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.

***

Click here to support the National September 11 Memorial & Museum.

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.