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.