Let's get ready to Rundle!

You know you live in a conservative city when the council erects giant bollards to stop office workers playing chicken across four lanes of peak-hour traffic.  And yet that's exactly what Adelaide has done in Grenfell Street, as I discovered this morning.

I can clearly remember the early days of my working life, channeling my mad Frogger skills to make it across the street from my office, to the pub/cafe/shops.  We travelled in packs back then - presumably figuring that even if just one of us made it to the pub, the journey would have been worth it.  And it was on that road that I learned that chivalry was dead in the ass - none of my male colleagues would ever proactively use their bodies as shields to block traffic from careening into me.  Jerks.  But it was the way of life back then.  The softer, pudgier office worker of this new generation has been denied the white-knuckle lunchtime dash, and instead is forced to use the (wait for it) pedestrian crossings.  Eeek, the horror!

But I complied with Adelaide's road rules and wandered across the lights with Rockin' this morning, to enjoy a couple of strong and tasty coffees at Pepper's Espresso Bar in Regent Arcade.  I'm still annoyed they shut the ancient cinema in this Arcade, but I remember participating in the closing celebrations and watching a digital restoration of "The Seven Year Itch" there with my aunt.  But I digress.  The catch-up with Rockin' was great and I got to reminisce about my old office stomping grounds, and play a bit of "where are they now?" about colleagues from the past.  God Bless Rockin' for keeping her fingers firmly on the pulse.

I then dashed through the Rundle Mall shops and bought the Cellini purse I'd been looking for since I got home (red and leather - two of my favourite things!).  I can't find a picture online to show you, but trust me that it's gorgeous.  Then I went into Peter Alexander to try and find some pyjamas to take back with me.  I was  very disappointed to realise that the cute, frilly nightgowns looked frightful on me.  Even sucking my stomach in was a waste of time (and tricky to maintain during sleepy time).  So I turned my attention to full pyjamas instead.  Many of the latest PJ pants had elastic around the ankles.  The embryonic shop assistant tried to help by telling me, "oh they are HAREEEEEEM pants".  No.  Just, no.  Needless to say I inched out of the store, wondering who would think of the children.

In the depths of my despair I was ever so fortunate to rendez-vous at The Mall's Balls with Don't-call-me-Chef, my Chicago chum whose culinary expertise is truly impressive.  We had a delicious lunch and a great catch-up at Al Fresco in the east end of Rundle Street.  I used to go here way back in the day, but it was really only good for gelati and coffee.  Now the restaurant boasts an extensive Italian menu and a delicious wine list; both of which I sampled today.  The Lobethal Road shiraz we shared was particularly good.

To continue the fine tradition of days spent stuffing my face, I was grateful for a few hours' rest at home before tackling a hot and spicy laksa at the gorgeous Danny's Thai Bistro on the Norwood Parade.  Sharing a tasty meal with two of my favourite fellas on the planet was such a treat - and what's not to love about spicy, flavourful laksa washed down with crisp and ice-cold Singha beers?!  Blissful.

Forsaking the hareem pant pyjamas for a pair of winter flannelette ones, I'm grateful for the peppermint tea at home and a semi-early night before tackling another busy day of catch-ups and yet more eating.  When I was leaving New York I joked about having to join Weight Watchers upon my return.  Somehow that throw-away comment doesn't seem quite so funny now...

The Bottomless Pit

You know what woke me up this morning?  My stomach rumbled.  This beggars belief, as all I have been doing for the past 48 hours is eating.  And yet there it was, a low but insistent rumbling, urging me to get out of bed and find coffee and food, pronto.  Naturally I obeyed.

Yesterday was Family BBQ Day and you've got to love those.  Plus the persistent rain we've had over this past week gave way to a stunning day.  The sun was shining but there was a bit of a chill in the air, but still good enough for us to mill around outside and graze on delicious antipasto platters and silly conversation.  In a way the family had come together to celebrate my visit home but it also doubled as the official commemoration of my aunt's half-century on this planet.  Like me, my aunt was in denial about her birthday but we made a fuss of her anyway.  Gifts a-plenty and a delicious sausage sizzle fired up by J-Train (my cousin, and he of the recent visit to New York fame).  The pavlova for dessert was super delicious too.  And the big surprises of the day was my cousin A-Train who had come down from Brisbane for the celebration, and K&K who made the drive over from Whyalla to visit us.  It was great to have all the family together.  And even though G-Man arrived late and had lost his soccer game, at least he scored the only goal of the match.  Most excellent.

I was on my best behaviour yesterday too, restricting myself to a couple of glasses of bubbly, ingested quite late in the afternoon, and I think this restraint helped fend off the food coma.  At least until the evening when we had hot chips & dim sims from the famous Blue & White cafe at North Adelaide.  Another South Aussie food icon ticked off the list.  

With a full belly after a family-filled day, I crawled onto the couch and wrapped myself in a blanket.  I was trampled by the puppy dog until she found a comfortable spot on top of me, and we both fell sound asleep.  I woke up at 2am to Justin Bieber banging on about the benefits of Proactiv, so I decided it was time to go to bed.  Puppy seemed equally content.

Baby gherkins, kangaroo, and not-so-high rollers

Baby sister and G-Man took their bridal party to dinner last night, as an early celebration for their first wedding anniversary.  I am still unclear why WE were the ones getting spoiled rotten, but I'm not one to question too much when a delicious meal is on offer.

We arrived early for our reservation in a private room at Barton's Restaurant, part of the beautiful and historic Caledonian Hotel at North Adelaide.  Me, Baby Sister, G-Man, and his brother elbowed up to the main bar for a couple of cleansing ales before the rest of the party arrived.  Ahh Crown Lager, how I had missed you.

Choosing what to have for dinner was a no-brainer for me.  My eyes zeroed in on the delicious kangaroo fillet with bush chutney.  I KNOW.  Amazing.  And I shared an antipasto platter with Baby Sister, remarking on the genius appearance of the cornichon (uh, that's baby gherkins, to you and me).

Our main meals took FOREVER to come out and G-Man was already crafting his scathing review.  When my roo arrived, I was not disappointed and quickly forgot the long wait.  I know, I'm so fickle.  Poor G-Man was not too impressed with his Bay Bugs pasta (and the scathing review got longer and longer), but I got the impression that everyone else was happy with their meals.  The empty plates were testament to that.  Beers, wines, and conversation flowed easily for hours.

After the meal and the goodbyes, we jumped back into Baby Sister's car and drove to a popular Adelaide club called Zhivago.  I only know the club is popular because G-Man's brother and cousin go there and they would know.  Plus there were two lines of patrons outside, which tells you something I think.  Anyway the club's website tells me that Zhivago first opened in 2003.  The fact that I only just heard about the place last night tells you something about how cool I am (NOT).  Totally out of my depth.  But in an effort to look cool, we actually lined up for a while outside the club, me moaning loudly about having sore feet and being about 1,000 years older than all the other patrons.  Nobody was paying much attention.  The line inched forward at a dead snail's pace, I kept rolling my eyeballs, and finally G-Man and Baby Sister had had enough and were happy to admit defeat.

We left G-Man's brother and cousin lining up and me, G-Man and Baby Sister did the skedaddle across the street to the Adelaide Casino.  When did the place get so popular?  I was pretty disoriented in there - all the renovations and glitzy lights made it impossible for me to get my bearings.  It was like being at Hogwarts - escalators going sideways, and loads of people in all manner of dress and undress.  And the crowd in the dancefloor/bar last night!  Crazy.  Admittedly, it wasn't exactly the creme de la creme of society by that time of night, but I will concede that what the crowd lacked in teeth, they more than made up for in enthusiastic dancing!  The people-watching was excellent.  I was fortified by vodka at this point, and I decided to rest on the velvet lounges to stop my sore feet killing me any more.  Baby Sister tried to inspire G-Man into a dance-off with her, but he was not to be moved.  So she rocked out around him instead.  It was great.

When KFC drive-through was closed on the way home, we called into McDonald's for some delicious chicken nuggets that restored me somewhat.  I think I collapsed into bed at 3am, which is totally out of character for me.  But the night was so much fun, the time just sped by.  I just hope Baby Sister and G-Man enjoyed their first anniversary celebration as much as I did.

Chow Chow

So I've been home for a week already and I am not really sure where the days have gone.  Jetlag certainly kicked my butt for the first few days, and being back in my own bed really helped knock me out.

Last night me & baby sister went to J&D's house for what proved to be an AMAZING home-cooked meal.  All three courses, and the sparkling and still wines that accompanied them, combined beautifully to make a truly delicious dinner across the board.  Entree was pan-seared scallops on a bed of fresh, crunchy asparagus with a drizzle of lime mayo on top.  Main course was pistachio-crusted rack of lamb with roasted potatoes and the best green beans I think I've ever had.  But the piece de resistance was clearly the dessert - a delicious Snickers treat, of a chewy and almost creamy meringue-like base, drizzled with vanilla, with chocolate ganache/mousse, home-made peanut caramel and a delicious piece of chocolate across the top.  Each layer was sweet, salty, and SO delicious.  I also thought it was inspired to have a D'Arenberg white sparkling dessert wine alongside.  I know the red Stump Jump well, but I'd never seen their sticky sparkling white before, much less tried it, and I thought it was great.  Not too bubbly, and not too sweet - it just complemented our meal beautifully.  Cue the crash-landing in bed and deep, undisturbed slumber.

Early this morning I went to a cafe at Mawson Lakes with J&G, where we met up with some friends for breakfast.  All it takes to make me happy these days is a full cafe breakfast of strong coffee, sourdough bread, crispy bacon and poached eggs, and I am totally content.  When did I get so easy to please?!  And more than that, how the hell did I fit all that in after last night's amazing spread?  Crikey. How lovely to just sit and relax with some good people, great food, and tasty coffee.  I held back and didn't lick my plate clean, but I was certainly tempted.

We called in afterwards and visited Granny, which was really nice.  Especially so as she had been out to purchase some sparkling wine for the occasion.   She chugged her glass back (so THAT'S where I get that from!), and declared it to her satisfaction.  And for once she didn't say I looked puffy, or that I needed to stop putting on weight.  It was a very lovely visit for sure.  Maybe we should encourage glasses of champagne for every meeting from now on?!

Whether it was the food, sparkling, or drizzly weather outside, by the time we left Granny's I was starting to fade.  But we had one more stop to make - this time to Bunnings.  Ahh the Australian hardware store.  Is there any place like it on a weekend?  And Bunnings is just crazy - rows upon rows of tools and lumber and paintbrushes and any manner of thing that you never knew you needed for DIY projects.  We found what we needed and I followed my nose to the Para Hills Netball Club sausage sizzle in the carpark.  Despite the sheer amount of gluttony I'd demonstrated in the past 24 hours, I still found room for a sausage and onions with Masterfoods sweet chillli sauce.  OH.  HELL. YEAH.

We're one year on from baby sister's wedding (already?!) and the bridal party is getting together tonight for an anniversary dinner.  Somehow I will find more room in my ever-expanding guts for tasty local food and wine.  Report to follow - about the food I mean, not my guts.  As you were.

Great Southern Land

The flight upgrade was always going to be a long shot, really.  I didn't have the frequent flyer points to upgrade myself, so any chance of a berth in business class was always going to depend on the kindness of strangers.  And hey, it was my choice to fly overseas on my birthday (in an effort to deny the very occurrence) so I could hardly milk the birthday for the sake of the upgrade, right?  And yet part of me still wanted to try.  The idea of lying down for the whole flight had loads of appeal.  Ugh it was a line call.

As it turned out, Australia's national airline staff at JFK apparently hate their jobs and their lives, and they are quite sour-pussed women all round, so I wasn't getting any love there.  In fact, the girls were seriously power-tripping the day I flew home.  They declared my suitcase 3kg over the limit and told me I had to repack it.  No "HEAVY" sticker would be affixed to my luggage - there was simply no option but to repack it.  So I could have 2 suitcases worth 23kg each, but not one suitcase at 26kg.  So airline tripper #1 throws a cheap-ass stripey plastic bag at me and tells me to syphon about 3kg of my clothes into it.  I was seriously put out, and she knew it.  But I had a plane to catch and I had to oblige.

And so it was that two hours before my flight home, I was on my hands and knees at the JFK business class counter, trying to discretely repack 3kg of clothes into some ridiculous zippered bag.  A beefy airline staffer came out of nowhere and tried to fling open the lid of my suitcase, thinking that would make it easier to repack.  I was already suffering serious indignity and how dare he think I wanted the contents of my luggage visible to everyone.  So I snapped at him that I was fine and he should seriously just back off and leave me alone.

Any chance of an upgrade for good behaviour fizzled to nothing.  Truth be told, I surprised they didn't re-assign my seats back near the toilets or worse, by the screaming kids.  Despite my disintegrating mood and attitude towards humankind, I was buoyed by the promise of the airport lounge and the free alcohol therein.  Frequent flyer status is still good for some things.

Having hurled my lighter suitcase and second-class second bag onto the luggage carousel, the pencil-skirted airline staffer checked my belongings quickly.  She was as keen to get rid of me as I was to leave.  I shot her some serious stink-eye and headed through security.  Do you know that this whole way home, the only airport person who even acknowledged my upcoming birthday was the passport security lady at JFK?  Crazy.  JFK lady quietly wished me well, and had the good sense to agree with me that a birthday spent at 37,000 feet and straddling the international date line probably didn't count anyway.  A kindred spirit!

The airport lounge was busy but the white wine was cold, and the pretzels crunchy.  The world was ever-so-slowly righting itself.  Pretty soon I was boarding the plane for LA.  I was hemmed into my window seat by two very large, very old women.  No chance of getting out to pee.  I conjured thoughts of deserts.  A couple of movies and a bottle of red later, and we arrived once again in the only Diet Coke-free airport I've ever known.  LAX is a shithole, no matter which way you slice it.  Thank heavens I only had to stopover for a couple of hours.

Before long we were back onboard and headed for Sydney.  I was again squished by the window, but this time my travelling companions were a young couple returning from a 60 day road trip from New York to San Francisco.  We chatted amicably until dinner arrived.  I devoured my meal, passed out, and woke up at breakfast time.  I spent my birthday unconscious.  It was awesome.

Sydney airport greeted me with a super-strong coffee (bliss) and a hot and greasy bacon sandwich (ditto).  When I got sick of screaming kids, I retreated to the airport lounge and wondered why nobody has opened up a salon to give you a quick hair wash and blow-dry in between flights.  Someone could make a bucket of money doing that, don't you think?  And if someone was there to put a fresh coat of make-up on your shattered face, so much the better.

Adelaide hasn't changed a bit and I wouldn't have it any other way.  The new airport carpark is a bit fancy and so far a mystery to all the motorists who can't seem to find a) their cars; or b) the exits.  But once we were on the road it was all good.

Seeing Annie-bot the puppy dog was wonderful and I was so relieved she still remembers me.

The first couple of days back home have passed by in wine-and-jetlag-fuelled narcolepsy, punctuated by brief catch-ups with family and friends.

Tucking into Cheezels, but pacing myself until the meat pies, Coopers, and pasties come out.  Dinner last night at the super-tasty Panacea and yet more Aussie wines, sparkling and otherwise.  It has been a hedonistic yet slothful couple of days.

Don't Stop Till You Get Enough

This past weekend I took a vacation from normalcy and actually got a social life.  I know, right?  But there was just something about my mood this weekend, combined with the gorgeous weather that New York was offering, and I was primed to get out amongst the people and have a really good time.  Which is precisely what I did.

We already know that Saturday was spent concocting a Plan B on the run, when my meditation instructor called in sick.  When I got home late-ish Saturday afternoon, I half-watched some of the Olympics on TV but then gave up and retired to my air-conditioned room to make a me-sized dent on the bed and watch an episode of "The Hollowmen" on DVD.  I swear that show is freakishly accurate.

I was seized by a bizarre compulsion to go out and despite the weather threatening to turn bad, I texted Westo and said it was up to her to devise a social plan.  Yes, I outsourced the planning but I knew that if one of us was going to have a clue what people did on Saturday nights in this town, it would be Westo.  You know it's true.  And I wasn't totally mean, I dictated the night's parameters: we had to have pasta and red wine, and we had to stay in Westo's neighbourhood.  Ever the good sport,  my friend accepted the challenge.

So fast-forward an hour and we were standing on a street corner in the West Village, waiting for a table to open up at the gorgeous Malatesta Trattoria.  The little restaurant was packed, and had opened up all its side windows to usher in the fresh air.  Every now and again, fat droplets of rain splotched us, and the heavens were truly threatening to open up, so we had wimped out and decided not to take one of the (many) empty outdoor tables.  Instead, we alternately gave pleading looks and vicious stink-eyes to the diners inside, willing them to stuff in the last of their tasty morsels and surrender their tables to us.

The meal was incredible - simple, yet hearty and plentiful.  We had the Chianti, as planned.  And we split an appetizer of four assorted crostini (prosciutto & mozzarella, goats cheese, sauteed mushrooms, and tomato).  We shared a basic mixed side salad that complemented our respective pasta dishes beautifully.  We rounded out the meal with a rich, decadent chocolate mousse.   I didn't spill anything down the front of me, which was doubly helpful as I was wearing a new, sequinned top (operating on the assumption that wherever we went for dinner, if I dressed like the human disco ball, I'd be so dazzling that the hostess would give us a table faster).

Come Sunday morning I was up again, this time to head to brunch in NoHo (local speak for the area "north of Houston").  Shars had booked us a table at the popular "Five Points" restaurant.  As I had a coffee at home beforehand, I looked up the restaurant to make sure I knew how to get there, and a took a peek at their brunch menu.  Huevos Rancheros, kids!  I was so excited.  You know how I feel about this dish - it's fun to say, AND fun to eat.  I was sold.  Brunching is very popular here in New York and even though we had an early-ish reservation by the city's standards, as we enjoyed our meal in leisurely fashion, the restaurant filled up quickly and pretty soon there was a crowd of people waiting for tables, milling around in the bar area at the front.  My huevos did not disappoint, and I can't tell you how lovely it was to just shoot the preverbial sh*t with the girls and not be in a rush to go anywhere or do anything.

After our meal I could feel a food coma setting in, so we parted ways and I headed to the air conditioned sanctuary of my local cinema to soak up the new Batman movie.  It's a bit disconcerting to notice the NYPD presence outside of the movie theatres these days, but I guess we can't do much about that.  The only thing we can do is to enjoy the movie and I totally did.  Tom Hardy playing Bane was a great choice - even though you could only see his eyeballs.  That dude is a TANK.  I read afterwards that he put on 30lbs to play the role, and wore 3" shoe lifts, AND he did martial arts and other fighting training.  Ding ding ding!  Genius.  Even Anne Hathaway didn't make me want to vomit, so that's a good thing.

When you read my weekend back, I don't sound incredibly social but believe me, this was a jam-packed weekend by my usual standards haha.  I really had a wonderful time and I'd forgotten how nice it is for someone else to make your meals for you, and enjoy them in a restaurant setting.  I might have to make a bit more of a habit of this.

An impromptu communion

I stayed at work last night and watched the Olympic Opening Ceremony in the comfort of an air-conditioned office, with a couple of glasses of super tasty St. Kitts spiced rum & coke at the ready.  I liked the ceremony, except the bit about the NHS was confusing, and I couldn't decide whether Sir Paul McCartney was overcome with emotion or just crap.  I don't want to lean toward the latter, but I think I need to on this one.  It was pretty bad.  But whatever - on balance, I thought the ceremony was amazing and the way Danny Boyle did the Olympic cauldron was fantastic.  When I left the office a little before midnight, the air was still thick with heat and humidity - a muggy start to the weekend.  I could have walked home, but I split an air-conditioned cab with Hewie instead.

Morning came around really fast (you know I hate that).  I was up early though, because I was more determined than ever to commune with Buddha at the meditation center in Chelsea.  This was my third attempt at the 'serenity and enlightenment' thing but I was totally busted again.  I made it to the Centre, checked in with the security guard (apparently inner peace is a closely-guarded commodity), and was told by the receptionist that our teacher has the flu and class has been cancelled.  I was gutted.  And suddenly without plans, on the other side of town, at 10am on a Saturday.

I got back on the subway and visited Battery Park, where I got all cosy on a bench, feet up and all.  If I looked up, I was staring straight over the water at the Statue of Liberty.  And every so often, a beautiful breeze would come off the water and cool me right down.  I got through a couple of chapters of my book, a vanilla cream churro, and a Diet Coke and I was well relaxed.  I didn't even mind the hordes of tourists dashing back and forth in front of me, bee-lining for the cruise ships over to Liberty & Ellis Islands.

Having soaked up enough sun, I rode the #1 subway back uptown, this time alighting in the West Village.  I turned the wrong way out of the station (of course) before I righted myself and wound in and out of a couple of clothing boutiques and bookshops in the neighbourhood.  Without really knowing where I was, I stumbled across Meyers of Keswick, the little store that sells foods primarily from the UK but also from Canada.  The store also sells Vegemite, but at USD$4.95 for a teeny jar, I don't think I'll ever need it that badly.  I did purchase a pork sausage roll and a stick of strong peppermints, but otherwise I just had a bit of a browse (HP sauce, Branston pickle, Scottish tablet - ahh memories!).

Strolling along, I looked to my left and saw Pastis, where I had enjoyed some light refreshments a few weekends before (ironically, after the first failed attempt at meditation).  But seeing the restaurant finally gave me my bearings, for the first time in quite a while.

At that point, the number 14 bus nearly ran me over, so I hopped on board and took myself to the movies.  Have you seen "The Savages" yet?  Oliver Stone is the director and it's pretty full-on but I found myself really enjoying the story.  And I totally want to look like Salma Hayek when I grow up - she has aged so well and she's particularly fierce in this film.  And there is something lovely about sitting in an air-conditioned cinema, not having to think about what you're watching - just zoning out.

I suppose it's funny that all three times I've tried to go to the meditation center, my plans for a communion with Buddha have been thwarted.  And yet on all three occasions, I've found Plan B diversions that have been totally wonderful and left me feeling relaxed and happy.  It may not be a mantra-fuelled enlightenment, but I'll take it anyway.

The weather brings 'em out

I wasn't feeling all that well on Friday night so I put myself to bed relatively and slept like the dead.  That's always pretty good, except it often leads to an early wake-up the next morning.  Indeed, on Saturday my eyes flew open at around 7.30am and I honestly thought I was late for work.  Bummer.

Having finally established with myself that it was, in fact, the weekend I took my time making some breakfast and getting myself organised.  Then I took the bus to Central Park, but this time just to kick back and enjoy storytime.  I know it's supposed to be for kids, but I enjoyed it there last week and with no other pressing engagements yesterday, I figured why not?

Though it doesn't really look like it here, the Hans Christen Andersen statue was in the shade yesterday and it was really beautiful just sitting back on a bench to enjoy some stories.  Not having to think, not even having to pay attention - just letting the story wash over you.  I really am such a big kid at heart.  Again, like last week, this week's tales were not always G-rated and is it just me (in my advanced state of spinsterhood) but are there an alarming number of fairytales about needing to get married?  Even in Thumbelina - the poor little darling was not even as big as her mother's finger, but she had offers of marriage from a mole AND a fairy king (both of which she was seriously considering).  Interesting take-home message.  

It was around this time that I noticed a scruffy, unwashed fellow had joined the storytime group.  He stood about 6'1" and was dressed as a medieval wizard.  In flip-flops.  He had a stuffed dragon around his arm and I think he was vying for the kids attention.  But children aren't stupid, as we all know - they can spot a crazy person when they see one, and so they kept their distance.  No matter how good the man thought his costume was, the storytime lady told him he was scaring the children and he had to move along.  So he tried to share his fantasy stories with her instead - she was not impressed.

The stories finished around noon and the crowd dispersed.  I needed a coffee so I stopped by the Boathouse and then wound up back at Bethesda Fountain, which was now in full swing in terms of tourist numbers and trickling water.  In the case of the latter, behold:

Pretty, no?  What you can't tell from this picture is that just to the right of where I was standing, a busker was playing the saxophone.  He was treating us all to songs from "The Wizard of Oz".  I liked that very much.

Then, as often happens, the bubble burst and my stomach started to hurt again. I headed for home, stopping briefly to buy a sandwich to see if it would settle the pains.  It didn't.  Summer is the worst time to be feeling crummy, cause you know how beautiful it is outside and you know exactly what you're missing when you can't be part of it.

Sensual Assault

I was grateful for the slow start this morning.  My legs were feeling sore today, not just because of the Central Park walk yesterday but also because I thought that wearing 4" heels out to dinner was a good idea.  It wasn't.

So after a morning spent pottering around, I met up with JoHa at lunch time and we headed out to Brooklyn - her first visit there.  Earlier in the week Stokesy had told us about the big Bastille Day celebrations in Brooklyn, and we wanted to be part of it.  This article explains really well how the party has come to be so big out there - but even I wasn't prepared for the crowds and the heat and the craziness.

First of all we wandered up and down Smith Street, pausing to especially enjoy some of the petanque games going on in little makeshift sandpits.  This video was taken a couple of years ago, but shows you how well the Petanque championship is incorporated into the street party:

 

 As we got closer to the really cute Bar Tabac (on the list for a return visit in less-crazy times) we could hear some music playing and so we grabbed a sandwich, found a spot to sit (in the gutter, no less!) and enjoyed the show.  We didn't enjoy it as much as our acid wash jean-clad friend here, but we were grooving on the spot, trust me.

Some of the local vendors were out keeping people hydrated with what looked to be JUGS of sangria, but neither me nor JoHa partook.  Instead, we enjoyed a couple of delicious sandwiches prepared by Bien Cuit - the Smith Street Bakery.  You have to visit their website - just LOOK at the breads and cakes on offer...yummo!

For a change in culture, we then took the train to Coney Island.  The sun had stopped shining, but the heat and humidity continued unabated.  It was altogether rather unpleasant, but I was buoyed by the hope that maybe - just maybe - by the time we reached the boardwalk, the ocean breezes might improve conditions a bit.  On the way up to the boardwalk, we saw the famous Nathan's hotdog stand and THIS fantastic billboard:

I was quite dismayed that we'd only just missed the last hotdog-eating competition, but I'm so glad that Coney Island is already counting down the days until next year's.  Can you believe that in the 2012 competition, the winning male scoffed 68 hotdogs (and buns) in 10 minutes - for a grand prize of $10,000?!  Crazy.  The winning female  is also American, but she could only stuff in 45, but it was enough to clinch her the prize money AND a new record.  Her parents must be very proud.

I was fully expecting to see lots of stretchy pants and hotdog consumption once we hit the boardwalk, but nothing could adequately prepare me for the assault on my senses that ensued.  LOTS of wobbly flesh, and not nearly enough lyrcra (or other material) to cover it.  Shudder.  Families galore - the area was TOTALLY different to the last time I came here (which was, admittedly, out of season and at the start of winter).  But still it was astonishing to see the sand dotted with families; kids playing soccer; people flying kites; impromptu dance parties on the boardwalk - the place was just crawling with people.  And don't even ask me about the state of the public toilets; I just...I can't.

After a bit of a walk up and back, we grabbed a couple of lime sno-cones and took the subway back to Manhattan and the hustle-bustle of Herald Square (sensibly avoiding Macy's though).  The heat and humidity have not really gone anywhere though so if anyone needs me, I'll be hanging my head over the air-conditioner vent, or else laying in front of the open fridge, with my feet in the vegetable crisper.

Silver Lining

I was a bit unfair yesterday when I suggested that the week had been pretty rotten.  My half-day solo walk in Central Park was the highlight to that point, but there had been a number of really great episodes too that I think warrant some spotlighting.

Last weekend I went to see "Macbeth" at the Rose Theater, which is part of Lincoln Center but is located off-site, at the Time Warner Centre, opposite Columbus Circle and Central Park.  The best part is, its location affords you views like this, while you're waiting for the show to start:

See?  Gorgeous.  Now I'm a huge Shakespeare fan, no question.  But I'm not a purist in the least.  I love it when people mix Shakespeare up a bit and do funny, silly, or just different things with it.  So I was totally on board with the National Theatre of Scotland's production of "Macbeth", not least of which because it stars the super-talented and charming Alan Cumming.  This production is effectively a one-man show, that takes place in a mental institution.  Alan Cumming basically plays all the major roles of the play, and slips in and out of the characters pretty seamlessly.  If you know the story well, you can tell what character he's playing by where you're up to in the plot.  But if you don't, Cumming's characters have "tells", just like in poker, so you can tell who he's playing by his mannerisms. (smoothing his hair, eating an apple, talking all pompously-British).  The way he breathes life into the three witches is especially eerie, with slitty eyes and malicious grins - one step away from an all-out cackle.  With no intermission, the performance is pretty intense (to watch surely, but certainly to perform too).  I thought it was a really interesting take on a fantastic play.

In a similar vein, I seized an opportunity on Tuesday night to be Kell's "plus one" at a performance of "End of the Rainbow", a Broadway show I'd been wanting to see since I was in London and the play had been taking the West End by storm before coming across the Pond.  The musical drama takes place in London, and focuses on a string of comeback concerts that Judy Garland gives, three months before she is found dead of an accidental drug overdose.  The play is punctuated by beautiful songs (that are often painful to watch, when you realise what it took to get her out on stage in the first place).  Of course I cried, particularly when she closed the show with "Somewhere Over The Rainbow", but sang it so full of bitterness and pain, with her eyes full of tears, that it was a far cry from the innocent black-and-white Dorothy Gale on film.  The play was brilliant, and I'm so glad that Kell thought to take me with her.

My rather rotten week rounded out last night with an absolutely beautiful dinner with K and her aunt and uncle, at The Water Club, right on the East River and just a stone's throw from our apartment.  I had delicious bluefin tuna for my main meal, that was served with a crunchy rice cake, some freshly-roasted corn and some cool, refreshing tomato salsa.  Dessert was a butter pecan and toffee parfait (cause everybody likes parfait!), that was sitting on top of espresso coffee icecream. Yummo!  But the prize for theatricality definitely went to K's aunt and uncle, who cleverly ordered the Bananas Foster for dessert.  Our waiter prepared it table-side, and the heat that came off that explosion of rum and banana liqueur warmed my cheeks for minutes afterwards.  Whoa.  I almost had to check I still had both my eyebrows attached!  And despite the little slip-up in my Dry July fundraising campaign on Friday night (one glass of white wine, for which I paid my $25 fine), I climbed back aboard the rickety ole wagon and did not have a sip of alcohol at all yesterday - no matter how tempting the cocktail list looked.  An opportunity for another time, for sure!

Meditate on THIS!

Central Park NYC
Originally uploaded by Ronaldo F Cabuhat.

I stood Buddha up again today. I think that's twice I've missed the weekend meditation class. But you know what? The jolly old fella will forgive me because I have had the most beautiful Saturday morning just hanging out in Central Park.

The week just gone was pretty rotten, to be honest. I had been looking forward to the meditation class for the rare opportunity it afforded to sit still, put the week's events in perspective, and decompress. Then it occurred to me that if I got up early on Saturday morning, I could go back into Central Park, walk for a bit, and THEN get to the class. A double dose of meditation, if you will.

I got to bed early last night and awoke this morning in a really good mindset. Bagel and coffee for breakfast, huge bottle of water chugged, and I left the house by 8.15am. A quick cab ride to Central Park and I set off on my 10-mile walk around and around. The Park looks so different now than when I was last here - back on NYC Half-Marathon day in March. Green trees, fluffy squirrels, lush grass - it was just gorgeous. And so many dogs off their leashes - and young kids off theirs too - everyone, human and not, seemed in great spirits.

From behind my chic sunglasses and full face of make-up (of course!), I sweated it out up towards Harlem Hill. As I approached the ascent, I bumped into Flock from work, who was jogging down the hill in a super-fit style that put my strutting to some shame. We chatted for a bit and then went on our merry ways. I was rocking out to my iPod music list and trying very hard not to mouth the words along the way.

10 miles in, I found myself back at the Central Park boathouse and I grabbed a large coffee. I walked a little way to the little lake by 5th avenue and watched a family floating a little electric boat along the water. A few more sips of coffee and I figured I should probably start heading for home.

Rounding the little lake, I saw some chairs set up by the Hans Christian Andersen statue (did I even know that was there before??). Sure enough, the clock was almost striking 11am, and I realised I was just in time for Saturday Storytime. Kids and their parents were settling themselves onto the folding chairs, so I sat on a public bench close by and the story-tellers told their tales. The kids were completely spellbound even though some of the stories were a bit more adult than I thought would have been appropriate. Storytime Saturdays take place at 11am every week between early June and September, and I am sure they are very well-attended. Being a big kid myself, I certainly enjoyed it and would like to come back.

Storytime ended at noon so I figured I would head home. It was already clear that I wasn't going to make the 1pm meditation in Chelsea, so I didn't rush myself at all. I walked most of the way home, but grabbed a bus for the last 20 or so blocks, when my Boathouse coffee and chugged water started to catch up with me.

I really enjoyed my solitary morning, and I don't even care that the longest conversation I'd had out loud was when I ordered my coffee. My morning in the Park was quite enough to erase all the bad feelings and stress of the week that was. I may not have been doing guided meditation this morning, but I think this is what zen feels like anyway.

Sober contemplation

My weekend was quite solitary, as it turned out.  I don’t think I intended for it to be so at the outset; however, now that I think back on it, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Saturday was a bit of a slow start, after a tiring week and a Friday capped off with a couple of relaxed beers in the summer heat. I was supposed to do a half-day Buddhist meditation class on Saturday morning, and I was out of bed in time for it.  But when you combine a lack of motivation to get ready with missed buses and bad traffic, I got to the meditation centre quite late.  The monk greeted me with a serene “Namaste” and I realised too late that my altogether Catholic reply (“and also with you”) probably wasn’t totally ideal.   But what can I say?  I was flustered.  If the monk minded, he didn't show it.  Instead, he quietly explained that the workshop was already well underway and the students were participating in their first full meditation exercise.  I was welcome to go in of course - the choice was entirely mine.  I really did think about it, but I’d already missed so much of the preamble I didn’t want to dive in unprepared.  I didn't want to interrupt the other students either, so I decided not to enter.  The monk said he understood and suggested that I was welcome to come back next weekend instead.  I vowed to do so (and made a mental note to set my alarm clock at a more appropriate hour then).

Returning to the dry heat and sunshine of the early morning, I walked on the shaded side of the street from the meditation center to Chelsea Market.  The walk wasn’t far, but I purposely took myself a few blocks out of my way so I could wander through the cobbled side-streets of the Meatpacking District first.  I don’t know that area well at all, but I like the idea of being amongst what I feel is so "old New York" – close to the concrete jungle but nestled amongst converted warehouses, fashion boutiques and fabulous yet understated hotels.  But then something pricked my nostrils.  What was that smell?  At first I thought it was hay or horses (or both), but then the odour took on a distinct cow poo stink.  Is meat packing LITERALLY still done out here?  Gross.  I need to get my Google on for that one, no question.  And before you get all up in arms about me being a giant snob, it’s not that the smell of the countryside offends me, not in the least.  It’s just that it seemed so out of place – I couldn’t hear horses or cows, but I could certainly smell them, and that was really strange to me.  Nobody else seemed phased, so I wasn’t worried – just curious.  All that neighbourhood wonder aside, I was ultimately relieved to take refuge from the summer sun and rural smells and pop into the gorgeously urban warehouse that is Chelsea Market. 

At that time of the morning, the stores were only just waking up but I could already smell coffee beans, bacon and fresh fruit & vegetables.  Now THOSE are morning smells!  I picked up a take-away coffee Ninth Street Espresso and a grilled cheddar cheese and fig panini from Lucy's Whey and found an empty table at which to enjoy my breakfast and people-watching session.  I regretted not bringing my book, because I could have happily whiled away the time there.  To round out my market experience though, I made a quick stop at Anthropologie for me (where I bought a book, among other things), then a visit to Inglot cosmetics for my mum & baby sis.  As the market filled up with tourists and locals alike, I made my escape.

I was going to have a beer at the Standard Hotel, but it wasn’t yet midday and the beer garden was still closed.  So I walked around the corner to the famously chic eatery Pastis and I sat outside and ordered a glass of wine and a fruit salad instead.  An eclectic snack perhaps, but it certainly hit the spot and made me feel quite mellow.  I could still smell the farmyard, but I quickly accustomed to it.  Reading my book for about an hour, the sunshine had warmed me all the way down to my bones and it was time to move on.

I decided to cool off by visiting the cinema so I took myself off to see the new Pixar movie, “Brave”.   I loved it, even though (or perhaps because) my cinema was full of kids who were mesmerised by the movie.  Kids are so funny at the movies because they get so invested in them (look who’s talking!).  But every funny bit, they belly laugh and every sad bit, they stage-whisper their concerns to anyone who will listen, or to nobody in particular.  There is something really nice about that, because I think it shows they are really engaged in the movie.  Whatever – move along, old lady.

When I left the cinema around 6pm, the heat of the day was still very much there.  Fortunately the walk home wasn’t long, and before I knew it I was hanging my face over the living room air conditioner and enjoying an ice-cold beer from the fridge.  I ended up having two beers that night, knowing they would be my last for at least a month. I’ve signed up to the Dry July challenge in Australia.  Not only is this a health and well-being challenge, it’s also a fundraising opportunity with the proceeds going to cancer research in Adelaide (self-selected, as it is my home town).  I will definitely need all the help and encouragement I can get on this month-long path to sobriety so if you are feeling particularly generous, please donate here.

Sunday morning was a long and languid affair, with no alarm clock to wake me up.  I munched a home-made breakfast of bagel & avocado, a strong coffee, orange juice, and yoghurt and fruit.  It was all very tasty and made all the more delicious by the fact I was in my pyjamas, on the couch, in an air-conditioned room.  It was all so good.  I thought about doing the laundry, but that’s about as far as I got on that task. 

Time sped by, as it tends to do on Sundays, and next thing I knew I was hitting the streets to get to Times Square to see “One Man, Two Guvnors” at Irving Berlin’s Music Box Theater.  If there’s one thing you don’t want to do in New York EVER, it’s go to Times Square in the middle of summer on a weekend.  It is like the mouth of hell, only worse.  What a treat it was to escape that madness and hide out in a chilly Broadway theatre and laugh myself stupid to some slapstick and farcical British comedy.  James Corden definitely deserved his recent Tony Award for Best Actor - he was fantastic!  But the entire ensemble cast was great too and they all put on a really good show, with just as much improvised comedy as scripted, which was a lot of fun.

A nap on the sofa on Sunday evening was the perfect prelude to a quiet, booze-free night in.  With stomach, heart and head completely happy after a lovely weekend, I gave myself an early night and tried not to think too much about Monday morning.

Why men and women can't be friends

Nora Ephron died today.  She was 71 years old.

I've been a bit quiet on the blogging front lately.  But I figure that for a woman like Nora Ephron, a writer and director whose life and reputation were shaped by words, I ought to spare a few of my own in memory of her.

I have loved Nora Ephron's work for a really long time.  Sure, she and her sister Delia were, creatively-speaking, a powerhouse pair whose collaborative work I saw in New York only recently.  But it was Nora's work that resonated with me the most.

Nora knew how to breathe life into quirky but wonderful female protagonists, even when film directors insisted on casting Meg Ryan to play them. Groan.  Then again, I can't imagine anyone else playing Sally Albright these days, so that just goes to show what I know about these things.  And of course "When Harry Met Sally" gave me a favourite script as well as a favourite movie soundtrack, all in one fell swoop.  And who could forget THAT scene in Katz's Deli?  Iconic.

I will still watch "Sleepless in Seattle" any time cable TV chooses to play it, rainy day or not.  And as Norah taught me in that very movie (which she wrote and directed), "it rains nine months of the year in Seattle".  That movie also taught me where Baltimore is, especially in relation to Seattle.  And how can you knock a movie that pays blatant, unapologetic homage to "An Affair to Remember"?!  I mean, seriously.  Kindred spirits.

So the next time I'm on a plane, I will think of Nora.  I will order a regular tomato juice, not too much ice, filled up about three quarters, and then add a splash of Bloody Mary mix - just a splash, and add a piece of lime, but on the side.  You know it's true.

4 Bars + 1 Block = Happy Girl

So yesterday was Father's Day in the US so when I made the brunch reservations, I was a little nervous that the restaurant would be crawling with noisy families and squawking children.  Not so, as it turned out.  In fact, I think all the families must have been and gone hours before me & Shars even got to Gravy - a fabulous little Southern restaurant one street over from my Pilates studio.

I had made really good time walking to the restaurant yesterday so I set myself up at the bar and ordered one of their specialty brunch cocktails - a lovely sparkling wine, bitters and pomegranate something-something that was ice-cold, tart and really refreshing.  When Shars arrived, we got our table and another round of drinks, settling down to the serious business of selecting one dish from the tempting menu before us.  Shars chose the crawfish benedict and I went for the BLT&D, which started out as your garden-variety BLT but with the addition of duck confit.  I know, incredible.

Our meals complete and bellies full, we wandered to the restaurant at the top of the street, a Mediterranean place called Barbounia.  I've never been there to eat before, but the place looked so inviting yesterday with their windows and doors wide open, taking full advantage of the sunny day and cool breeze.  So in we went and sat at barstools to enjoy a delicious glass of wine.  I bought a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, which is probably a little wimpy in terms of playing it safe but again, the wine was beautifully chilled and it was just the thing I needed to help me and Shars solve all the problems of the world.  Again, this restaurant was full of brunchers, but not of the screaming family variety - just young, upwardly-mobile things freshly awakened from the crazy party the night before.

But our day was not done - there were still problems we needed to workshop and crises we needed to work through.  So down the street we went, to the elegant Gramercy Tavern, whose talented chef has just won the James Beard Award for 2012.  A few more families in here for brunch, but a much older and more sophisticated crowd - as befitting the venue.  Another glass of wine, this time a bit of a braver choice (or so I thought).  I asked the bartender about the Assyrtiko white wine on the menu.  Apparently from Santorini, I felt the wine just sounded like what I ought to be having on such a warm and sunny day - something that reminded me of Greek beaches and relaxation.  Of course the bartender puts the bottle up on the bar to show me, and I realised I had actually had the wine once before - firstly in Chicago, when it was part of an early wine club order.  I recall really enjoying it, so I was pleased to rediscover it yesterday.

To round out our day and our impromptu wine-tasting walking tour, we rounded the corner to Tom Colicchio's Craftbar and had a few more drinks there.  The cocktail list is really fun, with lots of tempting items, and it totally helps that the bartender knows what he's talking about so you feel comfortable to stick your neck out and take a chance with unfamiliar things.  I wasn't totally brave, in the sense that I had a vodka-based cocktail, but it was delicious and really refreshing, and strong enough that I could just sit there and savour it rather than chug it back like a frat boy.  To close the day, I switched back to a really light, dry white wine and again, sat back to sip that slowly until Shars and I realised that we had no more problems to solve and no more life stories to workshop - it was wonderful.

Emerging into the dusky twilight, we realised we had spent 6 hours wandering in and out of four bars in a one-block radius.  I'm not sure what Shars thought, but I had enjoyed a wonderful day.  Sharing the subway at least part of the way home, I bid Shars adieu at 33rd Street and walked the rest of the way home.  On the footpaths, fathers and their kids were walking together and sharing ice creams and cold drinks - the end of another Father's Day out.  Nobody squawking, everybody just looking happy and relaxed.  Just how I felt.

Mixing it up

Multicolor - Originally uploaded by 96dpi.
New York's Bowery/Chinatown neighbourhood always confuses me. I never go there on foot anymore, because I always seem to get caught up on wrong side of the street and end up halfway over the Manhattan Bridge before I've noticed.  When I go there on a bus, things aren't always better.  Case in point: tonight.  


I was headed to Chinatown to meet Pedro for dinner at a very cute Mexican restaurant.  I know, but bear with me.  The restaurant is in a tiny, windy street down a set of very steep stairs behind an unmarked door.  My bus had been diverted by an accident close to the Manhattan Bridge, so I was running a little late.  Having leapt off the bus, I was powering down the street on foot, so fast and so purposefully, that I failed to discern Pedro (in his white shirt) standing in the middle of the street amongst a bunch of other men, all of whom were also dressed in white shirts.  The fact that these other men were all ancient Chinese men and they were wearing chef whites was lost on me at the time.  Memo: must buy new glasses.


Descending down the steep stairs, we emerged into Pulqueria, a gorgeous (and huge) subterranean space lit by candlelight.  It's not a romantic restaurant, but it had that secluded feel of a place that not many people know about.  The margaritas we had (both strawberry and classic) were delicious and our four-course tasting menu was really filling.  Particular standouts for me were the pumpkin seed and habanero salsa, the delicious creamy corn thing (and I'm bummed I can't remember what else was in it), and also the delicious churros for dessert.


After our tasty meal and strong drinks, we headed back to street level to the bar next door.  Apotheke is a speakeasy I guess - like the Mexican restaurant, it is not advertised - it's definitely a word-of-mouth place.  The doorman/bouncer was turning some people away when we got there, but I stood off to the side a bit and waited until they disappeared before announcing our arrival and heading up the stairs.  I was not obnoxious about it, but a girl needs her cocktails and she needs 'em now.


There is a beautiful ambience at the cocktail bar.  Like the Mexican restaurant, the lights at Apotheke are turned way down so there is a feeling of anonymity about everything.  The mixologists behind the bar are decked out in suits and ties (or even lab coats, in the case of some) and they were nothing if not theatrical.  As they prepared people's cocktails, they set fire to alcohol inside glasses and swirled them around with one hand, as they mixed and shook an array of boozy combinations with the other.  


The bar's menu is sorted in terms of treatments - you have some cocktails that are listed as aphrodisiacs, while others are stimulants, relaxants etc and they're all house-made daily using fresh ingredients (including fruits and herbs).  My first cocktail was a bourbon-based one.  I actually chose it because it also contains blood orange, and I'm going through a bit of a blood orange phase at the moment. My second cocktail was a happy marriage of China and the UK - a Chinese Pimm's.  The freshness of the mint and the cool cucumber with zesty lime and ginger ale was such a delicious combination; I really liked it.


Heading out into the balmy night air, we walked for a bit because I wanted to show Pedro the old-school bar at the Bowery Hotel, where I'd been last year.  When we were happily set up on our table in the bar area, Pedro ordered a delicious vodka-based cocktail for me that was sort of like a cosmopolitan, but more raspberry-flavoured and it had a fresh raspberry garnish.  The drink was tart, to be sure, but it was so refreshing and really delicious. Next thing we knew it was nearly 2am and both of us were ready to call it a night.


Given I had been fortified by a four-course Mexican feast and some truly inventive and delicious cocktails, I didn't need to run screaming from Bowery/Chinatown this time around.  In fact, starting and ending my night there was really a wonderful idea.

The mess in the dress

If a plague of locusts swept down and ate my face this afternoon, I would not be at all surprised.  In fact, I would consider it the rancid cherry atop the mouldy sundae that has been my day.

So where did it all go wrong?!  Well, I woke up at 6am this morning so I can safely assume that fatigue is playing a part in my state of mind.  But my day didn’t start out so rushed – it was quite relaxed, in fact.  I made myself a coffee and some toast, and got back into bed to read (and finish) my book.

Keep in mind the fact that not once this week – not even once – have I dressed appropriately for the weather.  Today is no exception to this.  My bad fashion choices have been (as my boss used to say) a total embuggerance.

But sartorial misgivings aside, my day really was going alright...until I got to the office. 

Almost on cue as I walked in the door, my left shoe started rubbing on my toe and I could just feel the blister forming.  Do I keep a spare pair of (sensible, non-rubby) shoes at the office?  Uh, that would be a no.  But I do have blister bandaids and while they helped to ease the pain, my shoe nevertheless continued its assault on the plaster bandage.

Never one to deal well with tight shoes, let's just say the day started tanking from there.  What else happened, you may ask?  Well, read on - and bear in mind, this is just a sample:

• Having to interrupt the conversation of three people at a food store, so I could buy a sandwich;
• Getting wound up in totally frustrating but terribly brilliant red tape bureaucratic BS at not one, but two organisations that should really know better;
• Attempting to answer my ringing Blackberry, but the phone slipped out of my hands, fell into peak-hour traffic on 42^nd Street, and broke apart;
• Losing $1.65 in change in a vending machine after trying to buy a bottle of water;
• Trying to get free water out of a drinking fountain, only to have the water dribble out rather pathetically;
• Missing six calls, but being unable to hear the voicemails because the reception was utter crap;
• Getting distracted and catching the wrong train to a destination I’ve been at least 15 times;
• Having to take the bus to said destination, in peak lunchtime traffic;
• Needing to use her credit card for one tiny purpose and having the machine declare it unreadable;
• Giving some guy at the train station a free peep show when I got caught in a gust of wind, with no free hand to hold down my skirt;
• Intending to go uptown, but taking the downtown train instead; and
• Realising the wrong train I'm on is actually an express. 

DUDE.  All of this, and it’s not even 4pm.  I really think I should just take the universe’s hint and get back in bed.  With a  bottle of Diet Coke and a bad DVD, of course.

A happy pretzel brain

Early this morning I finally finished reading a book I started about a month ago, called In Pursuit of Happiness: Better Living from Plato to Prozac by Mark Kingwell.  Now before you think I've finally succumbed to the self-help aisle of the bookstore, trust me when I tell you this is not an instruction manual for how to live a happy (and/or better) life.  Nor is it a smug, clinical analysis by some stuffed-shirt academic on why a happy life is the only one worth living and if I'm not living one, then I'm deficient and deserving of sympathy.  Rather, this book is a series of personal reflections on the part of the author (a young, PhD-toting Canadian philosopher) on what our culture says that happiness is, and what it says about us that we keep striving to attain it.  Kingwell was inspired to write the book one afternoon when he was with some family friends at the playground, watching their daughters play on the equipment.  He wondered whether as adults, there is anything in our lives that makes us as happy - as purely happy - as kids are when they are lost in their world of playtime.  At what point do we lose that simple, happy pleasure?

The book goes on to discuss what Aristotle and Plato had to say on the subject of happiness, and focusses a lot on Socrates and his assertion that "the unexamined life is not worth living".  In raising this point (and using stories from his own life as examples), the author realises that sorting out what makes you happy is a really independent exercise - because what makes you truly happy might not be the same thing(s) that makes me so.  And only by examining your life in this way - moment to moment - can you divine for yourself what happiness means and how you can work on attaining it.

Some parts of the book do veer into academia but I suppose an educated author can't help but do so, when so many of the points he's trying to make are grounded in philosophy, psychology or similar sciences.  But for the most part, I liked the fact that Kingwell is basically just a storyteller.  The chapters devoted to the time he spent at the happiness camp in Minnesota (yes, there IS such a thing) are a particular delight.  Ditto the stories about the time he put himself on Prozac, just to see what all the fuss was about, and to find out whether happiness really can (or should) be found in pill form.  In Kingwell's case, the answer was no.

I chose to read this book not because I was looking for the secret to happiness, or anything nearly as soul-searching or wanky as that.  I honestly just thought the title was really clever (and the cover has a big yellow smiley face on it).  I was just really curious about how the author would link the ancient perspectives of Plato and his contemporaries with the modern-day happiness pill.  Has humanity's quest for happiness really been going this long?  Haven't we figured it all out yet?

Examining his own life for the exercise, Kingwell draws the conclusion that happiness doesn't come from stuff - well, it can, but consumer-borne happiness is fleeting, as the sensible part of our brain already knows.  So it seems that you don't just wake up one day and decide to be happy.  Real and sustained happiness comes from a commitment to work, dedication to good thought and deed, plus a bit of luck thrown in.  And to achieve all those things, you have to keep working at it throughout your life - popping a pill is not going to make it happen for you.  Curious.

Small Poppy

Just when I think I'm actually getting good at Pilates, I have two classes in a row that totally suck.

Saturday's class was all about balance and long, sustained stretches (mostly on one leg).  We used the big medicine ball a lot too and I am just so clumsy on those things.  I had to concentrate a lot but with each wobble and topple, I started to get cross with myself and then lost motivation to keep concentrating.  It doesn't help when you have a small class, and you feel like the only elephant in the room.

As a result of all the stretching yesterday, I woke up this morning with really sore glutes and hamstrings.  Walking gingerly around the house, I tried to stretch my legs out in preparation for my 2pm class.  The walk to the studio helped with this somewhat, but I think I was still out of sorts from Saturday's class so I really didn't go into today's lesson with the right mindset.  And when the teacher asked us to do ab work on the foam roller, my brain knew what to do but my body wouldn't comply.  I just couldn't balance well today.  My lower back was sore, my brain got grouchy, and for a couple of exercises I just laid there and stared at the ceiling while the other students obediently bent and stretched.

The good thing about doing Pilates on both Saturday and Sunday is that I sleep really well for the weekend, and I wake up feeling like I've worked out and actually done something. I've actually come to the end of my latest pack of 10 Pilates classes, so I'll be taking a break from the studio for a while.  My gym has a couple of Power Pilates  classes - focussing on abs and lower body, as well as another class that just focuses on arms and back strength.  Plus the gym still offers the ballet Pilates that I love, so I will likely keep myself busy doing those for a while.

It's not that I have to be good at everything, it's just that I like the idea of being good at something that I really enjoy.  I guess the old adage 'practice makes perfect' really does apply here, at least in my case.

A neighbourly send-off

Batik-cropped
Originally uploaded by Jane from Illinois.

Well as I found out last night, there ain't no party like an Indonesian party!

After a really long day yesterday (that incidentally ended a really long week), Yarls, J-Bird, Robbo and me walked over to the Indonesian Mission for a farewell party for The D-Man, a true gentleman, lovely colleague and friend. His posting to New York is over now and as I type this, he's probably at JFK with his family getting ready to fly back to Jakarta.

I haven't been to many events at other Missions but one of the things I really love is how they incorporate parts of their own culture - language, food, music - into the celebration. Indonesia was no exception. A delicious buffet was set up in the middle of the long function room, offering Indonesian prawn crackers, stir-fry noodles and tasty satays. Not trusting myself to gnaw anything off a stick (in public anyway), or try and slurp noodles in front of diplomats, I stuck to the raw veggies and dips. Until me and Yarls spotted the mini spring rolls - and then we were in heaven. The dessert buffet was out of this world - such fresh fruit, and the cream-filled profiteroles were probably not authentically Indonesian, but they were an inspired choice.

After the formal proceedings had concluded, the karaoke started. The first time I had ever done karaoke was actually on a trip to Bali. The D-Man and his colleagues jollied everyone along to get up, leave their inhibitions elsewhere, and just rock out. And people obliged! It was so funny to watch people I've normally only seen in meetings get up (in groups, for there is safety in numbers) and belt out power ballads, Bon Jovi, and even a bit of Bruce Springsteen.

Yarls discovered a tambourine at one point in the evening and I was very jealous. I resisted the urge to steal it from her, as there will be plenty of time for me to regale people with my musical abilities (questionable or otherwise).

We DID get up and sing too, though. We sand TWO songs with D-Man in fact: firstly we did "YMCA" (a real crowd pleaser and dance number, where I was Backup Dancer #!, ably assisted by Miss European Union) ; and then we shimmied around the stage to "You're The One That I Want" (as our homage to Olivia Newton John). Much later in the evening a couple of us - possibly egged on by me - sang a rousing rendition of "Piano Man", complete with impromptu dance moves and lots of swaying. It was quite special.

At close to midnight, when only a few hardy souls remained, the time had come to say our REAL goodbyes. It was not easy to farewell D-Man, but I am confident that a) he is going on to bigger and better things; and b) he will keep in touch to share it all with us.

I am just so glad that I got to attend his send-off, because I had a really wonderful time.

Pet Penance

The last few mornings, I've woken up at 5am (or thereabouts), startled from sleep by dreams of a dog we had when I was growing up.  His name was Tramp and he was a border collie.  We bought him and his sister Lady (of course) when they were both puppies.  When they were still young pups, we gave Lady to some family friends and kept Tramp to be our newest pack member.  He took the job very seriously as I recall, not really liking the company of strangers - or anyone really - who came to visit us.

But the dreams I keep having revolve around the fact that I don't think I was very good to Tramp.  He was always an outside dog (only coming inside during thunderstorms or nasty rain), but to be honest I don't really remember spending a lot of time outdoors with him.  Did I play with him a lot, or even just hang out with him while he sat out there all alone?  I couldn't say.  When he was a puppy, I know I spent lots time with him - we cuddled, we played, we fought, and we play-fought a lot.  I remember baby sister picking up Tramp's puppy needle teeth when he started to lose them and the big-dog chompers started to grow in.  And I clearly remember when Dad took Tramp to the dog parlour to have his hair cut prior to the start of the hot Aussie summer.  His long hair had been cut so short he looked like a punk rocker!  When he bounded up to greet me after school (he was always so happy to see us), I remember being so shocked at his drastic new hairdo that I burst out laughing.  Just as suddenly, poor Tramp put his tail between his legs and shuffled away - his feelings were so obviously hurt.  We made up of course and I gave him lots of hugs and reassurance but years later, I still feel bad about upsetting him in the first place.  Why would I even remember that?!

When Tramp got older still, hip dysplasia set in and as medications got less effective and therapy options more remote, my parents had to make the tough decision to put him to sleep.  I am so glad that me and baby sister were not consulted about this beforehand, nor did we have to go to the vets with Dad.  It was certainly my first conscious memory of losing someone close to me, and even today I don't tink I was ready to deal with it.  Death wasn't something I was ever very good at.  I just remember Mum telling us in the lounge room that Tramp wouldn't be coming home and that putting him to sleep had been the best thing for him because he was in such pain.  And I do remember the tears.  Oh man, the tears.  I'm so lucky that I've never had to make such a heart-breaking decision.

When I think back on Tramp, I recall a lovely dog who cared about his family.  He wasn't so well-regarded by our friends because let's face it, he was a grouchy dog who didn't like new people.  But that was our fault too, because we didn't socialise him.  I guess we didn't see it as important at the time - as long as Tramp loved us, and was good with us, that's all that mattered.  But I have to say that ever since, and maybe it's because of Tramp, my family has done a 180-degree flip on dog ownership.  Our dogs since Tramp - both Barkley and Anniebot (and even baby sister's lunatic pooch, Jax) - have been supremely social, lovely-natured dogs who spend most of their time inside with us.  They are humans in fluffy coats, really - an extension of our nuclear family.  Whether we knew it consciously or not, I think we've all made a concerted effort to make our dogs a big part of our lives - and not leave them outdoors, looking in.

So I'm not really sure why Tramp has been on my mind these last three days, and so early in the morning too.  I certainly remember him fondly, yet I do not remember my treatment of him that way.  As a consequence, I've woken up every morning feeling kinda miserable about myself.  If this were a 12-step program, I'd call Tramp and apologise for all the crummy things I believe I did, or the good things I should have done to make him happy.  But you can't do that to a dog, and certainly not one who has been gone for over 12 years.  So I suppose all you can do is write about it, and just hope that it helps.