The Missing Key

It has been a busy month. We moved house. I started interviewing for a job I'm really interested in. I got locked out. My Mum visited for Christmas. We had a party. I tried on wedding dresses. You get the idea...I was a tad occupied, and have not had a moment to blog. Until now...

Moving, according to WikiAnswers, is the third most stressful thing in life after divorce and bereavement. Our experience attests to that. We were supposed to close the house sale on Friday December 11th. The mortgage company stuffed up. In a big way. They sent the very large sum of money we needed to the wrong place (How does that happen, and how do you get that kind of cash back? Nobody ever deposits six figure amounts in my bank account!). We were left in the bizarre position of taking a three day rental from the owner, over a weekend, until the error could be fixed and we could truly take title on the property.

Thanks to the owner's mercy, (plus a $255 rental agreement) we were able to move on Saturday 12th, and Eric and I woke up on my thirty-seventh birthday in our new house. It's pretty cute. There are three bedrooms, and the downstairs is a wide open space that works brilliantly for entertaining (as we discovered a couple of weeks later).

But before that, I showed my true stripes as a city girl. I have a confession to make. This is the first house in my life where I have possessed a garage. I'm pretty excited by the garage door opener. And so it was, that on the day we were due to become the real owners of the property, I locked myself out. I just walked into the garage (in my pajamas, no less) and the door to the house slammed shut behind me. Oops.

Meeting your neighbors in a pair of furry slippers and your dressing gown is not ideal. But it forges a certain sort of intimacy. Without keys, cellphone or any modern appurtenances, I had to fall back on memory for my future parents-in-law's phone number, and the kindness of strangers for the use of a phone. All was well, and I was restored to possession of the house relatively quickly. But a family legend has been born.

Santa brought me not one, but two key retaining devices (intended for the garden, where - should you happen to lock yourself out - you should then be able to re-enter without the assistance of neighbors). I can't tell you where they are, since that would be an invitation to burglars. But trust me, they are in use.

The holidays were fabulous, and fabulously busy. We ate a ton, saw lots of family, and cut down a sequoia (leaving five feet in the ground for all you eco-folk) as our Christmas tree.

We are pretty excited about 2010, since it is the year we plan to get married. To all of the folks who read my blog - friends, colleagues, random web cruisers - I wish you a very happy New Year. To those of you who know me well, I hope you will come and visit us in Capitola. I have quite a few keys, now.

The Eye of the Beholder

We were transfixed on Saturday by the sight of a naked woman climbing one of the rocks close to Whale's Peak in Monterey Bay. We had just returned from a fine lunch at the Post Ranch Inn in Big Sur, and were taking a short hike to walk off the delicious (and insanely priced) sandwiches we had demolished.

She appeared to be utterly unselfconscious, and a friend (collaborator / exploiter?) was shooting photographs of her against a backdrop of the pounding waves of the Pacific. We were too far away to determine exactly what the deal was. A madcap prank, decided on the spur of the moment? A photo shoot for a pinup calendar? An art photography project?

At any rate, the unexpectedness of seeing a nude woman in such a rugged landscape set me to thinking that it is time for me to upset the apple cart a little in pursuing my dreams. (Have no fear, readers, I do not intend to do this by disrobing in any public places). But I do need to shake up my job search by trying new strategies, investigating some professional education options and networking, networking, networking.

This decision comes at a good time, ahead of what I hope will be a slew of good opportunities that show up around the new year. And my renewed effort has received its first shot in the arm, with a glowing introduction from a friend to a recruiter. Regardless of whether I get an interview for that job, the introduction alone served as a three month ego-boost!

We continued our hike, and serendipitously stumbled across an Emerson quote, helpfully carved into the lookout bench at the top of the peak, which could have been written to give us some perspective on our slightly bizarre experience: "Nature and books belong to the eyes that see them". Or nature, books and naked women, I guess.

Swearing Oaths

In the shadow of Westminster Abbey last week, it fell to me to swear by Almighty God that I knew of no reason why Eric and I should not marry.

Minutes before, I had signed an Oath written in language that must have been used since the 16th century. "She maketh Oath that she believeth there is no impediment of Kindred or Alliance or of any other Suit commenced in any Court to bar or hinder the proceedings of the said intended marriage AND PRAYED a Licence to solemnize the same between the hours of eight in the forenoon and six in the afternoon in the Chapel of Magdalene College..."

So we have completed the first of several hurdles for our wedding (and one previewed in an earlier post). We knocked out some of the logistical stuff, too, while we were in Blighty, meeting with a photographer, a cakemaker, a DJ and a florist.

While there is no doubt that there is much pleasure in working out such details, they are often a distraction from the task in hand. Job hunting is proving even trickier than I had anticipated.

It is three months to the day since I moved from New York, and it seems unlikely that I will be employed before Christmas (barring a Hollywood-style fairy intervention). The very promising leads I was pursuing before I left for England have gone suspiciously quiet. Current statistics suggest that it may be at least a further three months before I command a paycheck. Judging by the experiences detailed in the Wall Street Journal blog about professionals looking for work, it also seems that any new job may not pay as well as the one I left behind - a depressing if pragmatic fact.

The irony is that during this time "between roles" I have been hiking, blogging, nurtured my stock portfolio, gone regularly to the gym, volunteered and reconnected with old friends - all things which I often failed to do as a wage slave. Yet the fact remains that much as I enjoy these activities, there is always a gnawing worry in the back of my mind that I should be doing more to pursue my dream job. And as time ticks by, with a house purchase imminent, and a wedding to pay for, the pressure to settle for something less than stellar increases.

At some point in the future, I may cave to that pressure. But with oaths on the brain, I am ready to swear this one: Despite the dire state of the economy, I believe there is a fabulous job out there with my name on it. Given the number of hours that we spend working ("married to the job"), it makes sense to me to take some time to find the right one...

Where's home?

Tumbleweed is not a feature of Scotts Valley, although I think that in the imaginations of some acquaintances, it should be. Certainly, my recent move from a global city of 8 million to a small town of 10,000 often provokes a response along the lines of my hairdresser's recent comment, "That's quite a change". The implication appears to be that I may be missing out, culturally bereft or living in something of a one horse town. The unkind smirks of a few suggest that they think I may have downgraded.

With two full months under my belt, I now feel empowered to rebut the charge. It's true that Scotts Valley, on its own, is unlikely to feature in regularly published studies comparing global cities. But it is a mistake to think of the town in isolation from the rest of the Bay Area, which has so far provided me with a trip to the Symphony (I never did that in New York - although of course it was available), a DJ'd Hallowe'en costume party at SF Moma (you haven't lived until you've seen a human representation of the H1N1 virus standing next to a Warhol) and, critically, an expedition to San Jose's Shark Tank to see Disney's Princesses on Ice (O.K that one was really for the benefit of our 7 year old niece, but it was great, and if you have a young princess in the family, and the show is in the area, highly recommended).

I've also hiked in the woods, in the mountains and by the ocean, eaten fabulous ice cream at Santa Cruz's 50 year old staple, Marianne's and the latest back to the land food at the Mission district's Chez Spencer. So pity me not, ye doubters. Life here or there is not better or worse, it is just different.

One of the real pleasures of living outside the big city (which here, is San Francisco), is the ability to make a weekend trip out of visiting. Our night at the museum (the aforementioned Hallowe'en event) was really just one part of a Friday and Saturday enjoying the city. We got to stay in a boutique hotel (the Hotel Vertigo, appropriately named after the Hitchcock movie), hit a great restaurant, a party in a museum and then lunch the following day in one of San Francisco's classic spaces, the Garden Court at the Palace Hotel.

In due course, when I return to New York, I look forward to being a tourist in the city I called home for nearly nine years, mainly because I shall at last have an excuse to stay in one of the fabulous trendy hotels which spring up in the most unlikely places. Currently, I have my sights set on The Standard, although I fear that it may have moved out of our budget range by the time we come back.

It looks hopeful that next month, we may move into a new home in Capitola (still in Santa Cruz County, California), and next weekend, we are heading over to the UK, and I shall endeavor to send a post from London, which is my original home town.

The reality is, of course, that home is wherever you make it. And I now characterize myself as a Londoner, a New Yorker and a Santa Cruzer (Cruiser?!), depending on what suits at the time.

So what if the Earth moves?

Saturday was the 20th anniversary of the Loma Prieta earthquake. For non-locals, that was the one that damaged the Bay Bridge and halted the 1989 World Series. The epicenter of the quake was in the Forest of Nisene Marks, just a few miles from where I now live. Is it irresponsible to choose to live so close to known fault lines? Maybe. According to the US Geographical Survey, there have already been 24 shakes today in California, although none of them registered over 3 on the Richter scale (and I didn't feel any of them). It's definitely costly. California taxpayers have footed the bill for billions of dollars of seismic retrofits on bridges alone, with the ongoing construction on the Bay Bridge described as the the largest public works contract in California's history.

Interestingly, more than 80% of Bay Area residents can't identify the most active fault near where they live. (It's the Hayward Fault, not as many would guess, the San Andreas fault).

Perhaps ignorance of natural disasters is bliss. I had foolishly believed that earthquakes were the major concern in terms of local natural hazards. I had overlooked forest fires (one was burning up in Bonny Doon when I arrived, and destroyed over 7000 acres and 13 structures, costing nearly $1 billion to contain, and required some 1500 firefighters before it was contained.) Typhoons had not occurred to me, yet we experienced the remains of a Japanese typhoon just last Tuesday, when nearly 10 inches of rain were dumped on us in a 48 hour period! Then Eric casually mentioned that California is also at risk of tsunamis (11 died in 1964 in Crescent City when a tsunami last hit the Golden State). And we shouldn't forget debris flows, a massively destructive force of nature particularly of concern in the Los Angeles area grippingly described in John McPhee's The Control of Nature.

It's lucky that I am not paranoid, or I might by now have jumped on the first flight I could find back to New York (great deals on Virgin America today, by the way, folks - $99 cross continent!). And you may be wondering what all this has to do with my job search (will I turn down a job based on its proximity to the Hayward fault, perhaps?)

Instead, all these factors are playing in to our search for a house. In recent weeks, we've looked at properties with fabulous views (but located on a hill with trees above which might decide to come and visit in a serious rainstorm), with serious acreage (but located in the flammable woods up in the mountains) and close to the ocean (we couldn't afford that one, at a mere $3.6 million, but it was fun checking out how the other half lives). Accommodating my desire for some kind of house wow factor (like a great view or interesting architecture), and the pragmatic requirement of a flat lot is proving challenging, but keeps us busy at weekends, motoring around the county.

And I have a newfound respect for natural disaster insurance!

A Pressing Matter...

I have never been a morning tv person. To this day, the only famous American morning anchor I know is Katie Couric, and it has to be at least three years since she quit Today. Instead, I grew up with the sound of the BBC "pips", the Greenwich Time Signal which marks the precise start of the hour on Radio 4, and a vastly different program, which coincidentally is also called the Today show, but which offers content of a somewhat higher caliber.

Arriving in the States, back in 2000, I searched for something equivalent to wake up to, and to get me prepped for the day. It may be rabid nationalism, but in my opinion it is hard to equal the BBC as a news source. CNN is pretty good domestically, but fails miserably to cover international events in any kind of detail. The major national papers (for me, this means the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal) do a great job, but I can't digest quite so much print early in the morning. Surfing the net at 7am for the online versions of these (or anything else) is also not my deal - I need coffee before I can log on.

And so it was that I found my way to NPR. My relationship with public radio goes back to an earlier stint in the States, when I briefly lived in Florida. It was then that I was first sucked into the vortex. There is a weird relationship (chronicled brilliantly in Slate, earlier this year) between public radio and its listeners. We fear that it may disappear, and so, reluctantly we provide dollar support, to ensure that the mad eclectic mix of news, politics, music, car talk, sports and intellectual quiz shows will remain.

In Santa Cruz, the local station is KUSP. I have been listening religiously every morning since I arrived in the county. And when the call to volunteer came, I answered it.

Anyone who knows public radio, knows and hates the pledge drives. They interrupt programming, and are a blatant ask for funding dollars. In New York, I used to avoid the situation entirely by giving a monthly amount, so that I could turn off the radio during the drives with impunity. Here, since we are saving our pennies for a house downpayment and I did not plan to give, I figured that the very least I could do was answer the phones. So this morning saw me, coffee in hand, at the ready to answer an old-style rotary telephone and take pledges (in any amount), that would sustain the local station.

The death of the press, and the fragmentation of interest among consumers is being chronicled on a regular basis elsewhere. We all have a choice to make about keeping our politicians honest by ensuring the existence of the investigative press. But wherever you source your news (and there are readers of this blog who rely on fair and deeply unbalanced Fox and the National Review - you know who you are - as well as those who only watch Jon Stewart), it is incumbent upon us all to ensure the variety and richness of the sources available to us remains...

So my question to you is: Have you pledged yet? Whatever your news source is, are you truly committed? Do you subscribe? Do you watch on a regular basis? Are you listening?

Because after answering only a very few pledge calls in two hours this morning, I am concerned that regular folks have stopped paying attention. And democracy does not rest only upon the three branches of government enshrined in the U.S. constitution. It requires a fourth, the existence of a free, critical and vibrant press.

It has been a week of eating out.

It began last Wednesday, when - copying a highly successful model from back east - I suggested to two girlfriends that we meet for drinks and dinner at a restaurant in Los Gatos. We had to amend the plan when we discovered that my pick had not made it through the recession, and for various logistical reasons, chose to meet at Left Bank Brasserie, at San Jose's Santana Row for our night out. One large pile of mussels and a glass of bubbly later, I headed back over Highway 17, very content with my evening. We didn't rate the restaurant that highly, but we do have the foundations for a west coast dinner club in the making. (Reciprocal dining rights will be available to the east coast ladies...!)

Less successful was my long anticipated trip to Bonny Doon's Cellar Door Cafe. It appears that, just because you make great wine (rose fans should check out the Vin Gris de Cigare, and Syrah fans should try their Syrah Le Pousseur), does not mean that you run a great restaurant.

The space is fun. Industrial hangar meets wine bar chic is an unusual look, but it makes sense, given that wine vats 20 feet high sit right next door. The tables are communal, and the restaurant touts that the dishes are to share. That's all well and good, but in food (as in comedy), timing is everything. The gap between our starter and main course was so long we thought they had forgotten us. When the entrees finally did arrive, they came at 12 minute intervals, which meant that five of us were trying to eat one portion at a time. Not ideal. And they really did forget my main course. When it finally came sallying forth from the kitchen, I was super-excited...right up until it was set down by the couple next door, who immediately attacked it with gusto. Words were had with the waitress, who attempted to redeem the (already lost) situation by offering us the limpest looking cookies any of us had seen in a long time. The pity of it was that the food that did arrive was good. They just need to work a lot harder on the delivery. And learn to bake better cookies!

Today was spent networking in San Francisco. At lunch I ate a delicious sushi grade tuna salad from Seller's Market, a great (and sustainable) soup salad and sandwich place. And before I headed back down the Peninsula, I stopped for some food for the soul, taking in the Richard Avedon retrospective at SF MOMA.

Tonight, in honor of an earlier post, (or perhaps because she's cooking to celebrate both her own and my uncle's birthdays), my Aunt Daisy is making Julia Child's boeuf bourgignon. The dish takes hours to make. Delicious smells are wafting over me as I write.

Here's hoping that my culinary adventures continue (and continue to improve). Bay Area restaurants on my list include Manresa, (probably a birthday treat, that one), Gary Danko and Amber India. Watch this space for further reviews...

Where to Invest Post-Crash?

In the dark days of the stock market catastrophe last fall, Warren Buffet advised us to buy American equities. Despite my deep misgivings, I followed his advice, wagering a very small amount of my savings (around $1500) in the worst stock market since the Depression. I am delighted to report that a year later, I am 25% up on the investment. $375 won't go far, but it's a darn sight better than the return I would have achieved on my savings account right now, which offers a pathetic return of less than 1%. The laughably named "high yield" promotional CD currently offered by Bank of America would bump it up to a less than stunning 1.2% APY.

I am by no means an investment guru (perhaps this post should come with a financial health warning?) - but as a result of the sale of the Brooklyn Chateau, I now have significantly more to invest than I did last year. Of course, I also have a great deal more to lose.

Real estate has been good to me. I sold my first (London) apartment for double the amount I paid for it within five years. The little house in New York also realized a decent return, even in a truly lousy market in which to sell. In the medium term, most of the proceeds from the chateau will be reinvested in a new nest somewhere in Santa Cruz county. So my current preoccupation is figuring out how best to invest this money in the very short term (next six months), to achieve a decent return without excessive risk.

Of course, I am not alone. Savers all over the country are trying to find a way to make their money work for them, rather than working for the banks they so recently had to bail out. (Sidebar: American check-clearing rules are deeply antiquated, and seriously favor the banks, as the New York Times pointed out this weekend). Saturday's Wall Street Journal warned folks about the possible dangers of fleeing to bonds in search of yield, noting that investors in bonds could get slaughtered should interest rates rise (as they surely will in the not too distant future). Strike one for bonds (particularly longer term bonds).
Mutual funds are regularly touted as the safe option for the risk-averse investor. But many of them have expenses which could significantly reduce gains in as short a time period as six months, or penalties for early redemption (not helpful should we suddenly find our dream home and need to produce a down payment at short notice). But part of our plan will surely involve an index fund or two, as a relatively safe bet.

Stocks offer potentially rich rewards, but possibly devastating losses. I do plan to take a very small holding in Berkshire Hathaway, as a tip of the hat to the Oracle of Omaha for his earlier advice. But at over $3000 per share, it really will be a very tiny stake. Since investors receive Warren's newsletter, I hope to garner more pearls of wisdom in the coming months.

Now some of you might think that it is worth paying for professional advice. But very few financial gurus saw last year's financial tsunami coming. So could I be sure that a professional would look after my interests better than I can? If I lose my own money, I'll be irritated. If someone else loses it for me, I'll be madder than a chimp during a banana shortage.

The reality is, of course, that the old saw of keeping a balanced portfolio is still the best advice. We can neither afford to put our nest egg in only one low-interest producing basket, or in too many risky baskets.

In an earlier post, I mentioned our audition for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Despite our screen test, our Millionaire plan did not work out. We will not be coming to a TV screen near you anytime soon. So the real financial plan is pretty critical. Eric and I are still figuring out how to allocate our assets. If anyone has the silver bullet, please let us know. Otherwise we will muddle through, and (without detailing dollars and cents) let you know how our investment decisions pan out, percentage-wise, in due course. In the words of the Oracle, we hope to profit from folly, not participate in it...

Small World

Three and a half million people visit Yosemite national park every year. If you've been, then you may have hiked Half Dome, with its vertigo-inducing cables, or taken one of the easier hikes to Vernal Falls or Nevada Falls. But the chances are that you haven't even heard of the High Sierra Camps, which are perched high above the valley in landscape which is breathtakingly beautiful.

Last week, in company with an assortment of soon-to-be family members, I looked down on Half Dome from a peak called Clouds' Rest. We hiked nearly 15 miles that day, and saw just a handful of folks (and some mules) on the trail.

There is a sort of fellowship among hikers. Mutual encouragement is commonplace. As you huff uphill, redfaced and slow, complete strangers on their way down will stop to let you know that you are nearly there, and that the view is worth the work. And as you return down the slope, you dispense advice on the walk (wisdom learned just 30 minutes before) about the narrowness of the coming ledge, or the best off-trail view. And you see the same people along the trail as you pause for water, trail mix or lunch.

There are the Boasting Bores, the guys who travel in threes and have always climbed a little higher, walked a little longer and suffered quite a bit more than anything you have done. The Good Sorts are wearing slightly worn gear that has seen a lot of action. They have a map, and will happily lend it to you if you are lost, or take your picture if you are having a tourist moment. They will also overtake you multiple times on the trail, until you lose them completely as they gallop past you on a treacherous climb. And then there are the Complete Idiots, who have ventured out into the wilderness in pristine white t-shirts without sunscreen or a hat, and with only a half litre of water to share between two on a 15 mile hike.

As I walked, I mused upon the similarities between hikers and the folks I have been networking with as I look for jobs. There is a remarkable correlation. In business, the Boasting Bores are the types who assure you that they have a bunch of useful contacts for you, but then are completely unavailable when you seek to follow up. The Complete Idiots are the sorts who think that their Great Aunt Lucy, who once held a volunteer position in a petting zoo might know someone useful in your job hunt. And the Good Sorts are the gold nuggets in the sea of silt, who open their address books (chock full of fascinating people), write e-mail introductions and aggressively help you in pursuing your dreams.

And inevitably (just as it is on the trail), the Good Sorts all know one another. In the week before I journeyed to the north of the state, I met senior executives at Netflix and the University of Santa Cruz. And of course, they were connected. The spouse of one was a consultant at the offices of the other. And so it goes. I applied yesterday for a position at a company where I know that a Good Sort of my acquaintance has an in. I'll be calling him today.

The good news is that the Good Sorts have so far significantly outnumbered the other, less advantageous connections. So to all of the people I have besieged via Facebook, Linked In and phone, thank you. You know who you are, and you have already been terrifically useful. Keep up the good work!

The Fortune-Hunting Mobile

It may not have escaped my devoted readership that it is some time since I last posted. Simply put, I was stumped for an appropriate topic for this all-important tone-setting post after my first two weeks on the west coast. Should I cover the need for earthquake straps for furniture? Becoming reacquainted with the concept of free refills in restaurants. after years of fancy brunch places where even a second cup of coffee was a line item on the check? Drive-thru ATMs, drive-thru coffee, drive-thru food, drive-thru haircuts (O.K, I'm improvising with the haircuts, but I wouldn't be surprised)...And this last thought gave me my inspiration.

Driving is probably the single biggest difference between my life in New York and my life out west. And so the decision of which car to drive should have been a weighty one. Instead, I had half made up my mind before I even arrived. I was coming to California, and so obviously, I needed a convertible.

Fortunately, I did not have to make a quick fire decision. My parents-in-law-to-be (also known as Dick & Karen, which is a lot easier than all those hyphens) - had very kindly lent me their second car, a Toyota Forerunner while they headed off on a cruise in Europe. Last weekend, Eric & I made an expedition to two local car dealerships to check out some possible Fortune-Hunting Mobile candidates.

We started in Santa Cruz, which was cool and slightly foggy. Not ideal for convertible shopping. The vehicle I have been dreaming of is a VW Beetle. We took a stick shift model for a spin, but kept the top up. I was not in love. The car was fine, but critically, the color combo (exterior, interior and convertible top) was not what I was looking for. So we headed over Highway 17 (locally known as "the hill") to Sunnyvale, where, happily, the weather started to cooperate.

Our second attempt was in an automatic version of the car. The color combo was still off, but with the top down, the sun shining and the sky blue, it was difficult not to fall in love. Until, that is, we sat down with the shifty looking used car salesman who presented paperwork which showed that the car had previously been a fleet vehicle. Now we all know that fleet vehicles (whether rentals or company cars) rarely receive the same love and attention as our own autos. Imagining regular visits to the mechanic and other horrors, we decided to pass.

Thinking that this car purchasing lark might prove more difficult than I had anticipated, I decided to switch gears. On Sunday, we headed out to an open house in the neighborhood. (Can't buy a car for a few thousand? Upgrade, and start looking at houses in the hundreds of thousands!)

The house was a disaster zone. A beautiful yard and an astonishingly attractive price had attracted lots of interest. But when you walked into the house, you gasped at the work it needed. An easy decision to walk away...

As we were driving home, we decided to scope out a couple of neighborhoods. And that was when we saw her. Cream leather seats, cream exterior and a convertible top as black as midnight. The magic combination. For sale. On the spur of the moment, we stopped, rang the bell, and started to chat to the current owner. 21,000 miles. A full service history. Rarely driven, and lovingly polished.

You know what happened next, reader, because you've already seen the picture. Meet Lucky, my new fortune-hunting mobile.

Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

Every Fortune Huntress needs a financial backup plan, so before I go any further, you should know that what I am about to relate is not it. In the last 48 hours before I left New York, Eric and I were busy packing. But we found time to head up to ABC's studios on West 66th Street to audition for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, the "weddings week" edition.


I can't say I was thrilled about the prospect. Gameshows aren't really my thing, since they sit in my personal ranking system just one rung above reality tv, which is truly dreadful. (Bring back thoughtful programming! Stop the dumbing down!).



But with a wedding to plan, and no job to speak of, who am I to turn down the prospect of free cash, should it arise? Besides, I comforted myself that since Slumdog Millionaire, this particular show has a newfound cachet.



Auditioning is not as glamorous as it may sound. There was no sound studio, makeup or wardrobe department. Instead, we were ushered into the ABC canteen, and given a Scantron form and a Millionaire pencil (ours to keep!) -and a brown envelope containing The Test.



On the wedding edition of the show (intended for engaged couples to help them pay for some aspect of their big day) conferring between the couple is allowed. But we were told that we had to take The Test on our own. Quite frankly, I was terrified. The problem is that if one of you passes, and the other does not, then the one who succeeded is eligible to be interviewed for the candidate pool. No problem if that happened to Eric, since is a major fan of the show, but it would be a rum state of affairs if I were somehow to get on the show on my own, given my relative reluctance to be there.


We had 10 minutes to complete 30 multiple choice questions, including something on Gnarls Barkley (those who know me won't be surprised to hear that I didn't get that one), a geography question on the location of the Smoky Mountains and a list of beers, where we had to identify which was known as the Silver Bullet (see photo above if you're not sure).

Having taken the test, I felt a bit more comfortable. I was pretty sure I had got 20 out of the thirty questions right. How high could the passing score be? There were about 35 other engaged couples in the room (and more lined up outside, ready to take The Test as soon as we were done). But from those 35 couples, only 5 passed. Plus one single. (Pity the other half of that couple).

You will be happy to hear, reader that the Fortune Huntress and her beloved made the grade. After a short interview with a staffer, we were invited to take a brief screen test (still in the canteen). It may not be much, but even getting to the screen test stage was not a given. One of the five couples who passed was dispatched without making it on camera.

We won't know for some weeks whether we made it into the (admittedly tiny) candidate pool. Of the thousands of couples who audition, only 7 make it to the show. I don't like our odds myself. But I have to confess that it was a lot of fun doing the test (especially once we knew we had both passed)!

On Tuesday night, after dining at the Panda Inn in Aptos, California with Eric's parents, we received the following fortune cookies:
Diana "You shouldn't overspend at the moment. Frugality is important". Pretty accurate, that.
Eric "You will be traveling and coming into a fortune". Huzzah on both counts!

I'll cover off the real financial backup plan in a future post. For now, I'm just lucky to have hitched my star to Eric's fortune-friendly train.

Swansong

I arrived in New York on Election Day 2000. The networks declared Florida for Gore, and then Bush, and then Gore again...until they finally admitted that they just didn't know. You remember how that worked out... My first four weeks were in the Hudson Hotel, which had just opened, and seemed to me to be the hippest hotel this side of the millennium. These were the boom years, and when I found my apartment, on East 81st Street, I had to put down $14,000 just to move in (the rent was $1800 a month) - because having just transferred from London, I had no credit history.

That Christmas, my grandmother and mother came to visit. My Mum's gift to us was a helicopter tour over the city. The day we flew was a perfect winter's day in New York. Cold, blue, crisp. I have stunning photos of the Statue of Liberty, Central Park and the twin towers.

Nine months later, my Grandma, and, catastrophically, the towers, were gone. In the days after, I remember two things. The wail of sirens. And the city, plastered with pictures of the missing - at subway stations, on lampposts, on billboards, wherever there was space. Many of the missing would never be found.

But New York rises. And in 2002, optimistic about the city's recovery, I started a business. The next three years were a fabulous rollercoaster ride. In August 2003, during the blackout, I walked home from my tiny office on Madison Avenue to Elizabeth Street, where I now lived. My phone there was old-school-number that plugged into the wall, not into an electrical outlet. So I got the call when my date that night rang to say that he wasn't going to make it, but could we reschedule? He didn't work out, but I owe him one thing: he introduced me to New York City's best borough.

In 2004, riding high on the profits of the business, I bought a little house in Park Slope, Brooklyn. House prices were skyrocketing, and it was difficult to find anything larger than a broom closet in Manhattan. But my 1910 row house had two bedrooms, and a garden.

A tree grows in Brooklyn because of me. There was a stump outside my house, so I called 311. I requested a street tree. The city faxed me a form, and - about two years later - as they had promised - they planted a tree where the stump had been.

When my biggest client disappeared in late 2005, I had to wind down the business, and find a corporate job. An ideal opportunity presented itself: heading up the New York office of London's foreign direct investment agency. Fascinating times...meeting companies large and small that might have plans to expand to London. We got the NBA to open their European office there. And I kicked off the process that ensured that Facebook had a London office. Interestingly, I also met with Stanford Financial, one of the companies disgraced in the recent economic crisis. I remember that we could never get them to confirm their expansion decision. They didn't like the disclosure requirements which the UK's Financial Services Authority insisted upon. Funny that.

Nineteen months after joining the London team, I was made an offer I could not refuse: to work for New York's most powerful business group, The Partnership for New York City. My decision to switch teams made headlines.

I stand by that decision today, even as I prepare to move on. New York is still the sexiest city on the planet. It's dynamic, dirty, challenging, frustrating, thrilling, entrepreneurial and just plain fun. It breaks my heart to be leaving this mischievous and marvelous monument which not to look upon would be like death.

Except, reader, except.... That I made it here. So I can make it anywhere. And...
I'll be back.

***

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A Kick up the Backside

Last week I logged on to a website to check the status of a job application, and discovered that I had not been invited for interview. The sting of rejection was immediate. And it was swiftly followed by surprise and then self-doubt.

This was a job where I was convinced that I was a shoo-in to get past the first hurdle. The skills required were an almost exact match for my experience. My resume required minimal tweaking to make me look like the ideal candidate. Or so I had thought.

It's unusual these days to find out that an interview is not on the cards, as so many companies simply never contact you either way. But this was a particularly comprehensive online system, which indicated where your application stood in their hiring process. Better yet, it invited you to call the human resources team if you wanted to know why you had not made the grade. Naturally, I called immediately. Of the sixteen hiring criteria they had created, they had selected two which I did not meet. Fair dinkums to them: they were indeed the only two things which I could not claim to have done. But it's a tough hiring market indeed when you meet fourteen out of sixteen criteria, and still don't make it to interview!

Once I got over my anger / outrage / self-pity, I realized that this experience was a good one to have early on in my search. It will help me guard against complacency, and make me zero in on making each cover letter truly compelling. The truth is, that since I first started reaching out to prospective employers in early July, I have been insulated by the comforting bubble (and regular paycheck) provided by my current employer. At the end of this week, both the comfort zone, and (sadly) the direct deposit, will cease.

On the plus side, I have already been asked to consider two consulting gigs once I get to California, with the prospect of a third. And this evening, I am heading over to my attorney to sign a contract for sale on my little Brooklyn house. So with any luck, assuming that the sale of the house goes through as planned, and that at least one of the consulting opportunities pans out, I should be able to keep the wolf from the door.

And, at the risk of ending on a somewhat karmic note, I'm a big believer that you get the job you deserve, which can only mean that there is something infinitely more interesting, better paying and more prestigious out there which has my name on it!

Two Cents on Healthcare

This morning, as I headed into work, I stopped in at a Duane Reade to pick up a prescription. As I handed over my $20 co-pay, I wondered how much the same medication will cost next month, once I join the ranks of the 46 million Americans who have no health insurance coverage. So I asked. For a mere $269.49, per month, that medication can be mine.

For most of us, the real value of health insurance does not become apparent until we no longer have it, or the insurance company denies us coverage. For me, it has sparked a sudden interest in the debate over healthcare currently underway in Congress.

As so often happens, the debate has already been hijacked by language. Proponents of the President's plan are discussing universal coverage, touting the benefits of a healthier, more productive population and workforce, while opponents are calling this socialized healthcare, raising the spectre of ballooning entitlements for years to come.

Of course, should I wish to, I could continue to pay for my company-sponsored healthcare over the next few months, under the COBRA program. But I think that the Rolls Royce policy my employer provides (with a minimal contribution from me) is too rich for my blood, when it is all on my dime. $682 per month is just too high a price to pay, given that the Fortune Huntress is in excellent health.

And yet. Do I really want to play Russian roulette with fate? I'm not expecting to get struck down by a dastardly disease. But a sprained ankle jumping for joy when I see Eric this Friday, or a minor concussion in my low-ceilinged basement as I pack up the last of my boxes, would send me on a routine trip to the emergency room. And I wouldn't like to think what the costs of such a trip might be if either event happened after my insurance runs out. So I will probably choose to explore a healthcare option with a ludicrous deductible through one of the insurance consolidators like E-Health Insurance.

As a nation, we spend more money on healthcare than any other country in the world. Yet we don't live longer. The World Health Organization produced a ranking of the world's healthcare systems in 2000. We came 37th, after countries such as Saudi Arabia and Columbia. France took the top spot (very galling, really, when they also guzzle lots of great wine and so much delicious cheese). And our system skews outcomes. I am belatedly reading Freakonomics, which claims that in affluent neighborhoods, doctors tend towards scheduling caesarian sections (significantly more expensive than vaginal childbirth and in some cases unnecessary), to improve their bottom line. There's something patently wrong with a system which puts profits above patients.

I have no desire to see out-of-control spending by the government on healthcare. But I don't like the status quo either. There has got to be a better way to manage the nation's health than charging $270 for a drug which in the UK would cost $12. Let's hope that Congress has the courage to find it.

Cooking as a Spectator Sport

Last weekend, Michael Pollan, author of the Omnivore's Dilemma, wrote a fascinating article in the New York Times magazine, about the decline of home cooking in the U.S., suggesting that most Americans are now happier to watch the Food Network than put together a meal themselves. This weekend, I'm proving him right, first by eating out at a great Brooklyn restaurant, and secondly, by going to see the movie which kicked off his article, Julie & Julia.

Thinking about this, I decided to count up the number of home-cooked evening meals I make for myself per week. On average, it's only three. Partly this is because I live in a city where eating out is practically obligatory, given the quantity, variety and sheer fabulosity of many of the restaurants in New York. So I'm usually out for dinner at least twice.

Then there's my Anthony's Pizza addiction. Once a week, I order their phenomenal brick oven pizza. First of all, it's delicious. Just as important, it's also the perfect therapy after a hard day at work, when the last thing you feel like doing is assembling dinner (or cleaning up afterwards).

So 3 home cooked meals, 2 meals out, and 1 pizza. That still leaves one night, right? That's my cheese, bread and a glass of wine night. And I really can't count slicing a baguette and smothering it with cheese from Grab Specialty Foods as a cooked dinner.

Cooking can be hugely satisfying; if you're cooking for any number of people larger than one and smaller than twelve, if you own a dishwasher and as long as the dish comes out right. But if any of those factors get knocked out, it can also feel like a chore. Making a traditional "meat & two veg" meal for one person feels like a hassle, when you have to dirty three pans, wait for 45 minutes, only to demolish the end product in less than 10. And cooking for a family gathering of 12 or more becomes something of a food production line, unless some serious forward planning is involved.

But I am moving to the nation's produce bowl, reader, so I need to up the ante. More than half of the nation's fruit, nuts and vegetables come from California. The state accounts for nearly the entire U.S. production of walnuts, almonds, nectarines, olives, dates, figs, pomegranates and persimmons. It leads the nation in the production of vegetables including lettuce, tomatoes, broccoli, celery, cauliflower, carrots, lima beans and spinach and also apricots, grapes, lemons, strawberries, plums, prunes, peaches, cantaloupe, avocados and honeydew melons. Artichokes grow only miles from my front-door-to-be. And then there's the Gilroy Garlic festival (which, darn it, I just missed - it took place in July). Salad days.

With the best ingredients the nation has to offer, I think that the next few months will involve dusting off my cookbooks and trying out some new recipes. I'll have a little time on my hands, with no job to go to, and (hopefully) an appreciative audience. The tricky part will be keeping up the good work when I do eventually land that dream job.

Don't get me wrong. I'm definitely planning on checking out the restaurants that Santa Cruz and the Bay Area have to offer. In fact, I already have plans to visit the Bonny Doon Tasting Room & Cafe. But that experience, as well as the happy prospect of multiple, regular California wine tastings, is for a future post.

Making Money from Stuff You Don't Want

We live in thrifty times. In a week which has been dominated by the Cash-for-Clunkers program, and a year defined by belt-tightening, I thought I'd share a (New York local) guide to making money from the stuff you no longer want.

My newfound wisdom is a result of the practical necessity of lightening my load before I move west. Much as I wanted to believe that the entire contents of my little house should do a three thousand mile road trip, the cost of trucking it all cross-country simply doesn't make sense. I will be bringing quite a bit with me on the journey west, but for the rest....

1. Craigslist, people, craigslist. I have been frankly astonished at the furniture that I have put on craigslist which has sold within 24 hours (sometimes with multiple offers). So far, I've disposed of a sofabed, two wardrobes, a Weber grill and a floor lamp. The lamp was from Ikea, and I actually sold it for more than I paid for it, four years ago! The key to success appears to be a well-written ad, and a decent photo. My net gain to date $270.

2. Edit your bookshelf. How many books do you own that you will never read again? And how many that (quite frankly), you're just never going to read? You know the ones. Rogue holiday gifts that you opened, lied about how happy you were to receive them, and immediately shelved out of sight and out of mind. Or books that were trendy a few years ago, but are already dated. Tom Friedman's The World is Flat fell into that category for me. Dig them up. If they are in good condition, you can sell them at Strand bookstore. Be warned that this is not the route to mega-millions. But you make room for the books you'd really like to read on your shelf, and save your back (or the backs of your movers) when you relocate. My net gain to date (from about 12 books) $25.

3. Donate your clothes. This won't actually net any cold hard cash, but it will make space in your closet, and you can take a tax deduction for things you weren't wearing anyway. If you are a pack rat, and have a lot to donate, the Salvation Army will even come to your door to collect. Expected tax deduction: $50.

4. Be creative. I had a bunch of old binders, left over from the time I ran my own business. I'd been holding on to them thinking that they would come in useful. They haven't. I walked down to the school at the end of my road, who were thrilled (yes, thrilled) to take them. A damning indictment of the funding of New York's public schools, perhaps. One less box to California, definitely.

5. E-mail your friends. You never know who might need some of the things that you are planning on leaving behind. I wanted to hang on to my bed until the very last moment, and thought that would mean that I'd have to leave it on the street. But a friend knew someone who is furnishing an apartment, and promised to come and pick it up, with my dining table, on moving day. Expected net gain: $175.

In my view, the stoop sale is a relic of the 20th century. But according to New York magazine, it can be profitable. For me, spending any part of my last two weekends in New York bargaining over the cost of a U2 CD with random strangers would not make sense.

Instead, I'm planning on visiting Fire Island's Sunken Forest, kayaking on the Hudson, and eating great food. Let the countdown to moving day begin.

It's Not What You Know...

What do Hillary Clinton, Mike Bloomberg, the Duchess of York, Ken Livingstone and the Prime Minister of St Vincent & the Grenadines have in common? In the past four years, they have all met me.

Granted, meeting me may not have been the highpoint of their careers to date. And while it's pleasant to speculate that Hillary's Brooklyn connection to the Fortune Huntress might have landed her the Secretary of State job, I am willing to concede that her Senate career (and an ex-President for a husband) might have had more to do with it.

The real question is: How, and when (if ever), should I start name-dropping to help land myself a job?

Name-dropping in a social context is not a particularly attractive habit. It's rather like the people who, when you mention that you would love to visit Africa, comment that they spent the summer touring the Serengeti. On elephant-back. Drinking Krug all the way.
It often comes across as oneupmanship, in other words.

But for job interviews, leveraging your network is critical. It establishes your credibility in your field, can be helpful in determining your seniority, and may ultimately be what sets you apart from other candidates.

I'm not expecting to use Hillary, Mike or the Duchess anytime soon for this purpose. But I did just write a cover letter for a job which really interests me, where I mentioned that I have met John Gapper of the Financial Times, Matthew Bishop of the Economist and Clive Crook of the Atlantic Monthly, in a bid to distinguish my application from the pile. I also threw in the name of a well-known Valley personality, a guy who was Employee Number Eight at Google (and has since cashed out, presumably to enjoy gazillions of dollars at his leisure), in case his name might impress the prospective employer.

How well do I really "know" any of these guys? Certainly, we're not Facebook buddies. But their contact details are in my Outlook file and for each, there is a specific, usually quite memorable event, which should jog their memories. Matthew and I did a conference together on the future of New York. I sat on a panel with Clive and through an enormously dull political meeting with John. I met Google # 8 last month on a job-fishing expedition in the Valley, having been set up by Cambridge in America, because it turns out he's a Cambridge alum.

In a weird way, I'd be quite pleased if I get to the interview stage and my bluff is called, so that I actually have to demonstrate that I can reach out to these folks and get a response. Because I could, and would. And it would be a lot easier than answering some of the usual interview stock questions (What are your weaknesses? Where do you see yourself in five years' time?), which I still find tough to answer in a meaningful fashion, fifteen years after people first started asking.

I'm not likely to find out for a little while yet if I will make it to interview on this one. But unlike many of the other opportunities out there, where your resume goes into an enormous internet black hole and a machine spits out an automatic acknowledgement, I did get an e-mail response from a real person for this job. Cross your fingers for me, reader. I'll keep you posted.

Jumping Through Hoops for a Wedding

I'm not on first name terms with the Archbishop of Canterbury. Indeed, I'm not on any sort of terms with him. But it turns out that I need to ask him a favor. Eric and I are interested in marrying in the chapel of my Cambridge college, Magdalene (see picture of the Pepys Library below). In order to do so, we will need to obtain a Special License from the Archbish (also pictured).

The application form for the license arrived in the mail at the weekend. The Church of England is apparently not sufficiently up-to-date to have a downloadable option, or even an e-mailable one. There's something rather quaint about this, although it reinforces the impression that the Anglican communion is not keeping up with the times.

As part of my research on the License, I took a look at the Archbishop's website. The See (or bishopric) of Canterbury was founded in 597 by St Augustine. The Archbish is considered first among equals in the worldwide Anglican church (which includes the Episcopalian church in the U.S.A., although there is currently a significant difference of opinion between Anglican views about openly gay clergy and the position of the House of Bishops of the Episcopal Church).

But the Special License is not the only hurdle we will have to overcome to marry in the U.K. In an amusing reverse take on the 1990 movie Green Card, Eric will need to obtain a marriage visa in order to enter the U.K. for the wedding. He has 10 pages of probing immigration questions to answer.

Figuring out the details of the wedding is a great distraction from the daily trawl through job boards, networking e-mails and job applications. And I have to confess that there is certain satisfaction in the ultimate irony of our wedding...the fact that a union between a Brit & American is likely to occur on the eve of the 234th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence.

One Way Ticket to California is Booked...

In two weeks' time, I'll be flying out of Kennedy on a one way ticket west. (One way tickets are surprisingly expensive, reader, even when you check out the best deals on Kayak.) Leaving Brooklyn is bittersweet. But the prospect of a completely fresh start is seductive. How often in your life do you really get to up sticks, and find new friends, a new job and a new house all in one go?

Not that I'm expecting finding a job to be easy. Today's Wall Street Journal carries a spirit-sinking article Silicon Valley's Jobless Unplug from Tech, which suggests that even the tech-savvy are having a tough time finding work, given that unemployment has hit 11.8% out there.

That's what Fortune in the Valley is all about. Over the next few months, I'm planning on blogging about my efforts to find my fortune (or at the very least a job) in Silicon Valley. There will be some sidebars about the restaurants I try, the places I visit and (hopefully) the friends I make. In other words, a smorgasbord of all of the new experiences as I transition to the Far West Side. And I might even throw in some of the dramas associated with planning a wedding...

I'm hoping that the folks who keep me company on this journey will be a variety of friends, relatives and colleagues. But I'm also going to let prospective employers know what I'm up to, and see whether it helps in the hunt. I'm dubious that my musings will reach a wider audience, but modern media is a crazy thing, so it could happen.

Just in case, I am including a brief self-portrait for the faceless millions. The Fortune Huntress is a dual national of the UK and the US who is moving to California from Brooklyn in pursuit of true love. Her fiance, Eric, will be doing the financial heavy lifting while the Fortune Huntress searches for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Keep me company on the adventure, reader. I'm planning on having a ball.