Sorry folks

I can’t do it anymore. I’m resigning. Things are shutting down.

Odd as it sounds, I write too much to blog. I just have too much work to do to be excited about this; I like to believe what I’m writing is interesting. This is not interesting.

So hang tight. I’ll be in France again this summer… and that’s when this writer will renew her blogging commitments.

À tout…

This is what happened:

Have you ever read The Alchemist? I’ve read it so many times I could recite whole chapters from memory. It appeals to my wanderlust, my quest for happiness over anything material, my boundless imagination. It’s become my philosophy for life, and whenever I get lost — or overwhelmed — and stop ‘listening to my heart,’ Life has a funny way of reminding me that Paulo Coelho had it right.

It’s been a roller coaster of a week. Everything inside of me ached for adventure. EVERYTHING. I looked in the mirror and hated what I saw — What happened to the reckless chic who followed her heart in the face of reason? Where’d the girl go who leapt before she looked only to end up on the greener side? When did my dedication to my work eclipse my passion for life?

So I reverted.

I sent my CVs to the crew agencies, I paid a ridiculous fee for the course, and I began my path towards junior stewardess of a luxury yacht. I listened to my heart, and the world shifted to make my dream happen.

Only the world had other plans. I wanted adventure more than anything; it didn’t have to be on board. So while I grew more and more excited, the day came for me to tell the three bosses, and life took yet another turn.

One boss, upon hearing the news, literally almost fell off of her chair.

One fought back.

“You’re too old to work on a boat!”

“No,” I responded coolly, “I’m only 22.” Sometimes it’s convenient to play the age card.

“What do you think this will do to your resume?” she demanded.

I had my answer prepared. “It’ll make me look more interesting; it will add international experience and show I’m not afraid to try to new things.”

“No it won’t! It’ll make you look like a pain in the ass!”

‘At least then,’ I thought, ‘it’d paint an accurate picture of me.’

The third locked me in a room with the other two. That’s when I realized they weren’t going to give me up without a fight.

My heart reacted accordingly. I looked at their faces and grew tense. I realized the work I’d been doing this week was fun. The media was receptive to my clients. And my colleagues and I were having a blast playing just as hard together as we worked. I sat on the couch looking at these incredible women and lost my breath.

“Relax,” one said, the roots of her hair unusually gray. It was rare that I saw her and thought she needed better grooming, but I found that it was the only thought I had as their words surrounded me. They threw gifts and promises, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. There’s no way they’d give me what I needed. Plus, I wanted to see the world.

“The world will always be there,” one said. I hated that answer. I want to see it now.

But I promised to think about it. I received e-mails throughout the night from the leadership saying awfully sweet things like, “I couldn’t sleep without telling you how much we value you,” and “You are a unique person with great gifts — leadership, energy, creativity, among others” and “My door is open to you any time. I am very fond of you.” They were signed with things like, “Sleep tight” and “Sweet dreams.” I had nightmares about boats and offices.

The next day I consulted my sources, and they all said I’d be a fool not to take them up on their propositions. That’s when the president called me down to her office for Round Two.

I was fed up. At this point I thought I’d probably take their offer, but I had demands—closing bonus, more staff beneath me, a BlackBerry that worked—and I wanted to make sure they knew I was serious—This wasn’t just a crisis I was going through because my mentor was leaving the firm. I'd listen to them once again in this meeting, then give them an answer on Monday. "I need the weekend to think about it," I'd insist. Yet in Meeting II, nothing went as I had planned.

I thought it would be just me and the president, but as I marched down the West Wing, I saw her co-owner seated in the office as well, clinching papers to her chest. I thought nothing of the fact that the president's husband, our CFO, was lingering in the doorway. He smiled warmly at me as I walked in, then quietly dismissed himself and shut the door behind him. I was suddenly trapped in the office, slightly annoyed and preparing for more empty promises and desperate words.

The co-owner launched the conversation, “We’re not ready to let you set sail just yet.”

I found myself quickly flustered and overwhelmed, so I dug up the one line I had planned to say on Monday, when I approached them to talk about the deal on my own terms. I had been practicing it in my head all morning: “Tell me how this would work.”

Of course, having thought I’d have the weekend to plan follow up lines, I was suddenly speechless.

“We want you to know just how serious we are, so here’s a check for you,” the president said from behind her giant desk. “It’s here, handwritten — against the CFO’s advice — because he’s going out of town but I insisted we have it for you now.” She laughed nervously.

My mind screamed. ‘What do you mean, a check? Here? Now?’

I didn’t have to wait long for an answer. The co-owner reached over from beside me and said, “Here’s a check for $XX. After taxes.”

The paper touched my fingertips and my mind went blank. They were talking about the other financial considerations — what I’d make in future pay checks, what they were putting into my 401k, how much my vacation days were worth. I don’t remember any of it or if I even spoke.

In my hands I saw school in Paris. I saw my dream become real. I saw an adventure that didn’t involve cleaning toilets.

Somehow their voices echoed in my ears. “You have to know you’re really special to us.” “We’ve given you incredible freedom and license to do whatever you want, and we’re happy with what you’ve done.” “We can appreciate the financial implications of graduate school and want to make it comfortable for you to stay.” “You don’t have to give us an answer right now, but…”

Suddenly I was aware of four eyes burning into my soul, and I forced my mind away from the paper quickly weakening from the sweat of my hands.

“Ok,” I said. “I’m yours.”


Funny how if you take the leap and truly follow your heart, the world falls into place before your feet. I blindly jumped after an adventure. And while the shifts took me in a different direction than anticipated, I can’t remember the last time I felt so happy and relieved. Nothing’s perfect. You don’t want to think you’re the type of person that can be bought. But I feel good about myself and this decision. I feel optimistic about the future. And I’m incredibly grateful for what these women have done for me in the past, and what they’re enabling me to do next.


Needless to say, there will not be a boat in my future. But my last day of work is June 20th, and I'll strart pursuing an MPA in September. In Paris.

The interviews

Things were getting serious. I couldn’t believe it was really happening... but I was overwhelmed with excitement because it was. I signed up for the STCW course and planned on booking my tickets to the Mediterranean, although I resigned myself to wait until I heard more about possibilities.

I had my first interviews. I was honest; they were receptive. While there are a number of options, one drew me in deeper than the rest.

Years ago I had the unique opportunity to participate in the greatest race of the greatest season: Les Voiles de Saint Tropez. The experience was intoxicating. Since that day, white sails and the comradery of boat racing flood my dreams. Today, I heard about a 170 foot sailboat looking for a stewardess. My mind went numb early on as the agent said, “Well, they'd teach you how to sail too because the boat races all around the world.”

She explained that the itinerary includes the Bahamas and other Caribbean destinations; In May we’d head to Ireland, then Sardinia and later Saint Tropez. The boat spends the rest of the season in racing in various Mediterranean ports.

I was so exhilarated... more so by the thought of change, I think, than anything else. I knew it would be hard work. I know it would be high pressure. But I knew it was also an adventure, and that itch inside me had been silenced too long.

When it doubt, seek 8-Ball wisdom

I sat staring at the computer screen, my finger resting lightly on the mouse. The price was hefty. The risk, heftier. One click and I'd be committed to this adventure.

Panic struck.

Really? Do I invest in this crazy course — the STCW95 — a costly certificate I'll probably never use again? Do I drop everything, face five months without my beloved dog, enter the unknown? Do I do it? Do I take the leap?! I was desperate for counsel.

So I asked the Magic Eight Ball.

After a brief "Hmmmmmmm...", it said:

"It is decidedly so."

So I filled out the form. I typed in my credit card numbers. I was ready… but needed one last assurance.

I asked the Magic Eight Ball again. This time it read:

"It is certain."

Wait wait wait — What if it always answers in the affirmative? I needed proof! I asked it: "Should I stay here, continuing doing what I'm doing?" It said:

"My sources say no."

And I booked the class.

Here we go…

Some people suffer from an inexplicable condition. It's a fear of year-long leases and a bizarre love of airplanes. It's an inability to comprehend "roots" and the tie between People and Place. It's a constant and overwhelming desire to touch every inch of the Earth; experience every culture; breathe, smell, taste, and hear everywhere else. It's wanderlust. And I have it.

The yearning is stronger than ever, and I finally realized I may have a solution. The idea came through my Australian friend who has worked as a deckhand on luxury yachts for five years now. He was caught in the whirlwind of maritime life when I met him in 2005, when I was on my most favorite adventure. He stuck with the same crew, the same boat, the same family until it became unbearable. That's when he visited me last.

He teased me with the idea of travel and riches, hard work and wild nights. So when he e-mailed me the list of job sites, I heard my heart scream.

I looked around my office. It was practically home — covered in maps of Paris, pictures of the south of France, glittered toy planes and vintage posters. Outside, my colleagues — who overtime have become friends or fellow soldiers in our shared quest to grow a competitive business — plowed through their increasing amount of work. I had just hung up the phone from another crotchety underpaid and overworked reporter who decided to vent her frustration on me. And, for the first time in two years, I listened to the nag within me.

Suddenly my CV was in the hands of hundreds of captains.

Tonight's Purchases

While the ladies steamed out the wrinkles of my new sexy low-cut shirt, I walked across the street to Store 24 to finish my errands. The conservative Indian man ringing me up frowned intently on my purchases, which included:

• One pack plastic pink razors
• One disposable PowerFlash! Kodak camera
• One pair black fishnet stockings

God knows what he thought I’d be doing tonight.


I winked on my way out.

Crabby Kitty

I think it’s time for a career change.

I’m going to be archeologist. Or an anthropologist.


I want to be outside. I want to be elsewhere. I want to do something different.

I’m sick of getting yelled at by angry reporters or confused clients. I’m tired of trying to please so many people when there are only so many miracles a single person can create in one day.

In sum: Today, I'm crabby.

End-of-Week Exhale

I learned something about myself tonight: I need a glass of wine after work on Fridays. If I don’t get that one, crisp, cool, calming drink, I get angry.

Tonight, instead of having my One with conversation, my opportunity to exhale and shake off the tensions of the week, I ended up at McFaddens: the most claustrophobic and overcrowded and loud and obnoxious meat market full of “young people” drinking simply to get wasted.
There is no worst place for a breather.

Kitty's Claws

Leslie laughed. “You have too many nicknames for someone your age.”

“I don’t know,” I responded, sipping the wine. “Everyone just wants to call me something different.”

People say I like to make things difficult; I say I just like to keep it interesting. Even with the name game — When people realize “Catherine” is too long to say every time they need me, and “Cathy” is not an option as I hate that nickname, they’re forced to be a little creative. I’ve been everything from “Cee” to “Lola”, “Miss T” to “Scratch”, and I can only imagine what names people have yet to dream up.



In most social circles, “Cat” is the call-name of choice. Then, for better or worse, “Cat” usually evolves to “Kitty”. Leslie, who has unusual clarity on all things, explained why:

“It’s the absurdity of calling her Kitty that makes it fun, because in so many ways she’s not a Kitty. But at the same time, she has many Kitty-like qualities.”

I don’t know what qualities “Kitties” typically have, but I do know that when j'en ai ras le bol — whatever “it” may be — I channel the beast within.

And today, the claws are out.

So the stars say:

I'm not usually one for astrology. But last week, as all the other ladies at work were buying into what Yahoo! claims 2008 will bring for them, I figured I might as well try it out.

Suddenly I'm all about the stars.

Because if the stars can truly reveal the future, this is going to be a fantastic year for me:

• Much of your energy this year will be focused on figuring out ways to improve your financial situation. (Well, duh! Saving for *whatever's next* is all I can think about... but get this:) Money will definitely be coming your way... (Hotness!)

• You have an intense desire to be of service to others and have a keen sense of knowing where in the world you can be most effective to make a positive difference for change in the world. (I already have a hunch where that "where" might be...)

• The summer will give you more time to enjoy life and pamper yourself. Time for a long deserved wonderful vacation! (Woohoo!!!) It will be good to get away (Tell me about it.) and spend some time to start thinking of yourself more and allowing time to recreate your personal values. This will give you a new sense of personal freedom. (Freedom is, afterall, what I value most...)

• New ideas will flow (I feel like all I'm doing is waiting for a big idea) to create a nurturing atmosphere for your innovative lifestyle. You will definitely be setting some time aside to make some changes (about time!), even the possibility of a complete move to better suit your dreams and aspirations. (hmmmmm....)

• Your creative interest is perked when you share your stimulating ideas with a responsive mate. (FINALLY!)

What a coffee that would be...

It's no secret I'd like to know more about my great-grandmother. And it's no secret I miss France.

In my quest to know more about the country I love so dearly, I bury myself in books about it -- especially about France's greatest moments... or at least the period when some of the most influential thinkers of the 20th century passed their afternoons in hazy Parisian cafés. I read about Sartre, I read about WWII, I read about Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. The latest book was Saint-Exupéry: A Biography by Stacy Schiff.

Consuming the words that ran across its pages, I lost my breath when halfway through I read a name I knew too well. "That evening he [Saint-Exupéry] set out for a drive with Yvonne Michel, a Parisian friend." The paragraphs that follow reveal jaunts to the movies and a friendship tested by difficult times. Flipping to the notes section, I realized author Stacy Schiff had interviewed Yvonne -- or Mouny, as we called her -- on Jan. 4, 1991.

Naturally, I called Stacy up. (Shocking what a little research can get you!)

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this Stacy Schiff?"

"It is."

"The writer?"

She laughed. "Yep, that's me."

Oops. This is where I was supposed to have something better to say. How about: "Ok. My name is Kitty and I'm on a quest to learn more about my great-grandmother. And I think, for better or worse, you spoke to her more times than I did."

I explained the whole situation -- the mark Mouny left on me, the stories I've heard, the journey I'm on. Then I invited her for coffee while I'm in New York next week.

"I'll have to find the notes; they're probably more valuable to you at this point than whatever's left in my brain. And, if you want, I can dig up the tapes. I recorded my interviews, so as long as you can pardon my voice, you can hear hers."

Um, yes please?!

"The trouble is, they're in Canada, so I won't have access until spring or summer."

"I'm in no rush." This is the slowest paced investigation in the world. Maybe by the time I die I'll know exactly who she is.

Then, Stacy asked, "Are you trying to write a book?"

It's a question I've toyed with over and over. "I have no idea." I swallowed hard, wanting to explain but lacking the words. "If she's as interesting as I remember her to be, maybe. Maybe something just for the family -- for future generations. Maybe nothing at all." And then I begged her to meet me for coffee so I could learn how to interview. I did, after all, attempt to speak with Dolores Vanetti, only to find myself completely useless as a journalist (and seriously lacking French).

"I will give you a call."

Huh. Wouldn't that be cool?

Thank God for J. Crew

Today it is a stifling -7°, according to Boston.com.

-7°.

That means in the 10 minute walk from T to office, I have to make two pit-stops to stop the pain. And I even have flannel-lined pants on.


Someone take me somewhere warm!

Everybody <3s the Blues

I love this line from Buddy Guy:

“Everybody gets the blues. There’s no black or white, there’s blues.”

Watch the whole thing here:



For other music-related videos & such, visit Pandora Presents, Pandora’s blog.

Goodbye 2007

& good riddance!

I can’t explain how happy I am to see the year come to a close. It feels like it was a waste—like it was everything 22 shouldn’t be. I felt like I stalled all year, like I forgot how to listen to myself.

2008 will be different. It’s a fresh start, and one I plan on taking advantage of. This year I have but one resolution: Take better care of me.

This means five things:

1. I will eat better.
2. I will exercise more.
3. I will work less.
4. I will play more.
5. I will listen to my gut.

It won’t be easy, but I’m feeling hopeful:

1. I’m counting how many fruits and vegetables I eat every day, and I bought a new bottle of vitamins (that currently sits next to last year’s barely used bottle on my desk).


2. I’ve researched several dance classes in the area (Wouldn’t that be fun?!) and confirmed that I am still a member of some crappy gym in Downtown Crossing.


3. I told my boss last week, “Don’t plan on seeing me in the office after 6:30pm.” I have things to do that are not work related, and I plan on doing them… with ample time to catch the train home.


4. D.C. in January. Photography class in February. Vieques in March. I’m in pursuit of the things I like doing.


5. It used to be the thing I was best at; somehow other people’s voices have gotten in the way. So don’t be offended, but I’m not listening anymore. Stop telling me what’s right, wrong, smart and stupid. I’ll trust myself from now on.

Ligers

FYI: Ligers are real animals, not just a sketch in Napoleon Dynamite of a creature bred for its skills with magic. They are, in fact, a cross between a lion and a tiger... not to be confused with a tigon, which is a cross between a tiger and a lioness.

But they are not yet a species, as they cannot reproduce. This—from what my scientist friends tell me—happens through speciation, the evolutionary process by which new biological species arise.

If you are reading this post and it makes sense to you, you need to drink more.

Coming to a Close

The year is coming to a close, and I’m feeling like a failure.

I promised to write and write often. I haven’t. (Obviously.) This is mostly because life has been so crazy and so stressful that I’d sound more miserable than I actually am. (I am forever the optimist.)


I had several other goals for 2007. Let’s review the 2006 resolutions:

• Keep a regular blog. (Again.)
• Get something in the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today OR the Washington Post.
• Volunteer. And do something good for humanity.
• Write the first draft of my first book.
• Take a photography class.
• Learn French. Seriously.
• Visit some place totally new (in addition to France).
• Meet a boy... that I will actually date.
• Go to the gym (at least more than I currently do — which is once every six months… or so).
• Cut my credit card debt in half.

I reviewed my status in June:

Those that I had failed:

• Take a photography class.
• Learn French. Seriously.
• Cut my credit card debt in half.
• Visit some place totally new (in addition to France).
• Write the first draft of my first book.
• Volunteer. And do something good for humanity.
• Go to the gym (at least more than I currently do — which is once every six months… or so).

Those that still had potential:

• Get something in the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, USA Today, and/or The Washington Post.
• Meet a boy... that I will actually date.
• Keep a regular blog. Again.

None had been fulfilled.

So where do I stand today?

• Keep a regular blog. (Again.) — I wrote more this year than in 2006. I just can’t promise that it was all interesting or any good.
• Get something in the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today OR the Washington Post. — Pitching all four at the moment. Outlook not so good.
• Volunteer. And do something good for humanity. — After several evening with the BPLF, and a few meetings with a refugee from Somalia, I can say I did something. But my best volunteer work came through Strong Women, Strong Girls, and 2008 will mean more of that.
• Write the first draft of my first book. — You need time to read books, forget write them.
• Take a photography class. — Failed.
• Learn French. Seriously. — Regressed.
• Visit some place totally new (in addition to France). — Didn’t even make it France.
• Meet a boy... that I will actually date. — Met many, dated several, liked none.
• Go to the gym (at least more than I currently do — which is once every six months… or so). — Had my ups & downs.
• Cut my credit card debt in half. — Back down to where it was in Dec. 2006.

Will I accomplish any of these things in the next four days? Probably not. So I suppose these resolutions will carry through to next year, too.

You know you're crazy...

...if you travel to Maine in the middle of winter.

I finally caved into my Australian friend’s wishes to visit mid-coast Maine’s boat building facilities. I tried to warn him how cold, miserable, and isolated it would be. I had no idea it could also be beautiful…

See — I guess this ain’t so bad!

Urban Ice

It's moments like these when I love Boston... even if it's winter.

There's just something special about ice skating in the middle of downtown!

After Date 4

It’s just not fair anymore.

He likes me so much, and there’s just nothing there. There should be butterflies, right?

He said, “I missed you! It feels like it’s been so long since I’ve last seen you. I think about you all the time.” Words girls would kill to hear. And I quivered. I hadn’t thought of him much at all… In fact, in the month we’ve been “dating” (Do five kisses qualify as dating?), he’s been on the far back burner. If there was something there, wouldn’t I make it matter more?

We planned Date 6. So I called to cancel and said, “My life is too crazy, and it’s not fair to you. You’re a great guy; this just isn’t the right time. Have a great vacation, and—if you’d like—call me when you get back.” He won’t call.

It makes me think of Hitch:

Basic Principles: No woman wakes up saying "God, I hope I don't get swept off my feet today!" Now, she might say "This is a really bad time for me," or something like "I just need some space," or my personal favorite "I'm really into my career right now." You believe that? Neither does she. You know why? 'Cause she's lying to you, that's why. You understand me? Lying! It's not a bad time for her. She doesn't need any space. And she may be into her career, but what she's really saying is "Uh, get away from me now," or possibly "Try harder, stupid," but which one is it? 60% of all human communication is nonverbal, body language; 30% is your tone, so that means 90% of what you're saying ain't coming out of your mouth. Of course she's going to lie to you! She's a nice person! She doesn't want to hurt your feelings! What else she going to say? She doesn't even know you... yet. Luckily, the fact is that just like the rest of us, even a beautiful woman doesn't know what she wants until she sees it.

He’s most right with the last line. While I may not know what I want, I do know what I don’t want. That’s what leads to the “This is a really bad time for me,” the “I just need some space,” and the “I'm really into my career right now.”

Except I mean those things, and I’m ok with it.

Date 3

This time he said:

“I get the feeling that you might wake up one day and move to France and I’d never see you again.”

I gave him my mischievous smile.

If only he knew...

Icky.

I am so sick. SO SICK. Somebody send me chicken soup?

GGGRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sometimes I have these panic attacks.

At first, they fill me with anger. I get so frustrated — so upset — I can hardly think straight; I just want to scream into a pillow, take up boxing, or poignantly argue with the influencers in my life so clearly they’ll loose their words and I can walk away proud that I have disarmed them, that they’re unable to argue back. These are the moments I want to take on the whole f---in' world.

So the anger turns into inspiration. I feel remarkably qualified but totally unfocused. I can do anything if only someone somewhere would point me in the right direction. For the love of God, isn't there someone, anyone, out there hearing me holler into the storm? I feel like I should pick up a job at one of the most prestigious consulting firms just because I can — because in my mind I'm totally qualified — and just for the skills I would gain. Suddenly, I’m frantically seeking that job: Is it at McKinsey? That lobbying firm in DC? Where? When? How? Then I realize all these openings require a master's degree or an Ivy League education and tons of contacts. While I pretend to have the latter two prerequisites, I find myself exactly where I started: poor and in pursuit of grad school, relying on patience I simply don't have.

Sigh.

I think I get angry because people are always judging me — for better or worse. They think they know exactly what I am, so have these incredible expectations. But they’re so often wrong. They see me as the capable employee who loves working 60 hour weeks. I'm reliable—infallible—professionally. I'm the reckless free spirit who makes dramatic and life-changing decisions on a whim that end up turning out well only because of remarkable luck and good fortune. I'm the naïve little girl who believes people are inherently good and not manipulative or misleading. I'm the one who will save the world, or at least leave a mark. I'm too independent and self-assured to want to be dependent on a man or to have a family. I'm the friend who falls through time and time again because I'm so easily distracted. While I’d love to be many of these things, I don’t think I’m any of them.

I am a young professional who's eager to learn but being broken. I'm quite thoughtful and do a whole lot of work, but I’m tired, and I do subscribe to the whole “No one said on their deathbed that they wished they spent more time in the office.” Believe it or not, I do think before I make a move; I'm a calculated risk taker. I know what people are really after. I'm really quite ordinary. I believe in hopelessly romantic love; I want a partner in crime and babies of my own. I have too much on my plate, but behind my thick skin is a loyalty unlike any other: friends and loved ones are all that matter; it’s the relationships one has that make life interesting. I may not let a lot of people in, but once you’re in, you're in.

I am screaming right now. It's just all this pent up frustration makes me want to vent in the way that flows most naturally for me — writing. My head hurts I'm gritting my teeth so hard. Don't you hear me?! Probably not; you're reading this and rolling your eyes at the little whiney girl you see me as. Suddenly I understand how the psychoanalysts preach that everyone feels misunderstood. I have The Animals on repeat in my brain.

My grandfather this weekend defined happiness as "bien dans la peau" — confident and content in your own skin. I am that. I know who I am and I'm happy with it... If only it were that simple. From time to time even the happiest people break under the perceptions and expectations imposed upon them by the valued influencers in their life. Sometimes those expectations are the pushes — the confidence boosters — needed to do something extraordinary. Sometimes they’re the straw that breaks the camel’s back. One of these days I will fall in one of those directions. I will take on the world, or I will break.

Until that day comes, I’ll just scream into the pillow.

Date 2

Tonight we talked about Bostonians, a conversation I have more and more. This is the theory: (At the risk of sounding stereotypical, just know I’m assuming there are many, many exceptions.)

People from all over think we’re hard, cold, judgmental. And we are. But we’re also loving, passionate, and loyal… if you just give it time.

You can move to LA or the Midwest and find people who immediately befriend you. They’ll be nice to your face, and you’ll laugh and have lots of fun. However, it will be shallower, limited.

Here in Boston, we believe in something deeper, tougher. It may take time to break in, to find your friends and insert yourself into a social circle, but once you do, you’re in it for life. We offer friendships that are real. We’re sincere. We love people. We just need time.

Who, me?

Tonight I had a date with a boy that I might even like. Halfway through, he said:

“You have such a mischievous smile.”

Hah. You don’t know the half of it.

What do you know?!

I hate that CSNY song: “Love the One Your With”.

If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one your with.

That’s crap. Or at least it certainly ain’t love.

My Schoolgirl Crush

It’s been a long time since the mere sight of a man gave me butterflies. But he does. In fact, the thought of him alone is enough to make me sigh dreamily. Writing this makes me giddy.

I have a crush.

I eyed him long ago. Handsome. Mysterious. Important. I figured he was arrogant or – given the lack of wedding ring – gay, because in my mind a man like that couldn’t possibly be single. I made a weak attempt to engage him and when it was unsuccessful, I deemed him unapproachable. I gave up. At the time, I had no idea what I was missing. For better or worse, now I do.

To be honest, I think he hooked me long before I ever set eyes on him. I knew where he came from and took the bait. With an international background and a wanderer on the path I’d love to take, I knew he’d be interesting. I just never thought he’d be so much fun. And that laugh! He has a great laugh.

Was it his intelligence and ambition that sealed the deal? His good looks and charm? Was it his smile, his ability to have fun? Or was it the respect he demanded in every circumstance, his ability to shine in the limelight, his grace in crisis situations?

Truthfully, it was all of this and more. He is the well-mannered bachelor who sails. He’s the guy who swims at midnight, dances when no one else will, and recounts entertaining stories when everyone else is out of words. He seeds discussion and extracts ideas. He belives in chilvary and tradition. He is kind to everybody.

I think it struck me when the homeless man suddenly and forcefully overwhelmed us, begging for change. In a graceful movement and calm voice, he handled the situation. Before there was time to panic, I knew I was safe. It was then that I realized how charismatically he can take charge -- he’s just one of those natural leaders.

And I, uncharacteristically, would follow.

Pirates!

I wish it weren’t so. They were bad people, and they still are. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves. Bad, bad people.

Yet, like aviation, I just can’t help myself. I’m secretly fascinated with pirates.

Even recently as the U.S. Navy helps fight pirates from Somalia, I found myself sucked in so deeply I spent hours researching the story. I also watched a Discovery Channel special on The Money Pit, one of the greatest pirate mysteries… the X on the map, if you will.

Why is this so interesting? It’s the mystery, sure. But I think it’s also my obsession with freedom. Pirates, even though they don’t go about it in even a remotely respectable or decent way, are completely free. They do whatever they want and live day-by-day. They have their rankings and jobs, their comrades and their boat – their vessel to wherever – and that’s it. Obligation-free. No one holds them responsible, accountable.

That’s something even the most respectable person can desire.

Coconut Grove

It’s beautiful. It’s charming. It’s wonderful to walk around in a bikini and flip-flops in 85º heat. But I’ll never come back here again. In Coconut Grove, the streets are lined with pastel-colored shops, next year’s summer fashion, and neatly trimmed tropical trees. There’s just nothing to do.
I came for a conference. I played on South Beach. After an exhausting three days, I’m finally exploring the area, desperately seeking entertainment beyond window-shopping. Part of the problem is that I’m used to Boston, Paris and even San Francisco – all walkable cities. Coconut Grove – and Miami in general – is not very walkable. The main source of amusement – the beach – is a 20-minute cab ride away, and the only other water is the dirty inlet filled with boats. I suppose if I had the time and money, it’d be fun to practice sailing.

I started at the Mayfair, a mall that has since been transformed into an oasis of a hotel. The rooms are gorgeous; the service sucks. All the fancy bathrooms and flat-screen TVs can’t overcome the musty smell, dodgy wireless, lousy staff response or $30 charge for the Jacuzzi. For the first time, I was disappointed with a Kimpton Hotel.


I’m now at the Mutiny Hotel, which is a combination of condos and hotel rooms. I’m not going to lie: I chose it as much for its name (What can I say? I have a thing for pirates!) as for its deceptive seaside location. It’s nothing special, has a mediocre restaurant and includes a small but accessible pool. The rooms come complete with kitchenette, balcony with table and chairs, and a couch worthy of lounging on to watch crappy TV films. (Hell, I needed a taste of Star Wars and Tomb Raider to relax.)

Upon leaving the hotel, you’re engulfed by heat. The breeze is refreshing and required to combat the suffocating humidity. I’m impressed by the green in this area and took a moment to walk through the tiny but lush Barnacle Park.

The open space and neon lawn just wasn’t enough to satisfy me; I sought something else, something to do. Finally I asked a local.

“There’s plenty to do around here,” the man replied enthusiastically, while the guy beside him grimaced. I was skeptical.

“Like what?”

“Like clubbing, partying, dancing, you know.” The man beside him nodded confidently. I rolled my eyes.

“How about at 11 in the morning?”

“Oh,” he responded, surprised by the question. “Like now? There’s nothing.”

Figures.

I’m being overly critical though: Coconut Grove is not all bad. For one thing, it’s dog-friendly. Pooches are invited into all shops and most restaurants. I love that; it reminds me of France. I’m now sitting on a lovely patio beside a couple with a dog, content to people watch and write. The restaurant is called Jaguar, which a fellow conference-goer said was fantastic. It is. Starting with the crisped pita and bananas served with spicy dipping sauce and throughout the Latin-inspired menu, the food is absolutely delicious. I’m sure my meal will finish with the fresh fruit sorbet combo – likely peach, passion fruit and mango… or should I try strawberry? I’m actually trying civiche for the first time… complimented by a gentle glass of sauvignon blanc.

Who said 11:30am was too early to start drinking?

South Beach

I’m in Miami for business, which certainly doesn’t mean there isn’t time for play.

Tonight, for example, was all about fun. The first time I set foot out of the hotel was to board the bus to the Bass Museum. Taking the highway past mansions on the waterfront, you realize the wealth of this area, contradicting the cheesiness but complimenting the focus on fashion. The museum even furthered my perception of Miami as culturelessly superficial: It was an underwhelming and random collection of quality art -- contemporary American photographs, Baroque pieces and modern Afro-American works. Only two pieces in the small museum stood out for me: a modern piece about immigration and culture called Umbilical Cord, and a photograph of a couple kissing. (I am, after all, a hopeless romantic.)

After the museum we found our way to Books & Books, another attempt at culture in this Plastic City. Books & Books is an independent bookstore that’s expanded to include a restaurant. Sitting outside, the warmth broken only occasionally by a cool breeze, we ate a delicious light fair and held a stimulating discussion that yielded fresh ideas. Aw, the power of youth and wine!

We walked along Lincoln Road to Base, one of those remarkably trendy stores that relishes in its chicness. I thought of St. Tropez – exorbitantly overpriced for peculiar products some strange mind deemed cool. (Of course, I’m no fashion expert… preferring sundresses and flip-flops to pretty much anything else…)

The best came after ice cream when we walked along the shores of South Beach. Night had fallen, so the tourists and Plastic had long since melted away to saturate the superficial clubs of Ocean Drive. (When we walked along that strip later, I was reminded of Venice Beach except with more men with snakes – and I mean that literally. They strolled down the sidewalk with boa constrictors around their necks and arms like fashion accessories.) The weather and water were just right to get our feet wet and, for better or worse, a little bit more than we anticipated. Had there not been riptide and sharks, we would have gone swimming.

We ended up at The Shore Club, one of those chic Miami clubs you'd only find here. Beds surrounded the pool; the beautiful people lounged around with fancy and extraordinarily priced drinks. Sick of work and pretense, we smoke cigarettes indoors and danced the night away. We had fun.

As I prepare for bed, it strikes me that this is what Miami is really about: Fun. It’s dancing and drinking, clubbing and swimming, looking good and not talking. After days of draining our minds, it was exactly what we needed.

I just have to sound smart and look rested in four hours when it's back to work...

The Loss of the Pen

I have a thing about pens. I inherited it, you see.

This one was stolen from a hotel. But it was my favorite for a whole year, and I cherished it deeply. It lived with my favorite notebook – also stolen, but from my boss. Both are nothing fancy – a $5 notebook from Borders, a cheap clicky blue ballpoint pen from the Hotel Monaco. But they were a pair, and the pen was particularly special.

The right weight. A smooth exterior. A soothing color. The ink and pressure were perfect, and with it my words leapt from my mind and ran down my arm, exploding out my fingertips to dance across the pages in front of me. This is a tragedy. A loss. If I were a singer, I’d say my microphone was stolen. A guitarist, my pick. A public speaker, my podium. But I love to write, and the pen was my vehicle.

Worst of all, I know exactly where my pen is. I lent it to a fellow conference-goer so he could write his information down for me. Seeing as this is a professional engagement and it’s expected that I bring home business, I may have realized my mistake but my hands are bound. It’s hardly appropriate for me to march up to this gentleman – this potential buyer – and say, “Hey pal, you have my pen. Give it back.” So my lips are sealed, my heart broken. It is for me – a woman used to doing whatever she wants – a remarkable test of self-control.

Of course, thankfully, my mind works in mysterious ways. There are always loopholes -- alternative paths – to achieve your goal. Someday, I’ll have my pen back. You'll see.