special kids, but also I am going to ensure that in my budget moving forward I keep aside some money for charity. Despite my self-pitying laments that I am "always broke" and "can't afford xx or yy," in reality I am much better off than so many others. As I go about this holiday season buying gifts for my loved ones, I want to remember that the joy of giving is not just about presents but about making life better for everyone.

Home is where your hairdresser is

A while ago, when I met the Irishman's best friend, he asked me what I missed most about New York. I had just booked a haircut with my New York hairdresser Paul for my visit home a few weeks later, and said that he was definitely at the top of the list. The Irishman's friend turned around and made a sage comment about how it meant I hadn't full transitioned to London if I my heart was still with a New York hairdresser.

Well fast forward nearly a year and I still hadn't found someone to replace Paul; for the last few haircuts I've gone from salon to salon seeking out someone I trusted to take care of my very unruly mane. Until last week: I was at the pub having a few too many glasses of rosé where I met my friend Ben's mate Daniel who cuts hair and is amazing. He immediately diagnosed the issue with my constant frizz and gave me a stern talking to about the state of my locks, and told me to come around and see him to get sorted out.

On Friday night, I went round to his salon and for £30 I've got a new lease on my hair. It was funny - usually I seek out trendy salons with edgy stylists and chic interiors, but Daniel's salon is like a neighborhood family business. At any given time, 4 or 5 people who were related to or close friends with Daniel and his business partner Natalie popped round to say hi. They were drinking pints from the pub across the road and were good citizens to take the glasses back after they were done. Someone came in and asked to use the loo and was welcomed with open arms, just as the myriad kids who came round with their parents. It was such a cosy environment that I overlooked the poor hairwashing (a lot of water ended up on my face, rather than my hair), and having to wait 30 minutes to get in the chair.

So am I ready to completely transition from Paul to Daniel? Maybe - maybe not. A lady can't give up her loyalty to her hairdresser so easily, and Daniel and I have only had one date. We'll see if the magic lasts, and if my hair continues to look fabulous. But lets just say, London is feeling a bit more like home lately.

Empire State of Mind

I know I'm about 3 months late to the party (I'm finding 3 months to be the typical lead time for me to pick up on American pop culture trends), but this Jay-Z song is really amazing. I have been bopping along to it in the office for a while now, trying to explain to the Brits around me why it's JUST SO GOOD, and making myself homesick in the process. Good thing, then, that I'm headed back to the Big Apple on Friday for Thanksgiving.

It's been a long time since I've been to US; last time I was home was last Christmas. As much as I love living abroad, I get really excited to go home and hear American accents, experience New York bluntness, and even get told off by cab drivers. This year has been difficult for me, careerwise, and I'm really looking forward to seeing my old friends, having a lot of chats, catching up on their lives, meeting their new partners, and generally just being around people who know ME and with whom I don't have to try extra hard. I'm going to have a lot of brunch, French food in the West Village, and carousel sushi with my dad in Gramercy, and when I get to New Jersey my mom has a list of the food I want her to cook for me. I'm even paying a visit to Paul at Mudhoney Salon for a new haircut. I'll be asking for bangs – NOT fringe – and I'll be smug about it.

For the eight days I'm on the East Coast, I'm planning on doing nothing but being myself in the place where I'm from. I'm really hoping that when it's time for me to head back to the UK, I'll be renewed, full of my old vim and vigor and Lower East Side vinegar, and that, as Alicia Keys points out, walking down the New York streets will have made me feel brand new, the lights have inspired me. I know they will, and they can't appear over the wing of my Virgin Atlantic plane too soon.

One Year Anniversary

Last Sunday was my one-year anniversary in London. I celebrated it with a lovely home-cooked English breakfast made with ingredients from the Islington Farmer's Market, a shopping trip on Regent's Street (where I picked up a pair of fabulous platform sandals), cocktails in Canonbury and dinner at Sabor on Essex Road.

It's hard to believe it has been a whole year since I arrived in the UK. Simultaneously it feels like yesterday and a million years ago that I packed up all of my worldly possessions and got on a plane and moved here. Sometimes I look back and revisit that moment when I boarded a Virgin Airways flight, and looked out the window as we took off, shut my eyes tight and counted to 10, and I'm surprised that I actually did that. But I did, and I'm so proud of myself; my biggest achievement was not getting on that plane, but everything I accomplished since then.

Sitting here with my cup of tea (natch) and a BBC documentary about the South Pacific islands on TV in the background, I've been rereading Bloody Brill posts from this time last year. I've grown so much as a person since moving to London, in nearly every way. I feel more mature, more poised, more confident, more balanced, and more myself than I have for quite a while. Professionally, I feel like I've learned more in the past year than I have in my entire career. I was just Skyping with an old friend who lives in Brooklyn – I told him that even when I'm unhappy here, I'm happier than I was back in New York.

I've posted a lot about my love of New York City on this blog, and it has not diminished in the slightest. But that love has matured - it is less of an infatuation and more of a fondness and acceptance for the city as it truly is. Leaving New York for another international capital, one with a completely different culture and attitude, gave me an insight into how New York lives and breathes that I never could have understood had I stayed. And leaving also gave me permission to accept that maybe New York isn't the end-all, be-all of urban centers.

Beyond gaining a deeper understanding of New York City, I've also learned more about myself as an American. Living in the UK means having to deal with humor in a completely different way, and I've learned that Americans just can't deal with the searing cruelty of British sarcasm. We're just too earnest - we love what we love and care deeply about everything (mostly ourselves), and anyone who dissects our carefully constructed selves with a rapier sharp wit is not appreciated. I've had to grow a thick skin and gracefully let the jabs fall away. I've noticed that since stopping my protests and annoyance, I've gained a lot more fans. Probably the best compliment I received in the last year was from one of the more sarcastic Brits I've met, who told me I impressed him with my ability to fit into British office culture.

But being earnest isn't bad, and I was reminded of the British reaction to Obama's inauguration earlier this year. What was one of the US's finest moments was quickly derided by Brits, who made callous jokes and mocked our austere pomp and circumstance. It was one moment when I was truly angry at the UK, for allowing their smugness and cynicism to shadow a moment that belonged to so many more people than just Americans. It helped me refocus my perspective of British culture, see the balance between the UK and US, and see another facet of our nations' "special relationship".

I think the most confusing, yet rewarding part of moving to another country is assimilation into the multifaceted behaviors in social rituals. Something as simple as a greeting and complex as buying drinks at the pub are windows into how a population views itself and society; one takes them for granted in one's native culture, but sees them as an outsider in a new land. On the surface, my life in London isn't that much different from my life in New York: I have the same job, work for the same company, live in a neighborhood that has a high proportion of Americans, shop at a farmer's market. But English and American culture differ in subtle but radical ways, so even the shared elements of my US and expat lives are completely different.

Beyond assimilation, my life has changed simply because I have so many opportunities to travel and see the world. I've been to new places like Amsterdam and Spain, and old favorites like Paris. I'll be returning to Italy, where I studied for a summer during college, in September and also exploring Croatia. My proximity to parts of the world I'd never considered visiting has opened my eyes to new and varied experiences that I once thought were beyond my reach.

One of the most poignant aspects of this past year is realizing which of my friends kept in touch and who has drifted away in an out-of-sight, out-of-mind way. I've been pleasantly surprised by those who have made the effort, those who I talk to nearly every day as if I'm just up the road and not across the ocean, and especially those who I've reunited with either virtually or in person. And of course my grandmother makes me proud by regularly reading this blog, Skyping and emailing me. On the other hand, the friends I've made here are some of the best friendships. Even when I'm homesick, I feel comforted and genuinely welcomed into this crazy land by lovely, lovely people.

So I'm embarking on year two... still typing my z's instead of s's and dropping extra u's out of words left and right. It's not been an easy year, but one that I wouldn't exchange for any other experience. My one year anniversary truly was a milestone and an achievement, but I'm definitely looking forward to an even better year two.

PS: Thank you to all the Bloody Brilliant readers. It's really rewarding to know people enjoy the blog. I hope you all keep reading, and if you have any suggestions please do let me know. Cheers!

Return to NYC = Twilight Zone

Last week I had a whirlwind business trip to New York for three days. It was absolutely surreal. After a full day of meetings in Amsterdam on Tuesday, I boarded my first British Airways flight to JFK on Wednesday morning. 8+ hours later, I was in New York and in a car stuck in traffic on Park Avenue as tourists choked the sidewalks getting ready for the lighting of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. How truly bizarre!

The rest of the week was a whirlwind: dinner with Laura, Jon, and Jeff; reunion with former co-workers; lunch at EAST with Mom and Dad; Belmont Lounge with Dave, Fern (!!!), Rietje, Sam, and Allison; meetings; drinks at the Modern; home. Phew.

Being in New York was really nice, actually: I haven't been away long enough for it to be completely alien. Things still have changed, though - what is this $7.00 for 8 rides Metrocard option? What is going on with the calories on menus? At the same time, though, even as I walked familiar avenues and visited old haunts, it's clear that New York isn't my city anymore. It always will be - I'll always have New York - but London is quickly becoming home. By Friday, I wanted to be in MY bed, in MY apartment, in MY neighborhood. And that was disconcerting unto itself.

Plus, visiting my old office in New York made me really notice the difference between that office and London's office of the same company. I belong to both, and feel at home in both, but can only work for one. While washing dishes the other day it occurred to me that this sentiment is the reality of an expat - feeling at home everywhere, but not having one place to call home. As once moves around the world, one assimilates to each place, picks up a bit and leaves a bit behind.

So what is home? I've been thinking lately that home is where you choose to be - whether it be where you are at the moment, or the place you eventually end up. So far, I'm happy where I've landed, but I really don't think this is it... and I'm excited by that prospect of what lies around the next turn.

First wave

Well, I tried to bring back the snark but unfortunately you're stuck with more rants of despair. Today is my first day of real homesickness. I'm sitting here about to burst into tears at how much I wish I were in New York right now.

I'm sequestered in a room the size of my Brooklyn bathroom with 3 suitcases that have lost all semblence of order or tidiness, and I have no energy or interest in resolving the situation. My two brand-new suits are crumpled in a ball somewhere in the midst of all of this, and I'm angry beyond belief at myself for having just spent $500 on new work clothes only to let them get cruddy before I even wear them BUT I JUST DON'T CARE.

It takes me an hour to get anywhere in the city from here. I feel like I'm in the way if I try to cook in my host's kitchen, or watch TV, or take a shower. I don't even have anything to COOK WITH because I don't have staples like olive oil or Balsamic vinegar! Everything goes bad here in 2 days because they don't use preservatives! AND I HAVE NO MONEY TO FOOD SHOP because I don't get paid until 28 May!

The only places I feel remotely comfortable in this city are my office and my friend's temporary flat. Obviously, I'm not spending any more time at work than I need to because I sense a very quick upswing in work coming right around the corner. And despite my own personal ease and comfort at my friend's place, my poor friend's host is I'm sure ready to have the consulate revoke my right-to-stay because he sees my face every 3 days. I'm like a squatter on their couch every weekend!

I don't have any of my music, because it's all on a portable harddrive in a box next to my desk at work. I don't have any place to put any of the flyers or postcards or other artifacts I collect when I walk around. I'm running out of toothpaste, but I can't find the tube that I brought from home. It's somewhere in this hovel. I also can't find my sports bra, and that is starting to become a problem. I haven't practiced yoga in 3 weeks, and even if I wanted to practice it on my own, outside of a studio, where would I do it? In my hosts' living room?!

It is 4PM in the afternoon and all I've accomplished today is to get waxed and take a shower and write this. It's miserable outside. I'm wearing a wool sweater!

What I want right now is to get on the subway (NOT the goddamned tube) and exit at 49th-50th Street/Rockefeller Center and go into the MoMA where I get in for free and find one of my favorite paintings like a Morris Louis or a Joseph Cornell box and just sit there for a while and think. Then I want to go over to Sloane's, or Rietje's, and hang out and chat. I want to get dinner at the pasta place on Prince Street or get Indian food on 5th Street. Then I want to go back to Brooklyn and drink PBR at Alibi and play Big Buckhunter and stumble 2 blocks to my big bed with A FUCKING BOXSPRING MATTRESS (seriously, can't anyone in this country do anything for my back?!) in my tiny garret room with the Danielle-sized sloped ceiling.

And I want to go to the Greenmarket, and I want to get milk from a farmer, and I want to compost. And I want to go to Central Park and I want to go to the design stores in SoHo and I want to go to Cobble Hill and get coffee beans from D'Amicos where the little old Italian ladies yell at their sons to get married already. And I want to see the Sex in the City movie with my friends, and I want to talk about how American men are all douchebags, and I want to dissect their behavior with my ladies and try to understand why they act the way they do, but still hope that tonight might be the night I find the one.

I want to complain that my parents are showing up at the interminable gap between lunch and dinner so that we can't find someplace to eat. I want to spend a lazy Sunday on my bike riding around Brooklyn ON THE RIGHT HAND SIDE OF THE ROAD. I want to sit by the river and smell the pungent brine as the river water mixes with the sea.

Yes, I know that there are all kinds of things I could be doing with myself right now besides whining and complaining. And yes, I know that I just posted that I should be grateful for this opportunity. But until June 18, I reserve the right to be really fucking PISSED OFF that I'm stuck in seemingly interminable limbo. I am 27 years old, for god's sake... I should be living like an adult, not some trustfund hosteller. This is the part of fate where I really want to grab control of my destiny and wrangle it into place. If this is some kind of sick joke on karma's behalf, thankyouverymuch but I'm over it.

Sigh. I miss you all. Hugs.

A post for Poppi

Only one post today kids, because it doesn't seem right to be blogging all day today.

Today is the one-year anniversary of my grandfather's death. It is also the first day of truly "London" weather - rainy, overcast, dreary. Someone in New York told me that when it rains in London it's like the sky is sitting inches from your head, pressing down on you; to me, it's sort of like a net keeping all of my thoughts down close to me rather than letting them float off into the world. I feel more introspective, more vulnerable, weaker, today.

I spent my lunch hour at church. The closest Catholic church I could find to work is an Italian church, Chiesa di San Pietro. Mass was said in Italian, and I found comfort in the fact that, even though I didn't understand most of what was said, I knew exactly what was going on. To me, being raised Catholic means constantly questioning the religion's doctrines, trying to understand their place and importance beyond antiquated cultural ritual. But every time I step into a church, those same rituals quickly lull me into a peaceful calm. Even though I don't go that often, Poppi once to ld me to "Try it someday, you might like it" and in some ways, he was right.

I can't believe that it has been a year; some things are exactly the same, others are wildly different. Usually I think of Poppi most when I least expect it; some little saying or sight or even smell will trigger a memory and I smile. The shore is very special for me; Poppi loved the water and being near it always reminds me of him.

Being in London is hard today, for various reasons. I keep coming back to the hope that he is proud of me for doing this, and understands why I'm here. I also hope he knows how much I value what he sacrificed to enable me to be here.

In the spirit of Poppi, I want you all to try to do this this coming summer. If you do, let me know and I'll link it to the blog. Until then, hug your grandparents if you have them and respect where you came from.

Sigh.

Robert Rauschenberg, dead at 82.

More on this later… I'm feeling a bit melancholy right now.

Happy Birthday, Phil! (a post for my dad)

Today is my dad's birthday. Because I'm 5 hours ahead, I couldn't call him at 7AM to catch him on his commute. But I talked to him last night, and I will call him later.

Phil and I are tight, and I miss meeting him for conveyor-belt-sushi at East on 25th and 3rd. And calling him while walking down the street in New York to tell him about a ridiculous sight I've just witnessed. And hearing his commentary on New York's real estate and construction industry. And debate the merits of congestion pricing vs development.

I owe him, as well, for all of the hard labor I put him through over the last ten years, including, but not limited to: no less than 5 strenuous moves, several emotional breakdowns, and repeated pestering for him to invest in a brownstone in Brooklyn.

So here's to my dad, the coolest Dad around. I'm posting this image in his honor: it is my luggage trolley at Heathrow right before I loaded it all in a taxi. Total weight of baggage: 125 lbs, give or take 10. Yes, that is a bike on top. Dad: The trolley had better suspension than the one in Newark, but just as poor steering.

I hope you have a good day, Dad, and that you get to take some time for you. xoxoxox.

Jesus Christ this is hard.

I'm sitting here, on a warm and wonderful Saturday, reviewing pieces of paper and ephemera from the past ten years of my life, and feeling my courage crumble. Today was a Danielle-style. picture-perfect day: I woke up, took my compost to the Greenmarket (no comments, pls), got La Colombe coffee from Bittersweet, saw Jeff outside on my way home, talked to Jim for 45 min on the phone after I read the New York Times, putzed, hung out with Dave and Bettina, ran into Jason and Kayvalyn. It was all random, and spur of the moment, and special; the flowering trees smelled pretty, the sun peaked out from behind stormclouds, and the weather was oh-so-warm.

But then I came home and turned my attention fully to packing, and I hit a wall. I've found letters from lovers, cards from family, collected notions from places I've visited, postcards from friends' travels. Pictures, pins, articles... you name it, I've kept it and carried it around since leaving home at 18. Now that I'm leaving the US permanently, the thought of keeping it all seems ridiculous, but throwing everything in the trash is cruel and gutwrenching. How can I send the letters Jim typed to me on his typewriter while listening to Yo La Tengo in 2005 to a landfill? Or the condolence cards people sent me when my grandfather passed away? Or the postcards my brother, a notorious for never writing or calling, sent me from his summer in Barcelona?

The thought of disposing of my past terrifies me, more so than the thought of me leaving New York or the US. Humans have a great tendency to keep moving forward, leaving wreckage in our wake; rarely do we turn around and assess the damage before going on with more care and caution. Sometimes I think I am the opposite, that I live too much in the past and regard the future with hesitancy and skepticism. Whichever extreme may be the case, neither is healthy - balance is necessary in terms of understanding where one has come from and where one is going. But that doesn't relieve the pain of personally putting remnants of one's college years in trash bags and hauling them to the curb.

As I'm writing this, the stormclouds have gathered again and my lovely spring weather is, I fear, over for today. I know it will be nice again tomorrow, but it's funny how the weather has followed my mood today. Already a chill has picked up, and its not making my heart feel any better.

What the F (train) am I thinking!!?!?!

I think it's only fitting that my first post is about how much I love New York. Ever since my leave date was finalized, I've been revisiting my favorite places in New York in order to memorize exactly how they look, feel, sound, smell (ew, F train), and taste (yum, Choice Bakery). And of course, I'm feeling like I'm making the worst decision of my life. How can I leave this city? My hairdresser is here, my heritage is here, my best friends are all here... BAGELS are here. C'mon – my subway ride to work every morning includes picture-perfect views of the Statue of Liberty, South Street Seaport, and the Brooklyn Bridge.

Everyone keeps telling me that moving to London is the biggest and best adventure I'll ever have, and, well, yes that's true, but New York is my home. I know this city like the back of my hand, and everything about it comforts me. I feel like the minute I board the plane in Newark the flight attendant is going to take my security blanket away and I will WAIL. I've lived in New York since 2003, with a 2 year leave of absence to try out Philadelphia; while I was there, I'd visit New York monthly via Greyhound; as the bus approached the Lincoln Tunnel and the New York skyline appeared over the trees, I'd unconsciously whisper "Hello friend!" in greeting. New York City is like the best friend you love to hate but can't live without – one minute sharing special secrets with you, the next minute not returning your calls and being infuriatingly stupid and petty. Frank was right when he sang in "New York New York" that if you can make it here you can make it anywhere, because learning to live well in New York means learning to stand on your own two feet, trusting yourself completely, taking everything you can get, and then passing it on.

When I took my detour down I-95 to live in Philly, I really thought I was leaving home and going out on my own. That was not moving away from home – it was simply me not having spent enough time in New York to understand that I was still a child who needed just a little more time to grow up. I'm so glad I realized it, and came back to finish the job in the place I love the most. I hope I know myself well enough by now to trust my instincts with this move. So here it goes – I'm holding my nose and jumping in – no toe test.