Mountains and Moxie

At the airport, there were some problems with my ticket. The very helpful ticket folks told me it happens all the time with Delta and push a few buttons to get me on my flight to Paris. My bag was set to paris and then on to Rome, I’d have to talk to the ticket agent in Paris to make sure I was on the plane with my bag.

After a delay and a run from one gate to the next, I was relieved to see my flight was a  bait delayed so I could deal with the ticket issue. The beautifully turned out French woman at the gate (seriously, how did she make polyester look so refined), looked at me icily and said “no, you are not in the system. I can’t help you.” But no, I nearly cried, showing her my emailed tickets and confirmations and payment history. there is a ticket, it’s just not registered for some reason. She started coldly for a while and called someone else over who also said no. I stayed at her desk til she sighed heavily and went back to the computer. After about 40 minutes a couple other delays on the flight, she finally triumphantly produced a ticket for me. Voila, she said (she really did). You can go.

In my search for sustenance at the airport I found gazpacho, my perfect food. Even airport gazpacho, although probably because it was the airport in Paris, is refreshing and energizing. After a week of dumplings and gravy, it was nectar. I also got a small box of macrons and brought it to my ice queen savior. I brought them back just as they were announcing yet another flight delay. Weary travelers were losing patience and expressing frustration . I fought through to get to my hero, now a little more disheveled and human appearing. Handing over the treats, I said thank you so much for your help – and really she helped a lot. She was quiet for a second, then smiled for the first time, and gave me a big hug. I think she’d had a long day too.

In Rome, we arrived several hours late and waited for the bags for over an hour. Several airport employees stood in the corner smoking, drinking coffee and gesturing wildly. Actually – they weren’t. They were just talking and I”m sure trying to fire out how to fix the many folks who’d missed their connections, but I was tired and frumpy and since none of them were handing me my bag, I was annoyed.

At 1am I was in line for the taxis. A van driver came by and said one more, to city center 40 euro. The line for taxis was long and when the man in front of my didn’t jump on the chance, I did. I sat in the front with the driver, who I noticed was a better looking George Clooney and he asked me about my trip and if I was traveling alone. A woman in the back asked him questions in Italian and then said to us in English several time, this guy is ripping us off. I didn’t care, I just wanted to get to the hotel. The driver was getting more and more agitated and she was getting louder too. Finally he pulled over, opened the door and said – get out! She did and we sped away leaving her by the side of the road. The driver said nothing about it, just turned to me and said “I’ll give you my card. call me if you want a tour of Roma.” Seriously? that quickly Italian men live up to the reputation?

My hotel is better than a pensione, but not by much. I’m on the fourth floor, walking up, with a view of an air shaft. The small room has images of Jesus and gilt framed portraits. But I’m here. Its sunday morning and I slept late. I’m headed to the big Sunday flea market as soon as I get some espresso in me and then Rome is my oyster.

Maybe, I’ll call Fabrizio….

I don’t even know how to talk about the past couple days. Yesterday was our concert day. It was quiet in the morning and early afternoon.  Some press activity in advance and I visited the Jewish Quarter of Prague and then a little relaxation before the concert. There was a bus up the hill to the Castle and Cathedral where the concert would take place, but since I wanted to be there  early and after many indulgent meals, I decided to walk up. It was about a half an hour walk along a beautiful path full of gardens and art and busking musicians.

The Cathedral was closed in preparation for our concert, so I was one of less than 10 people in the glorious structure. I was earlier than I needed to be, so I walked by myself for a while, marveling at the gilded domes and alters and pulpits. Imagine being alone in St .Patrick’s or Notre Dame – that was me in St. Vitus.  I am not, as most people know, a particularly spiritual person, but it was impossible not to be moved and slightly reverent in that space.

As people arrived for the performance – a celebration of the defiance of concentration camp prisoners through music – the pre-concert energy took hold. I had set myself up on a seat in the back, but, at the insistence of one of the sponsors, was moved to the second row, where I say behind the Cardinal of Prague and among the more than 40 ambassadors in attendance. There were tears and cheers through the very moving performance.

At the post concert dinner there was more discussion of the human potential for evil and good, and of the power of art to elevate us. After dinner a few of us opted out of the bus walked back to the hotel through mostly deserted streets. I am reading City of Dark Magic at the moment, a mystery based in Prague and I certainly felt its mysterious forces last night.

This morning was a film screening and some more press and some more free time. Then in a very special treat, a small dinner gathering at the Ambassador’s home.

The US Ambassador to the Czech Republic is Orthodox and keeps a kosher home. Joining us was Israeli Ambassador and Stuart Eizenstat, former Ambassador and former Secretary of the Treasury, among many other impressive credentials. We followed a traditional Shabbat format with chanting and prayers and ate off the State Departments only existent set of kosher plates. We were served by Czech women in traditional black and white maid uniforms.

The Ambassador’s home was once the home of a very wealthy Jewish family but was seized by the Nazi high command. Furniture was still stamped with the Nazi markings. The Ambassador is the son of an Auschwitz survivor and commented on his mother’s pride at her being take from Prague on a train and his returning on Air Force One, though he said she never returned to Prague despite his appointment.

Conversation turned to the performance and the issue of religion. There was some conversation about whether singing a Christian piece as the inmates had done and we did last night, was appropriate and the question of including Jesus in the text. Someone said that hearing it was “shocking.” There was more conversation about religion and at several points “the ladies” were asked to weigh in on what they thought.

Though it was an enormous thrill to be there, I was conflicted as a woman and a cultural Christian. I certainly didn’t offer up any opinions, but in the hotel after the dinner I sat with our conductor and his wife for a beer and to talk about the evening. There was more discussion and debate about the human condition and the role of religion in both expanding and narrowing dialogue. We turned again, as we have so often on this trip to the camps and the experiences of individuals. In a not necessarily quiet voice I shared a story about a concert I’d worked on years ago which brought out Holocaust deniers. A man in the lounge who’d clearly heard our conversation crossed the room. I was interested in what he’d share as he leaned over and said, in a very strong Australian accent “You know what I think? Get over it already.” We all looked at him for a moment in slightly confused silence and he repeated “Get over it.” and walked out.

Murry leaned in to me and said softly – “that’s why we do this.”

This trip has been so thoughtful and inspiring and profound in so many ways. I am naive sometimes in my North Eastern liberal world about the fact that there is still so much hate in the world and I am so sad that the trip had to end with a glaring example of that, but that is why I am so honored that I could be part of this week. I will never get over it.

I am in Prague for an organization that works on Holocaust remembrance. Though I’ve had a wonderful time here and a great many laughs the nature of the visit is sombre and the conversations have often been deep and philosophical, especially after a couple Czech beers (I haven’t tried the absinthe yet).

The human condition, our capacity for love, forgiveness, and compassion is debated alongside the existence of our darker sides. Yes, but I’d never do that is what we tell ourselves when we see entire societies turn on their neighbors. Then there are the everyday heroes among us who shelter those in need from whatever storm may be approaching.

As an AP reporter interviewed our conductor this morning, I joined the reported wife for coffee. The reporter was Czech born but not raised here, she was British. They lived in Thailand. Our conversation started, like so many with strangers do, superficially. She gave me restaurant suggestions and told me where she liked to walk in the city. I told her about what I’d seen so far and gave her a little insight into what I though her husband was learning about our institution.

As we got to know each other a bit more, conversation turned to concentration camps and regimes. I learned the story of her husband’s father’s socialism, his disappearance and their escape from Czechoslovakia with the help of the CIA. She told me her husband remembers running through corn fields to get away, but that his younger sister only remembers that she had to leave behind a favorite doll.

Talking more, I learned my companion, now in her early 70s, had been in the British diplomatic service, but was dismissed when she wed. In Thailand she began an art gallery supporting local Buddhist artists and later an organization that provided training and opportunities for journalists limited by Communist media restrictions.

I told her about my efforts to recreate my life, which seem so insignificant compared to her and her husband’s experiences. She was supportive and enlightening and a little bit cheeky about my finding joy in being the one on my last journey to jump into the undignified tourist activities alongside the more noble pursuits.

We talked about who we’ve been and who we want to be. She cheered the constant evolution of the individual and the fact that we need never stop evolving, but that in every action and communication we need to keep the who we want to be in mind and act in a way that’s true to that. It’s all it takes.

As we said goodbye for the morning (I shall see them again tonight  at the concert and hopefully again in my future), she suggested read Michael Mayne’s exploration of spirituality, Learning to Dance. Checking Amazon, I discovered Mayne was the head of religious programs for BBC. I also found this quote which maybe my new life philosophy:

“And perhaps we are most human, most what we are called to be, when we have one foot on the shore of that we know, and one foot in the mysterious, unknown ocean. This is where the poet and the painter stand, together with the best scientists and the wisest theologians: exploring, probing, digging deeper; and sometimes breaking through to a fresh realisation of truth. Art, science and theology meet and flower at the boundary of the known and the hidden”

I want the hidden in my life to be known already, but I love that unknown ocean and I want to keep exploring, probing, and digging deeper.

Now, completely inspired, I really am off for the day, but not before downloading this book.

Oh happy day! The sun was out when we woke yesterday. And gloriously so.It was one of those perfect spring days with a Tiffany box blue sky and white ribbon clouds.

Mark and I headed “up the hill” to Prague Castle and St. Vitus Cathedral for a meeting about the next day (today’s) concert. Jumping on a tram, we joined the morning commuters for a bumpy ride. I love public transportation. I try to take it in every city I’m in. In Prague there are subways, but the flooding is going to thwart my efforts to take an underground trip. The cable car is a great way to both see the city and get where you’re headed.

Outside of the Old Town the tourists thin out (except near the cathedral and castle) and real life begins. In a small building and up many flights of stairs, we came to the office we needed. Decorated with posters from events and conferences they’d worked on, we talked logistics and press. Mark stayed to work a bit more and I headed out and down the hill back to my computer.  Of course, I took the long way home.

I’m not so much a tour the castle girl, but I liked the area around the castle and the collection of students and tourists and buskers it attracted.

The Cathedral is everything you want in a cathedral – imposing arches, beautiful stained-glass, uncomfortable pews.

The walk downtown was filled with music. Prague is a city of music and musicians and on every corner someone is camped out singing or playing (there was a fun version of American Pie which included the lyric “This’ll be the day I’m Jedi”). It’s like a soundtrack wherever you go.

Back in Old Town Sq, I got some ham off a spit for lunch…omg was it good – all smoky and crispy skin.

The vegetarian thing is definitely on hold at the moment.

I wondered a bit more, and, after annoying a junk shop owner for taking photos of his fabulous collections of wares,

I headed back to the hotel where I spent the evening working. Hungry, but not up for a big night, I did the best thing one can do in Europe, got some bread, cheese, salami, and beer and ate in my room looking out over the city.

Its 6am now and I’m off to our big day. WISH ME LUCK!

I slept late on Monday morning. Really late. I had promised Mark that I’d go to a meeting with him in the morning and he should just call me with the details and then all of a sudden it was almost noon and I was just rolling out of bed. (For the record, I was forgiven – Mark said “yeah –  I knew you’d need sleep, even if you didn’t know it, so I didn’t bother to call.”

After indulging in the hotel breakfast, which was beyond extensive, I headed out to see as much of Prague as I could. I really ended up just retracing my footsteps from the day before a bit, but walked a bit slower and looked at more. I love the street art in Prague – it’s a mix of very old sculpture alongside more modern takes including a spectacular and surreal tribute to Kafka.

In Old Town Sq. I walked through the street vendors with ham on spits over wood fires and a spinning donut-looking pastry that I will have to try before I leave.  I meandered my way to the landmark Charles Bridge, but it was closed for pedestrians so I wondered to the other side of the river on the next bridge over. Then crossed back again, to head back towards the hotel for a 4:30 meeting. (After stopping for an unfortunate attempt at a Czech lunch).

The work team gathered we discussed the impending flood which, despite the near constant rain, I hadn’t really grasped was an issue. The work schedules sorted, and a meeting up time for dinner set, I headed back out to explore this storm situation. Not before stopping in the lobby to take advantage of the hotel’s goldfish loan. I goldfish would be brought to my room to keep me company during my stay. I named mine Gustav.

Once I was looking for it, signs of the flood were everywhere. The  Charles Bridge was closed because of the high waters. Folks were stacking sandbags in front of windows, barrier gates were being erected along the shores of the river (which also hosted slews of reporters), the subways were closed, and police were everywhere.

I was clearly on a vacation earlier, seeing all that through vacation-colored glasses.

I met my colleague Janet in the hotel lobby and we headed out to find a place for dinner. As we wondered we had that inevitable moment on any trip of chatting with strangers on the street and discovering they’re actually neighbors back home (in this case, Janet’s neighbors). We swelled on an Italian/French place, and, with our late arrival Murry, had yet another spectacular dinner. The fine dining in Prague is light and well-prepared with small-sized meals and not a dumpling in sight. (not to self, must have dumplings before I leave).

Walking home through the cobble stone streets in twilight, it almost felt like Disney Prague. The streets were empty, and clean. the pastel buildings aglow, it felt as though this couldn’t possibly be a real place.

This morning, I joined the orchestra at Smetana Hall for their first rehearsal, a perfect jewel box of a theater. From there, back to the hotel for a little work and another trip to the Square. This time for a tour of the Town Hall. It was jammed with tourists for this first time since I’d arrived (also the sun was out for the first time). Its sort of comforting that no matter where one is in the world, there is a square in town where the tourists and buskers gather. The buskers drawing a crowd were performing some mediocre music, but nearby was a jazz group playing Wonderful World – my favorite, favorite song – with the lyrics in Czech. A happy thing.

I had a moment as we looked at the Apostle sculptures on the historic Astronomical Clock. I tripped. Grabbing on to an iron gate to hold me, I discovered that was not bolted to the floor and gate and I hurled towards the sculpture. Fortunately the German tourist next to me caught hold before I destroyed a landmark. So that’s covered. I have now had my fall in Prague.

Another beautiful night, another great dinner. I have to stop eating. But I’m not going to.

Tomorrow time speeds up. It’s all work from here on out.

Its been a busy few weeks work wise, which has been terrific. I spent a weekend in DC, have been to the Berkshires several times and did a drive by trip to Boston. Saturday night, though, it got great – I boarded a flight to Prague.

I don’t really like to blog about work trips and I’m in Prague for work, but it’s too good not to talk about it.

The flight was troubling. Nearly, everyone waiting at the gate looked about 20. Fresh-faced and eager. Scattered about were some tourist looking folks, a few people in business suits, and a handful of easily identifiable Central Europeans (the accent mostly, sometimes pink pants, I’m just saying, without judgement). At one point I heard a young Czech guy chatting up two pretty young women with the very, very tired line “in America your old buildings are like 200 years old. In Europe, we have OLD buildings.” Yes, we know. Even the two women you’re talking to know, although they don’t know enough to be annoyed by you.

On the plane, in yet another middle seat (I was a late booking), I learned from the adorable Southern Alabama University girl on one side of me and the slightly nerdy, eager Chicago University student on the other side that they were all participating in a student exchange group and students from around the country had converged in NYC to head to Prague for a three-week exchange program. 

Great. This is exactly the plane I don’t want to be on. I know how this headline reads when the plane falls out of the sky and it’s not going to be me that the news media is up in arms about (sorry – but if my plane goes down, I want something out of it).

But the flight went without a hitch, unless you count bad food and uncomfortable seats. I am thinking when I get back, I’m going to start a yoga class called “Middle Seat Yoga” specifically designed to make one flexible enough to survive an eight hour flight.

In Prague Sunday morning and after a nap, one of my colleagues and I headed out for lunch. What do you want? asked he. Something typically Czech said I. We got pizza. Really good pizza, but still.  Mark headed back to the hotel – after many trips to Prague over many years, he is a bit jaded – and I headed out for a quick walk.

Central Prague is quite small and it took very little time to get my bearings. I hit up the Old Town Sq; went the river to look at the Charles Bridge and the castle on the other side, to be crossed and visited another day; passed the theater which held the premiere performance of Mozart’s Don Giovanni and was far more exciting to me than I’d expected; got a spectacular cinnamon coffee from a store front; and rejected the idea that I might buy any Bohemian glass as gifts to bring back.

Back in the hotel I showered for dinner (the whole flight over in Delta’s torture seats, I consoled myself with images from the hotel’s website of their fabulous bathtubs, but since I was also I late booking in the hotel, I got the attic, garret room, which has a great view of Prague’s rooftops, but no bathtub). I flipped through CNN’s coverage of the uprisings in Turkey, several dubbed American sitcoms – Friends in Czech was almost worth watching, and settled on video music. The 80s are big in Prague and ABBA, Paula Abdul, and Simple Minds, had me dancing around the room. There were also songs I’d never heard before from the Rolling Stones, Earth, Wind and Fire and several other completely ubiquitous bands.

I joined our conductor and his wife, along with another couple and Mark for dinner at an Italian place near the hotel. The menu was in Czech, Italian, and English with the English version repeating the words local, seasonal, and organic though, I’m told, they weren’t used in the other languages. Local or not, dinner was delicious and light with the wine flowing.  I did tell myself repeatedly that I must eat Czech tomorrow.

I headed to bed, tired and happy and ready to really see Prague. I’m going to head to bed now after my second day here. Tomorrow morning I’ll tell you about today. It involved the worst flooding Prague has seen in a decade and my new pet goldfish.

I’ve been feeling very connected to my home town of Boston over the past couple weeks. I think anyone who has spent time in Beantown probably feels some Hub love, first protectiveness, then pride during this tough time.

But yesterday for me was full-blown Brooklyn love. Since I moved here last October, I’m not sure there has been a single full day in Brooklyn, save for those I was trapped in the borough because Hurricane Sandy forced the bridges and tunnels to close. Yesterday, though, was an all Brooklyn day by choice and it was exhilarating.

I started out early, greeted by bright blues skies and temperate weather, heading towards the Gowanas area of Brooklyn where my morning’s activities were scheduled to take place.  I walked around the Olmstead designed Prospect Park. I usually walk on one side of the park, but was inspired to follow the park to the south and was richly rewarded for it. First up was a large area of ball fields filled with kids of all ages playing soccer and softball. This is where I saw my dear friend Rhoda transform from one of my drinking buddies to a proper soccer mom. I looked at the other mom’s cheering their offspring and realized how many stories they mud all have. It was refreshing to see how many girls were taking their place alongside the boys. Also refreshing was the Mud Coffee truck!

Working my way around the park, through the various neighborhoods of Brooklyn, there was beautiful park trails, great old buildings, and charming houses. 

One of the things I really love about Brooklyn in the spring are the stoop sales. They are everywhere and can range from absolute junk to real vintage finds. I leave it to you, dear reader to determine which category my purchase falls under:

After passing by my first apartment in Brooklyn, where I lived in the late-1980s and pausing to text my then roommate with photos and loving messages back and forth, !finally made it to the warehouse section of Gawanus, I joined the annual Brooklyn Skillshare, and annual event where folks from the Borough lead classes in just about anything. I learned about fermenting veggies (specifically sauerkraut, Japanese fabric dying techniques (kind of super precise tie dye, which may well represent the bulk of my christmas gifts next year) and, best of all, juggling – which was so much fun!

I could easily have stayed all day, with classes in bike maintenance, curry making, and wine tasting ahead, it was hard to pull myself away. But away I went. Hopping on the G train, the only subway line that never hits Manhattan, I made my way to Williamsburg to meet up with friends visiting from Washington DC and Montreal (and Manhattan). We wondered the streets of Billyburg, joking about how it had become a parody of what it once was, like visiting Haight Ashbury today (although, unlike Haight Ashbury, there wasn’t a Starbucks to be seen and we enjoyed our overpriced lattes in one of the many artisanal coffee shops popping in between the vintage stores.). After a walk down Bedford and Driggs, the epicenters of Williamsburg hip culture, we searched through the used record and bookstores in search of a toy store to appease the two incredibly patient children joining us for the adventure.  Toys found, beer consumed, and the sunshine fading, we bid goodbye to our out-of-town friends  and my Manhattan pal and I headed out in search of a Williamsburg dining adventure. Our first two attempts, both motivated by my recent research into NYC restaurants serving “humane” meat were foiled by long waits. I”m sure they are wonderful but the beauty of New York is that you never have to wait for good food. We happened upon Qoo Robata Bar, an every so nerdy its hip Japanese place on Metropolitan Avenue. We sat in a small very private booth and enjoyed the spectacularly good organic, free-range, grass-fed sourced robata and ramen while listening to 60s era jazz. It felt as close to being in Japan as I’ve experienced, or possibly like being in a Suzie Wong novel.

Heading to the L train, we passed an outlet of the Momofuko Milk Bar and couldn’t resist the temptation. I am not a sweet lover, but we opted for the house specialty crack pie. Its ingredients are basically sugar, brown sugar, cream, butter, and eggs. It was sweet, very, very sweet and I can see the appeal for some people, but not for me. (it was essentially pecan pie without pecans). I love the idea of the Milk bar. Its steeped in whimsy and creative ideas, but it’s probably not going to be a repeat visit spot for me. Qoo on the other hand….

It was an easy train ride home and I was out before my head hit the pillow. Brooklyn Rocks!

I started this blog on the lawn at Tanglewood listening to the Boston Symphony Orchestra performing Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, a piece of music I cherish. There is nothing special about that. Many, many people love the piece, of course. Its one of the most beloved in the classical canon.

For me the piece evokes nearly all the happiness of my lifetime. I first heard the tune to Ode to Joy at Waukeela Camp for Girls where we would celebrate our strength to the tune (“Like a pine tree in the forest lifting its branch up to the sky” try it – it does work). Like my mother an my aunt before me, my sister with me, and my niece following me, I loved being at Waukeela. I learned about myself and my obligation to the world there. I visit now and am immediately transported to those summer days swimming and climbing and singing and learning about life with the girls lucky enough to be there.

One day, early in college, I heard Ode To Joy in the background while I was shopping. That’s the Waukeela song, I said. That’s Beethoven’s 9th Symphony replied my companion. I was 18 and living in New York for the first time and the piece became seared with the memories of promise from those early years.

Spending my career in classical music means that I heard the piece many, many times, but I never tired of it. And every time I heard it, I remembered Wauleela (and sang the song for my unsuspecting, and unimpressed, friends joining me for a concert) and my heady days as a co-ed. The job of a lifetime came when I was hired by the Boston Symphony Orchestra. I loved the orchestra and its mission and more than anything, I loved spending the summer with them at Tanglewood. The traditional final concert of every Tanglewood season is Beethoven’s 9th Symphony and I love to lie on the glorious lawn drinking wine and remembering the summer.

Last summer I spent that day, not only remembering the summer, but my love of the years I’d spent with the orchestra as I anticipated my next move. It was, fittingly, the final piece I heard the orchestra play while I was still an employee.

Since then I’ve left the BSO, had an amazing adventure in Nepal, moved to NYC to forge my way as a freelancer. Things have been simultaneously exciting and tough.

Today is a beautiful Good Friday in Brooklyn and I’m looking forward to the weekend visiting the Berkshires. Some good twists have come in lately giving me confidence in my professional decisions, but I’m still a bit nervous about whether I made the right choices or not.

As I do every morning, and especially when I need a little ego boost, I turned to Facebook where the first piece in my feed was a flash mob featuring Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. And I am joyous.

It is a beautiful reminder of my happiest times and, more importantly, that they keep coming. Especially when you don’t expect them.

Happy Passover, Happy Easter, Happy Spring. Happiness!

Such a wonderful couple of days. I type this from the airport about to head, very sadly, back to New York. I loved my visit and I so wish I could stay longer.

Yesterday I woke to a big breakfast and the paper, while watching the rain in Nic and Tif’s back garden. The Guardian is a great read and there were two articles, both really insightful, if critical, about Sheryl Sandberg, one of my obsessions of the moment.

We went to an afternoon movie and then I met my trekking friends at a bar. Everyone looked like a cleaner version of when I last saw them. Anna hair was down, as I suspect she always wears it, but I’m so used to it in braids; we had on make up and jewelry and nice sweaters, For about one minute they seemed like strangers, but we quickly kicked into our familiar rhythm and our friendship far deeper than its duration was in full swing. Anna had come from a hen night and chattered charmingly about her shoes and nails; Fiona regaled us with tales of her travels; Alyson, who was responsible for bringing us all together, made sure everyone had food and drink; Gary and Adam kept us in stitches; Emma and I mocked each other lovingly; and Martin observed us all with amused silence.

Emma was late as she had to watch the England vs Wales Rugby championship. She was sworn to secrecy as to the results as Gary would watch following our night.

We made our way from the bar to a comedy club, where Americans in general and me as their representitive, were easy targets. The best moment was when one performer blurted out the rugby score to Gary’s dismay and our delight. We left as the show host called out “have fun tonight American Lady, but don’t shoot anyone…”

This morning, I brought my worlds together as Emma joined Nic and Tif and me for a big sunday roast. I had roast beef with trimmings and was dismayed to see that didn’t include yorkshire pudding. I was further dismayed when puddings arrived on tables all around us, but the company made my distress tolerable.

And I’m on the plane – about to shut down the computer.

Another amazing time with friends around the world.

We all met in easy that could have been so fleeting – my trekking pals on holiday, Nic in grad school. And yet here we are and I hope it will survive for a long time to come. I was thrilled to get an invitation to Anna and Adam’s wedding in my email this morning. I will do it more formally – but I’m RSVP-ing yes!

There’s that moment when you wake up after a good night’s sleep and everything feels great. I had that this morning, just for a second, and then my aching left side reminded me of my fall and NY stress and then, of course, the loss of Rufus. Still a lovely day in London was had.

After a lie-in for me and a work call for Tif, we were off to meet Nic in the City for lunch. The City is the Wall St of London, the center of the banking industry. We popped onto the commuter rail, First Capitol Connect, oft referred to by exasperated commuters as First Crapitol and headed in. Tif teased by about my troubles with my borrowed ticket card. I told her of my adventure the day before when, after I tapped the card at the tube station, the gates didn’t open and a message came on the small screen saying “seek assistance.” While I figured that just meant I needed to add money to the card (Tif wasn’t sure what was on it when she handed it to me), I headed to the ticket booth operator rather than the machines.

“It told me to seek assistance” I informed the man behind the window. “It did?” he said with mock surprise, “Did it tell you anything else? The winning lottery numbers?” “Yes, I’m an America tourist, you twat, but I’m not stupid, just put some money on the fucking card.” I shot back. Not really though. I just smiled and said “here’s 20 pounds.”

Feeling a bit like a kid heading to see Daddy at the office, we made our way down Fleet Street and into the well-appointed lobby of Nicola’s office building where we waited for her in plush red tub chairs that swiveled all the way around. I spun a bit, as another guest looked at me without humor and Tiffany just rolled her eyes at yet another example of my embarrassing Americanism.

A wonderful, slightly boozy lunch later, Nic headed back to work and Tiffany and I crossed the Millennium Bridge to the Tate Modern Museum. I love a modern art museum. I love the spaces almost as much as the art on the walls, and the Tate is a great space – a former power plant on the Thames with sprawling views of the London skyline including the Tower Bridge, St. Paul’s and the London Eye. As we wandered through the humorous and surprising Roy Lichtenstein retrospective as well as the Lydia Bengalis and Cy Twomblys, we came across what may be the best example of head shaking art of all time. A mirror mounted on the wall. I was reminded of my father who joked that he couldn’t sit opposite a mirror at a restaurant as he’d just spend the whole meal looking at himself. We did as well. And we looked great!

Our need for culture satisfied we did a little light shopping and headed to a  bar to wait for Nicola to finish work. Champagne cocktails ordered, my apparent curse kicked in again. Before the fizzy elixir made it to our table sirens and red strobes started up, not just in the bar, but through the building we were in. Oh you’ve got to be kidding I thought, as we joined the crowds being evacuated. As we got the escalator we’d have to walk down, two elderly women stepped on in front of us. I’m sure under other circumstances I would have thought lovely things about them, but knowing the British tendency for random explosions in the City, I heavily weighed the karmic effects of knocking them down.

The sirens continued long enough for us to decided to walk around the block. We headed out to the front of St. Paul’s Cathedral, where I again launched into Feed the Birds. It was a shockingly sad moment when I was informed that it wasn’t actually at St. Paul’s that the seed lady from Mary Poppins sang the song, rather it was the Bank of England.

My bubble burst, but my curse lifted, we were allowed back into the bar and the drinks and Nicola arrived shortly after.

We floated home through the wet British night on champagne bubbles, watched a bit of Charlie Brooker’s Weekly Wipe on BBC (seriously watch it! He would never be allowed on American television, but he is funny and cutting, and quite brilliant in his analysis of the week’s events) and another day is done.

Tomorrow holds a big breakfast, some afternoon entertainment, and my much-anticipated trek reunion. And hopefully nothing of my curse!