Eleven for 2011

I resolve to:

1. Buy a bucket and spade
We live 7 minutes from the ocean, but I don't build enough sandcastles.  The time has come.

2. Double my income and reduce my outgoings
This one is easier than you might guess, since I made too little this year, and spent a ridiculous amount of money getting married.

3. Procrastinate only when absolutely necessary
As opposed to on a daily basis

4. Rejoin Costco
I know it's un-eco, with far too many tracksuit wearing, bling sporting chavs - but who cares?  Their roast chicken is delicious, and only $4.99, and you can buy a case of Perrier for just a few dollars.  The Veuve Clicquot is a good price too.

5. Be the Designated Driver at least half of the time
It's time for me to take the wheel more often when a party or a night on the town is at stake.  Eric did sterling work in 2010, but - much as I love my vino - it's my turn.


6. Complete one hike a month from the trail book Eric gave me for my birthday in 2009
This is "exercise more" gussied up as something more palatable

7. Eat fewer tortilla chips
This one's tough.  I mean, not as tough as "lose 10 pounds" (which I tried last year, with mixed results - lost the 10, then regained 5).  But tough, nevertheless.  Also difficult to measure, since I wasn't counting last year's tortilla chip consumption. 

8. Conquer my aversion to dusting
There have to be some upsides, right? 

9. Visit Hearst Castle
It's always been on my list, and it's only about 130 miles from where we live. 

10. Acknowledge that chewing gum will never be banned in the U.S., and I'll just have to live with that

11. Quit smoking
Made you look twice, huh?  No, I haven't started, and I'm not planning to.  But the point is that this one resolution is a surefire winner.  One resolution kept, ten to go...

Wishing you & yours a happy, healthy and extremely prosperous New Year.

The Problem with Persimmons

"Mulch!" I declared confidently, pretending that my thirty-seven years in London and New York had prepared me for overwintering a garden planted with exotics in California.  So mulch we did, hoping that our banana plants and trumpet tree and the other surprises in our inherited garden will breeze past the surprising frosts which began last week. 

As gardeners, Eric and I would win prizes more for enthusiasm than for expertise.  Fortunately for us, the landscaping that someone else decided upon before we bought the property leaves us very little to do except enjoy it.  Or so we first thought.

But as season gave way to season, it became apparent that there was more to this gardening lark than first met the eye.

The gopher appeared early on, creating irritating holes in our clover infested lawn.  Then came the squirrels, whose sense of entitlement with regards to our fig tree and blueberry bush I found deeply offensive.  Armies of ants laid waste to the grout between our patio bricks.  And in October, we developed a serious case of giant spiders, just in time for Hallowe'en. 

Eric's response was swift and decisive.  He decided to wage war on the pests. The gardening shelves of our garage are now filled with a toxic mix of Bug-B-Gon, Gopher Getter, Snail 'n Slug Killer and Weed Warrior.  Organic farming is all well and good for Wholefoods, but our garden mantra would better be described as a zero tolerance approach.

Our more immediate problem is the delightful persimmon tree in our side yard (pictured above) which is now groaning with fruit.  Now, it was a brilliant idea in theory to plant a persimmon.  The bright orange fruit looks fantastically festive at this time of year.  But what on earth to do with it all?  The tree will yield at least a gross of persimmons, yet most of the recipes I can find require just one cup of pulp. 

Short term, donations of boxes of fruit to family members have helped avoid persimmon pulp smearing our sidewalk.  It seems that December is likely to be filled with persimmon cookies, persimmon pudding, persimmon salads and persimmon chutneys.  Clementines don't stand a chance in the Christmas stocking stakes.  I'm even contemplating making jam (those of you who know me will appreciate how radical this is).  How lucky then, that persimmons are the fruit of the Gods, according to Greek mythology.  I'll need all the celestial culinary help I can get.

But, as my hairdresser said, when I was sharing my concerns of an imminent fruit downfall, "These are silk sheets problems".  In this age of uncertainty, she has a point.

On (American) Football

It took a long time for me to come round to the game that the rest of the world calls American Football.  Like many folks who grow up in Britain, I had a thorough disdain for a sport which appeared to be organized around commercial breaks, involve industrial strength padding and boast "athletes" who weighed over 300lbs.  In a bar in Brooklyn, I distinctly remember one of my girlfriends  attempting to explain the rules of the game, and my inability to comprehend the significance of a first down.

How things have changed.  Monday night football is now appointment television in our house.  As indeed is College Gameday, and most of Saturday and Sunday afternoons, if the weather is lousy.  I suspect that some of my interest in the game was developed when I realized that guacamole and chips were an integral part of the viewing process.  And that beer and wine never go amiss when shooting the Brees.  But somewhere along the way, I have come to know the successes and frailties of Moss, Ochocinco, Brady, the Brothers Manning and all the rest. 

It is ironic, then, that just as I have grown to like the game, questions are being asked about whether right minded folk should be watching it at all. 

This, after all, is a season in which a Rutgers player was paralyzed from the neck down after a tackle.  And without much thought, I can name three NFL quarterbacks with injuries right now.  The 49ers Smith is out with a shoulder injury, which prevented him from playing in London ten days ago (although I was glad to see that he got to make the trip - bet that was an uncomfortable plane ride).  Tony Romo  has a broken collarbone, and any forlorn hope that the Cowboys had of playing the Super Bowl in their fancy new stadium was crushed on Sunday after a sorry 45-7 loss to the Green Bay Packers.  And Brett Favre, the 41 year old "grandpa" of the NFL, has been hobbling on to the field with two fractures in his left foot.  As Sokolove puts it, in the NYT article above, "We wince.  Then we put it out of our minds".

Of course injury is a factor in just about any sport you care to mention.  And in the NFL, at least, the compensation for running the risk is in the millions of dollars. But throwing money at the problem doesn't resolve the ethical issues which surround it, and the increasing alarm over the number of concussions occurring on a weekly basis by kids playing in college (never mind the pros) makes me wonder.  Is this really all that different from boxing, if the potential effect is long term neurological damage?  Muhammed Ali may have been the greatest, but he also serves as a tragic example of what can happen after sustained hits to the head.

The NFL has imposed extra discipline this season, to counter the wave of negative press and the real concern of fans.  For the moment, I'm trusting that the new measures will lead to a less concussion-prone game.  And my family will be glad to hear that Thanksgiving will involve the usual doses of Cowboys and Lions games along with the turkey and cranberry sauce.  But I'm thinking about this.  And if you haven't read that article I mentioned up front, then I urge you to do so.

Election Day Musings

A few nights ago, we watched The Candidate, a movie made in 1972 with Robert Redford, about a guy who gets into politics for the right reasons, only to be overtaken by a phalanx of pollsters, media men and pundits.  What was remarkable about the movie was how fresh it seemed.  Apart from a few misplaced sideburns (and the complete absence of cellphones)  - the issues were the same, the soundbites were the same and the sorry smear tactics were - you guessed it - the same.

And on this midterm election day, you have to ask yourself, as the New York Times article did recently, Would You Run? 

At the federal level at least, it's not a very appealing proposition.  Let's face it, politicians usually place high on lists of top ten most despised professions.  Campaigning today involves massive fund raising, taking extreme partisan positions on any issue of importance ("to motivate the base") and digging up as much dirt on your opponent as you can feasibly find so that you can run attack ads aimed at destroying his or her credibility. 

Any candidate worth their salt will have a real desire to fix something very broken in our society (currently, the entire city of Washington DC is apparently deeply fractured, causing long time insiders to campaign on a platform of change).

Yet the reality is, of course, that most Congressmen and women have little or no opportunity, individually, to change much at all.  Instead, they must work collaboratively  - often across the aisle - to achieve any legislation.  Which results in legislative compromise, creating voter disgust, contributing to a whole new wave of candidates who think that they have the answers, and could do a better job.

Perhaps, given this merry-go-round of disillusionment it is not surprising that getting out the vote is such hard work.  Midterm elections typically produce a turnout of less than 40% of the voting age population.  It will be interesting to see if this one is any different. 

But the pollsters and media men and pundits are getting cleverer at manipulating those figures.  Over the weekend, I read a fascinating piece in the Times' Sunday Magazine, about how applying peer pressure can influence turnout.   And today, in the social laboratory that is Facebook, I am seeing it happening in realtime, as an online meter ticks up every time another Facebooker clicks to say that they voted.  The current tally is close to 6.5 million, and it is mesmerizing to watch how fast it is increasing.  

Whatever happens tonight, the political landscape will change.  It could be the carnage that The Onion predicts, or it could be the more measured outcome suggested by Five Thirty Eight.  Either way, by the time many of you are reading this, there will be some new sheriffs in town.

Let's hope that they have a better strategy for politics than going in with all their guns blazing.

Privacy is Dead

I smell a Pulitzer in the Wall Street Journal's recent coverage of digital media marketing techniques, "What They Know", a series on how  marketers are "scraping" data about consumers from our browsing history, our membership of social media sites and our purchasing history, and in some cases selling that data commercially or to politicians so that we can be more effectively targeted.  It should be required reading for anyone who ever opens a browser, and certainly it has interesting things to say about child safety, and tracking that takes place on sites for kids such as Club Penguin and Barbie.com (parents, click here).

The problem is, that (even if you've not read any of the articles in the series), you kinda knew this was happening anyway.

Anyone who has a Gmail account already knows that the ads they view are determined by the words they type into their e-mails.  Ditto Facebook, which spent the last ten months offering me ads for wedding dresses and bridal planners, doubtless based on my regular updates about our events.  I just checked what they are currently pushing (Volkswagen Jetta for me - although obviously, that will differ vastly for the rest of you folks) - and I'm not sure if that is because one of my friends "Liked" the Jetta, or because somewhere in the data mining they've done on me, they've found a reference to Lucky, my fabulous Volkswagen Beetle.

So what does it all mean?  The purpose of this post is not to encourage bunkerism, or suggest that a return to good old-fashioned paper and pen would be a good idea.  It's more to encourage friends and family (and the few hundred others who apparently read this blog occasionally) to get smart.  I've been dismayed recently by some of the posts from folks I respect that have appeared on Facebook or Linked In.  People I used to work with have posted pretty lurid details of running up bar tabs on work junkets that finished at 6am, only to go to work again at eight.  How can they be so reckless?  Never mind the ethics of whether that's how you should be spending your company's dollar...Do they really think that no-one connected to the company will see these posts?  Have they forgotten how many current, ex and future colleagues could be reading this?  Unfortunately for them, your online imprint is pretty much like an elephant.  It never forgets.  Earlier this year, HuffPo collated 13 incidents of folks who had gotten fired over their Facebook posts.  That's probably a drop in the bucket.  It happens.

I think part of the problem is the desire to present an interesting persona online.  But while most of us want to avoid being the boring Doreens who post such zingers as "Went to Starbucks today" or "I hate Mondays", we also need to find a healthy balance that avoids deeply racy or potentially compromising posts, just to impress our mates.  Think about that audience.  I'm friends with folks online with whom I haven't communicated in months, or in some cases, years.  There's only so much that they need to know about me.

Of course, for me, this is a particularly thorny issue, because as a marketer, I would be delighted to have access to this kind of rich data.  Targeting likely purchasers is the holy grail of marketing, and it has become ever more achievable in our new, information rich, world. But respecting customers is also a basic axiom of good marketing practice.  It's just not clear how many companies are really practicing that respect as they chase their next quarterly earnings goal.

Luxury is Back in Style

Only a few months back, I considered a post on coupon clipping, which the Wall Street Journal declared was the newest extreme sport.  But I'm here to tell you that luxury is back, with a vengeance.

It's not just that Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps debuted two years nearly to the day of Lehmann's collapse, or that on the real world Wall Street Citigroup (which is still part-owned by the Treasury) just hired a banker for $30 million.  It's more grass-roots. 

For example, my parents-in-law showed up for dinner last weekend in a brand new, sky blue Subaru.  A cousin has bought new wheels, too, and its not just my family members who are in on this.  The Washington Post reports that consumer spending is up, largely driven by new car sales.

Personally, I'm not convinced that we can yet say with perfect conviction that the economy has turned around.  But oh my, is there pent up demand.

Let's face it, coupon clipping may be a sound financial strategy, and yield some great bargains, but it simply ain't sexy is it?  (Which is why, dear reader, you escaped a longer post on that subject). But luxury, with its silk sheets, expensive shops, fabulous wines and gorgeous locations, decidedly is.

After two years of gloomy news, bank failures and tanking portfolios, it appears that Americans are in the mood to treat themselves again.  And I say, huzzah to that!

My own personal indulgence this fall combines two great pleasures, walking and wine.  In early November, as part of the Big Sur Food & Wine Festival, we will be going Hiking with Stemware.  What could be more fine than crunching through some leaves, wine glass in hand towards a delicious lunch at a winery?

Wishing you a luxurious October.  Bottoms up!

Happiness Index

"Mate acquisition" as an indicator of happiness? 

Like many people, I would struggle to point out Bhutan on a map.  But this tiny kingdom is responsible for one big idea, the measurement of Gross National Happiness.

It seems that I've been reading a lot about happiness recently.  Yesterday, in the Wall Street Journal, I learned that the "magic number for happiness" - the salary that will keep most Americans happy, is $75,000.  Unless you live in New York, of course, where the number is $163,700!  The day before, in the New York Times, Lisa Belkin reported that Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs (you remember, the pyramid that had food and shelter at the bottom and self-actualization at the top) has been challenged by a bunch of psychologists who argue that parenting should be the pinnacle with "mate acquisition" and "mate retention" following closely behind. (I think they will have trouble marketing that one).

And earlier this year, in an entire magazine article devoted to the issues surrounding the GDP as a measure of national progress (stick with me here), real academic credibility is being given to including happiness in a dashboard of national success indicators called the State of the USA.

Naturally, Facebook is in on the act.  They now have a Gross National Happiness Index of their own, culled from the positive and negative posts made every day, and which peaks on some predictable days in the U.S., including SuperBowl and, rather sweetly, Mother's Day.

But it seems to me that all of these efforts to track happiness may be somewhat missing the point, since the drivers for contentment are often so very personal.  It's been an incredibly happy year for me, for example, despite the fact that I quit my job, sold my house and moved cross country - all factors which normally show up on lists of stuff that will stress you out.  Of course, getting married (twice!) with scads of friends in tow helped.  And one person's multi $$$ salary may be entirely supplanted by someone else's satisfaction of doing something really worthwhile, that is not necessarily well paid.

It's with that in mind that Eric and I will soon travel down to Los Angeles  to say au revoir to good friends who have decided to pack up the good life and spend a year in Tajikistan (another place I needed to check on the atlas) working to help that country build its economy through tourism development.  I think they are hugely courageous and a bit mad.  But for them, this is just another way to find a fulfilling road...and I wish them very happy.

Garde Ta Foy

Not many brides go punting once on their wedding day, let alone twice.  But in my case, we had a wedding kickoff time of 4pm, and thus several hours to fill before the celebration began.  So the groom and best man persuaded me that I had time to give them a punting lesson before lunch.

They say that some things you never forget (riding a bicycle comes to mind), but it transpired that after 15 years of zero practice my punting was only marginally better than the beginners.  No matter.  The groom was determined to punt me along in my wedding dress later in the day (which he did, to universal acclaim), and the lesson proved invaluable in terms of avoiding major crashes.

Punting, if you've never heard of it, involves sitting in a long, narrow flat bottomed boat, and being propelled along by a  long wooden pole.  We made it a feature of the wedding, by inserting a punting party between the post-ceremony champagne and before dinner.  It was a huge hit.  In addition to being a perfect day for it, we had professionals managing the poles (much safer) - and it served as an excellent ice-breaker for the guests who did not yet know one another.

Perhaps one of the most memorable moments of the entire day came as our wedding party pulled into the quay, ready to disembark.  There were dozens of Cambridge citizens enjoying the sunshine with a glass of wine or a pint of beer sitting outside.  As we glided into the dock, and folks noticed how we were dressed, the entire quayside burst into a spontaneous round of applause.  For just a few minutes, we were celebrities, basking in the glow of flashing camera bulbs and the goodwill of complete strangers.  It was great.

Lest I lead you to believe that this was the best part - don't be fooled.  The entire wedding was magical. The weather gods smiled on us, the champagne was chilled to perfection.  The speeches were amusing, and blessedly brief.  The guests all looked glamorous, and, judging by the photos, were having just as much fun as we did.  It was perfection, and like all perfect things, exquisitely enjoyable, and impossible to convey in words that could possibly do it justice....

So I shall finish with this thought.  My college motto is "Garde Ta Foy".  It's old French, and the literal translation has long been hotly disputed.  The interesting thing is that it translates two ways, which at different points in my life, have been very relevant.  As a student, I always preferred the informal translation "Look after your liver", which seemed only too appropriate at the time, given the frequency of my presence in the college Bar.  But now, having been married in the college chapel, and walked under the crest with my husband, the other translation appeals: "Keep your faith".   It seems like good advice, at the beginning of a marriage...

Letting Go

We walked along the beach on Sunday, and saw dolphins arcing out of the water, pelicans hunting for dinner and a seal bobbing along some fifty feet from the shore.  And it struck me, this really ain't Manhattan.

Perhaps it was a coincidence, but I had decided just a couple of days before that it was time to relinquish my 917 cell number.  My weary Blackberry Pearl decided about a month ago that it no longer wished to scroll left (making it difficult, although not impossible to navigate around the device).  It's been time to upgrade my phone for a while now, but this was the last straw.

No-one can accuse me of being an early adopter.  I activated my refurbished iPhone 3G on the same day that Steve Jobs announced the shiny new 4th generation version.  ("Refurbished" by the way, does not appear to mean second- hand - my phone was pristine in its box.  Instead, it seems to mean unwanted - as in a returned Christmas gift, which ATT can no longer sell as new, even though it has never been used.  Buying refurbished saved me $50).

And reader, although I know I am late to the party, I love it!  Urbanspoon was the first application I installed.  For the remaining un-Appled masses, who haven't heard about this, I should explain that this is a nifty little program that allows you to shake the phone, and be rewarded with a restaurant suggestion close to your current location.  Even more satisfyingly, given my upcoming travel plans, the shaking trick works in London, which should be very handy once the nephew and niece get fed up with the Tower or Buckingham Palace.  TripIt was second (handy to have my honeymoon plans at my fingertips), and I have spent way too much time at the app store on iTunes since the beginning of the week.

But the really big deal is that my cell number has changed, and with it, the last remnant of my New York life will expire on July 4th.  Which bizarrely, also happens to be the day after my wedding, when I'll also be letting go of my maiden name.  Not to mention the anniversary of some Independence thing.

In the meantime, I have to consider whether marrying an American means that I need to let go of some other allegiances, like my English-ness.  I guess I'll let you know, after the US - England World Cup game at the weekend.  Which reminds me, surely there's an app for that?  I better go check...

Rafting the Canyon - Part II

Only connect!  That was the message of EM Forster's novel, Howard's End, published 100 years ago.  How things have changed.  We now connect on a daily basis; to the internet to check our e-mail, to our friends on Facebook (even if connecting with them in person happens less and less) and via telephone, text and Twitter.  For me at least, it is bliss for a little to disconnect.

Being completely off the grid is part of my pleasure  when I am in the Canyon (or indeed anywhere where cell towers don't exist, or better yet, don't work).  It's an opportunity to get back to basics, restore equilibrium and have a true vacation from the stress and strain that we all shoulder on a day to day basis, whether we realize it or not.  But there are dozens of reasons to go, and I hope that my 2-part musings have at least somewhat whetted your appetite if this was at all on your agenda.

The river community in the Canyon is small,  interconnected and passionate about the place.  One of our guides was on his 130th trip and counting.  Another was married to Kristin Huisinga, one of the authors of the definitive plant guide to the area.  We were lucky enough to meet her late in our trip, when her motorboat trip (filled with Hopi Indians respecting sites in the Canyon sacred to their people) caught us up on our penultimate day.  There are dedicated geologists, wildlife and fish specialists and,  to my great pleasure, even poets.

This year, the book that everyone was talking about was by Amil Quayle .  He does a far better job than I can of conveying the immensity of the place and the intensity of the passions it evokes.  So let's finish up with his words instead of mine:

"I speak now of that Grand Canyon
which lies within each of us.  There
are pre-Cambrian rocks at the center,
the core, and talus from yesterday's fall;
marble and granite grown hard from the pressure and heat of heartbreak and
passion; crumbling sandstone, layer on layer of sediment, sentiment piled on over a lifetime's experience."

Rafting the Canyon - Part 1

I turned both ankles at about mile 2 of the seven mile hike down the Bright Angel trail into Grand Canyon.  Eric had gone ahead, bent on a mission to see Phantom Ranch, so the helping hands that got me up again were those of relative strangers.  These were some of the people with whom we would spend the next 9 days on the Colorado river.

The pain as I stood up was intense.  But I was pretty sure that neither ankle had sprained, although thoughts about how I would cope getting on and off boats in the sometimes harsh environment of the Canyon over the next few days were scudding through my head as I reassured everyone that I was fine.  At the next rest stop, I gulped down a couple of ibuprofen, again proffered by one of my walking companions. And while I set no records, I was proud to be the first woman of the group down at the beach, despite the mishap.

There's nothing like a rafting trip for getting to know folk.  You eat, camp, raft and hike together.  You bathe in the river, drink from the river (the water goes through a filtration process) and you pee in the river.  It's surprising how quickly this becomes normal - although it would be less than the truth to say it ever becomes comfortable.  Private time is a non-existent concept.  If you don't like someone, it's hard to escape them entirely, given the group dynamic.  Your only option is to watch closely to see which boat they elect to travel in each morning, and pick another.

If this sounds like a recipe for disaster (or perhaps for a new sort of no-holds-barred reality TV show), then to some extent you have the right picture.  People of all ages, from different geographies, political backgrounds and religious perspectives are thrown into five boats eighteen feet long and have to make do.  Did I mention that it costs thousands of dollars to do this?

And yet it is a self-selecting group.  Everyone traveling on the trip we just took knew that they wanted to see America's most spectacular natural wonder.  For some, it was a new variety of outdoorsy vacation.  For others, an item to be checked off  their bucket list.  For most, whatever their original motivation in going, it became the trip of a lifetime as we ran rapids through nearly a billion years of geologic history.
 
The Canyon is also a great leveler.  Money, possessions and stuff don't mean much down there.  Helping unload the boat, lending someone an arm to climb over a rock and slicing up onions for dinner become far more important.  No-one is interested in your temperature controlled wine vault in an environment where a beer chilled by the river feels like the best thing you ever drank at the end of each day. 

That first evening, as my ankles swelled up to tennis ball size, I started to benefit from the shared knowledge of our new community.  The guides recommended "icing" my ankles in the 50 degree water of the Colorado.  An energy healer worked her magic on my right foot, which proceeded to heal at a rapid pace. (The left one is still swollen 10 days later).  And I took a dubious combo of ibuprofen and boxed red wine as a sleep aid.



Each year, some five million visitors marvel at a small portion of the Grand Canyon from the rim.  We were privileged to be part of the 25,000 or so who see the Canyon from the river.
I'm not sure if the supermom from Colorado, or the businessman from Georgia or the couple from Florida will ever return to raft Grand Canyon again.  But I know we will.  One of the guides on our trip put it succinctly: "I'm an addict" she said. 

There are worse vices.

Forgive us our Trespasses

Is it trespass, I wonder, to enter land your taxes have supported without authority?  That's what we did on Sunday, when we wantonly bypassed a California sign at Butano State Park, telling us that the park was closed.

As rule-breaking goes, it was a fairly insignificant infraction.  We strolled past the unmanned Ranger hut (normal fee $6).  We would have been happy to hand over the cash, but there was nowhere to leave it.  Feeling somewhat furtive, we continued down the main road, passing a Park Service employee who was toiling away at blowing leaves.  She neither questioned our presence, nor hindered our progress.

We cut off onto a trail which had degraded significantly through six months of disuse, and (presumably) no upkeep.  The banana slugs had taken over.  The redwoods towered over us, unconcerned by the plight of California's inability to balance its books. 

In the hour or so that we spent there, we passed a few other folk who had ignored the inhospitable sign at the entrance.  Curt nods were exchanged - nothing like the normal camaraderie of fellow hikers.  Clearly, we were all worried that the others might be undercover cops or whistleblowers, ready to run us out of the park. 

We passed through Pescadero on our way home.  It's a small town, with a famous inn, Duarte's Tavern, a saloon straight out of a western (with real 19th century heritage), which happens to serve splendid straightforward American fare and fabulous pies.  A slice of ollalieberry pie to the good, we headed home.

It just happened that evening that PBS was showing a special on the life of David Brower: Monumental, in the run up to Earth Day this Thursday.  Brower is probably the most important environmentalist since John Muir, having run campaigns within and without the Sierra Club, most famously ensuring that no further dams would mar the Grand Canyon.  The scale of his achievements is extraordinary.  He was famously unwilling to compromise, which eventually meant that he ran afoul of some of the great organizations (including the Sierra Club) that  he led and served.

His passion to preserve the glorious natural beauty of the American west is the kind of legacy which we should all be lucky enough to leave.  And while I am certain that the great state of California could and should trim some bureaucratic fat, I am just as sure that cutting off access to our natural resources is a lousy way to do it. 

On the Kindness of Strangers

When purchasing patio furniture, most folk don't think about transporting the stuff  from another continent as personal luggage on an airplane.  Usually a quick trip to Home Depot will suffice.  Not for your loyal correspondent.  On my recent trip to Britain, I was captivated by a particularly fetching set of a table, two chairs and a parasol (in Tiffany Blue!) which I saw in John Lewis.

At a mere £89, it was a deal too good to pass up, despite the logistical difficulty of carrying an additional 35lbs of weight to Heathrow, not to mention figuring out how to get the box into my VW Beetle at the other end.

Which is where the decency of a bunch of folk who didn't know me comes in.  From the moment I got to the British Airways check-in area, the good karma started.  

Airlines, as you know, love to gyp you for extra baggage.  But an amused looking BA attendant suggested that I head over to the plastic wrap section and make my two large cardboard boxes one.  She explained that BA charges by piece of luggage (rather than by total weight), so the fewer bits I had, the less it was going to cost me.  I've always wondered who uses the plastic wrap service, but have to confess that I was a very happy customer.  For just £6, my two parcels were magically combined, saving me nearly £40 in extra bag charges.  You've got to admire the current Southwest advertising campaign ("Bags Fly Free" - see example above), which  seems cheesy until you've paid a fortune to check luggage!

Having temporarily disposed of my encumbrances, I decided to reward myself with lunch at Carluccio's (only possible before you go through security in Terminal 5, so leave yourself enough time, foodies, otherwise you will be faced with the usual dismal airport choices).


At San Francisco airport, the box emerged from the oversized luggage area looking somewhat battered.  I soon discovered why.  The customs officer, who initially eyed me with deep suspicion (British accent, American passport with a huge box of "patio furniture" - you can see his point), saw that someone before him had opened the box to ensure that the contents were as stated on the outside.  Now laughing heartily at my dedication to bargain-hunting, he waved me through a fast track line, and I navigated my cart towards the long term parking bus stop.


I wasn't quite there when the bus hoved into view.   Dashing the last few yards, with the box careening dangerously from side to side on the luggage cart, I arrived panting and anxious at the bus.  The days when the driver would help you with luggage appear to have disappeared, and I faced the first real test of my journey.  Could I lift the box the 2 feet up to the bus?  No need.  Two male passengers (who didn't know each other) bounced off the bus and hefted it up for me.  Brilliant.  The only remaining challenge was getting the box into the Bug.

The guys got the box off the bus at the garage, and then disappeared into the distance to retrieve their cars.  But the female parking attendant (yes, the parking attendant!) volunteered to watch the box for me while I collected the Beetle and drove it down to the ground floor.  The two of us hefted it into the back seat (if you've ever seen the trunk of a Beetle or a Mini, you'll understand why), and I attempted to raise the convertible roof.  Which was a trick too far.  Thank God it wasn't raining.


So, wrapping a scarf around my head in Grace Kelly style, I ventured out into the somewhat chilly San Francisco evening, and drove the 90 minutes home along the freeway with the top down and the box firmly in my rear view mirror.  I fancy that I saw a few of my fellow drivers looking at me askance, but I knew that it would all eventually be worthwhile.  After all, I have what I am fairly certain is the only set of this particular style of (FSC certified) patio furniture for approximately 6000 miles.  And a mad story about the kindness of strangers to go with it.

Not Just Fish and Chips

British food gets a persistent, and undeservedly bad rap by lots of folks who haven't eaten it recently.  In the States, it sometimes feels as if I am a one woman defender of Britain's culinary reputation.  You can't imagine how often I have had to rebut the charge that Britain's sole contribution to international cuisine is fish and chips.  That's a bit like saying that the only thing America has brought to the global table is the quarter pounder.  (See, it stings, doesn't it?!)...

In fact, in the last 20 years, Britain has become one of the most successful exporters of celebrity chefs around the world.  If you haven't heard of Gordon Ramsay by now, then you have either been residing under a rock for the past 10 years or don't own a televisual appliance.  Nigella Lawson may be less familiar, but those who listen to NPR will recognize her from her regular contributions to Morning Edition.  Jamie Oliver, long a British media darling, is about to challenge America's obesity epidemic in an ABC tv show which debuts this Sunday called Jamie's Food Revolution.  Yup, despite more than 230 years of Independence, there are still Brits ready to tell y'all what to do, or at least, how to eat.

Britain's own foodie revolution has become so well acknowledged that even the French are willing to give us some credit.  Perhaps he was punch drunk from receiving more Michelin stars, but Alain Ducasse, arguably France's most famous chef, recently declared London to be the restaurant capital of the world.

Of course, every stereotype has some grain of truth in it.  And in the case of Britain's dire food rep, I think that it is that if you want good food, you'll have to pay for it.  Americans, in particular, aren't used to this.  You can eat in a diner in Nowheresville, USA and often come away having spent only a few dollars, and having had a good meal.  That's far more difficult in Britain, where savvy restaurateurs and an increasing number of gastropubs have discovered that those in search of good food often have deep pockets.

And so it was that for my Mum's birthday, celebrated last Saturday, she and I ventured out to the village of Bray, located about 30 miles west of London on the river Thames.  Bray is tiny (a high street and not much more), but boasts 7 Michelin stars across three well known restaurants.  The one I had picked, the Waterside Inn, had three of those stars, and a menu that weighed in at a hefty £109 (about $164) per person.  Before wine.

Reader, we loved it.  (Just as well, really, since that meal will have to do her for the next few birthdays as well).  We ate lobster and foie gras, roast duckling and plum souffle, drank champagne and red wine and generally had something of a Bacchanalian afternoon which started at 1pm and didn't finish until five.  I'm happy to say that service and tax were included, otherwise I might at this stage be entirely bankrupt.  Fortunately, by the time the bill came, the Chef, Monsieur Roux (solid English name that) had visited our table to wish my Mum the very best (see picture above).   Which is probably what we were paying for all along.

Lest I have struck fear and despair into the hearts of those soon to visit Britain (not least my future relatives, who will be there in July), I should clarify that you only pay through the nose for the very best.  Tasty, fresh and inexpensive grub abounds - it just helps to know where to go to get it.

As for the naysayers who continue to doubt that there is any British food worth eating, then I say: Cease and Desist!  It's time to wake up and eat the strawberries.  (Preferably at Wimbledon, with cream).  Yum.

Surf's Up

Surfing is a bit like jobhunting.  Even though there are a lot of you out there, your chances of success or failure come down to your own ability, and a little bit of luck.  It requires a lot of paddling, alone. Far from catching the wave, all the hard work is too often rewarded with a drenching hit of cold water knocking you off the board.

But sometimes, (and this is why people persevere at both sports), you catch a beautiful wave and cruise on top of it all the way into the shore. 

Down at Capitola beach, I was privileged to see three surfers standing parallel to one another on the same wave this week.  I couldn't take a photo (no camera), and the whole thing lasted only a minute.  But trying to find a picture for this post to capture what I saw made me realize how rare it was. 

I wish that I could tell you that the point of my (somewhat tortured) metaphor is that I  have cruised into my own dream job.  Not yet.  But perhaps the three surfers were a harbinger, presaging something good to come.  Three very different opportunities opened up to me this week.  One is with a fascinating startup, which has the typical kinks associated with an early stage company, but has real potential; the second is a traditional consulting role, which wouldn't start for a few months, but which could see the revival in earnest of the Cakewalk company and the third is with a company that I would love to work for, in a field which I know little about.

None of them really fits the mold of what I have sketched in my mind as my "dream job", but perhaps I have painted myself into a corner, by failing to imagine what I could or should do next, simply because I haven't done it before. 

In the six months since I moved west, I have had my ego drenched a couple of times.  But whatever comes next (whether one of these opportunities, or something just around the corner that is better yet), I am looking forward to the exultation which comes with riding the wave.

Health Kick

It's still a source of wonder to me that I live within jogging distance of the ocean.  And as I set off yesterday in shorts, (Shorts! in February!) I reflected that but for my move west, I would have been getting my exercise on the east coast shoveling sidewalk snow.

Not that California doesn't offer snow opportunities of course.  We just returned from our ski trip to Squaw Valley (still celebrating their Winter Olympics 50 years after the event), where the powder base was terrific and being replenished as we skied.  We tackled all of the possible intermediate areas, covering 13 lifts in a day and a half before settling down to chips and guacamole along with 106 million of our fellow Americans for the most watched SuperBowl ever.   Black runs were off piste (so to speak), since I'm a fairly lousy skier in the first place, and the last thing that either Eric or I need is a broken anything five months before the wedding.

For the folks in New Orleans, I am guessing that mardi gras this year may be even wilder than it normally is.  For us, it marks the beginning of a health kick.  The Christmas pounds seem to be obstinately staying put on my hips, despite my efforts to banish them.  Radical action is needed.  So, for the first time in years, I shall be giving up something for Lent.  Alcohol.

Lest any of my friends think that I have suddenly "got" religion, I should assure them that my church-going is right where it has always been; lax.  It's just that, having missed the opportunity to have an ascetic January, Lent provides a convenient length of time (helpfully punctuated in mid-March by a wedding dress fitting for motivation) to make a real difference to my errant waistline. 

Forty days is an awfully long time not to have any wine, so it is possible that I may allow myself three wishes, Aladdin-style, when the alcohol ban can be lifted.  I found on a previous abstinence bout that the most challenging time was not my regular wine with dinner, but going out with friends for parties.  Celebrating someone's birthday with a sparkling apple juice sucks.  Hence the idea of a few "get out of jail free" cards during the period.

In the meantime, there are some treats to look forward to, even if they don't strictly fall within the new healthy regime.  This weekend, we will be heading over to meet our local celebrity, Marina Sousa, a cakemaker who has been featured on Oprah and the Food Network, and who works close by in Capitola, to taste some of her creations as a possibility for our California celebration over Labor Day weekend.

And Valentine's Day came early for me this week, when Eric ordered the pizza pictured above on a night when neither of us felt like cooking.  Cheesy?  Perhaps.  Cute? Definitely!  Especially when you know that the name of the pie place is www.pizzamyheart.com.

The Taxman Cometh

It's the time of year when envelopes start plopping into the mailbox from all one's financial institutions with weird codes that only the IRS could devise.  Interest income, earnings, mortgage interest, retirement accounts - each has its own special number so that the government can keep tabs on what we're worth, (and how much they can wrest from us).

My taxes this year will be more complex than ever before.  The sale of the Brooklyn chateau generated a capital gain which just falls within the guidelines to exempt me from paying tax (I hope).  Doubtless, I shall have to jump through myriad TaxCut hoops to prove that to the government's satisfaction.

Then we bought a house, just in time to benefit from the expansion of the First Time Homebuyer Tax Credit.  Now some of you may be smelling a rat here.  How can I be a First Time Homebuyer, if I just sold a house, right?  Well, I'm not.  But Eric is.  And apparently, I may be able to take his deduction (you should know he is on board with this).  If I've lost you at this point, and you're still interested, there's a Wall Street Journal article on the subject here.  Even if I can't take his deduction, then at the very least I should be able to get the existing homeowner deduction, which Congress handily passed just before our sale went through.


So far, so good.  But moving state will complicate matters.  Even though I haven't worked since I've been in California,  those of you who have been following these posts will know that I also have some investment income to declare.  Remember my foray into the stock markets?  Well it transpires that I am a reasonably successful "day trader".  Although I have yet to come anywhere close to replacing my former income (sadly), I have made enough to afford a wee ski trip to Squaw Valley over SuperBowl weekend (yippee!).  At least, I think I have.  I haven't yet worked out how much of my investment gains will be clawed back, which may yet come as a nasty surprise.

At any rate, I am delighted to report that my stock market experimentation has so far yielded a realized return some 10 times greater than the interest I am earning in my savings account. So thank you, Mr Buffet, I'm glad I took your advice.  (Also glad I bought your shares, as they are up a healthy 4.9% from September as of today's close)!

One thing I have learned, since venturing into the treacherous seas of short term investing, is that it requires a very strong stomach.  While the markets have not yo-yo'd in quite the same way that they did in the fall of 2008, there have been a couple of times when I thought I'd be writing off losses at tax time.  Fortunately, I appear to have dodged that bullet this year.

I haven't yet set aside the time to evaluate the full situation, but I am hoping that Uncle Sam may give us a windfall this year, which we'll obviously put towards the wedding.  After all, the tax code is largely designed to favor married couples, a throwback to the traditional view that marriage reinforces a stable society.

My investment goal for the next six months is already determined, however.  I have a (rather expensive) wedding dress to pay for.  You'll know if I made it when we post the wedding photos in July...

So Long, Tiger

It's a bizzare coincidence that just as I am finally taking up golf, the game's most famous ambassador, Eldrick Tont Woods (aka Tiger) has taken an indefinite leave. I'd like to think that he was scared of the competition, but think it is unlikely given that my seven year old niece has a better game than I do, and has certainly played more.

On the face of it, the biggest reason for me not to join the game informally dubbed "the sport of businessmen" is cost. I'm between jobs, and golf is one of the most expensive sports to play. With clubs, clothes, green fees, balls, tees, lessons and practice on the driving range to purchase, it's a wonder that most amateur players aren't entirely bankrupt. Fortunately, one of the most costly items (the clubs) was generously taken care of at Christmas, and I got a natty pair of golf shoes too. The rest of it is still to come, though, and having jotted down a back-of-the-envelope budget, I'm expecting to be at least $100 a month poorer as a result of my new hobby.

But the other side of the coin is the long list of benefits that go with the sport. It turns out that golfing is a bit like a secret society, with vast numbers of friends confessing to being lifelong golfers, now that they know that I'm joining the club (not a literal club - definitely can't afford that -but the golfing community).

• Golfing involves a pleasant amount of fresh air and exercise. It's just enough to feel like a mild workout - particularly if you skip the buggies - but does not require the somewhat manic training schedule mandated by participating in triathlons and IronMans - which far healthier friends on the east coast have recently taken up.
• I shall finally be able to participate in golfing tournaments, which I have been turning down for several years now while working, on the basis that it would be jolly boring as a non-player.
• We live close to some of the finest golfing in the world, including the home of this year's US Open, Pebble Beach, and Cypress Point (see picture of the 15th hole right for why one might want to golf)
  
• Our wedding celebration in California is taking place at Pasatiempo Golf Course, which was designed by the same Yorkshireman who created Augusta National, Alister MacKenzie.

This last reason provides quite a good incentive to put my best foot forward and try to improve my game before September. One of the perks of spending oodles of money on a reception with the Pasatiempo folks is that they will allow us to play the course for a little less than their normal eye-popping rate. I'm sure that the groom and his best man were thinking that they might take advantage of that. But they'd better watch out. I'm sure I can fit in a game of golf before my hair appointment...

My lessons commence next Wednesday (booked the first one on 13th for luck). Thwack!