Sexually Confused

We all learned back in our freshman Spanish classes (or, in my case, French—why did I take that?), that quite a few languages apply a gender identity to many words—some words are masculine, some are feminine and yet others are total trannies. In the course of navigating this strange and wonderful and confusing and frustrating language, I've noticed something odd.

Beer, or cervaza, which is probably the word I've grown most proficient at saying (sounds something like "ther-beh-tha" when you apply the obligatory Spanish lisp), is… wait for it… feminine! The word for sparkling white wine, on the other hand? Masculine.

Odd, no?

Be Our Guest: What you need to know before coming to visit

First, before I forget: bring a pillow. We have plenty of extra blankets and towels, but lack an abundance of pillows.

Second, details on navigating the Avé. Oh, the Avé. Luckily we made all the mistakes so you don't have to. To wit:


Though it is possible to purchase the tickets online prior to arrival, we decided to forfeit that option, as we thought it a tricky proposition, given that tickets are only valid for specific times and seats. With the state of air travel these days—we don’t need to rehash how bad delays have been, do we?—we thought it best to wait until we arrived at the station.

Turns out, not such a great idea. As previously mentioned, We arrived at Madrid’s Atocha Station a half hour before the 2 p.m. departure to Seville, which, in our minds is more than enough time to say, “Hola, que tal? Un billete de ida Seville, por favor. [Euros are exchanged; teller hands over ticket.] Gracias.” We now know that prompt service is not a high priority here. Plus, Atocha Station is pretty secluded from Madrid’s city center and is oddly designed with its own rainforest, helpfully adding humidity to irritability.

Lesson learned: buy Avé tickets on Renfe's web site. Note that when buying online, tickets must be purchased at least five days in advance of your trip. Just be sure to leave yourself enough time to get to the train station from the airport, which is about a 15 to 20 minute taxi ride, and don’t forget to account for possible flight delays. Overestimating in this case is a good thing—if your flight arrives on time and it’s two hours before your train departs, at least you know you can explore Madrid, go shopping or grab something to eat. The ride to Seville is a wonderfully scenic two-and-a-half hours.

That is all. Though should you feel so inclined, we've started a wish list of magazines: The Economist or Wired, for Jay; Vanity Fair, Real Simple or any celebrity weekly, para me. (God my list reads like some housewife's, doesn't it?)

Lost in Translators

When traveling in a country where the language is not your own, it’s important to have a fall-back plan, i.e., one of those embarrassingly touristy phrase books, or more covertly, an electronic translator, which if spotted in dim enough light, can look like a Sidekick.

We have both of these things and they have been occasionally helpful but more so completely useless. At times, the questions and answers are downright hilarious. Herewith, some of our favorites…

Using the electronic translator (good job Franklin Electronics!):
“I would like…” nets “I would like a laxative.”
In case you were wondering: “Quisiera un laxante.”

“I wonder…” nets “I think I’m going to be sick.”
In case you were wondering: “Creo que voy a enfermar.”
[Right. I’m about to vomit and the first thing I do is consult the translator.--Ed.]

“I need…” nets “I need a cane.”
In case you were wondering: “Necesito un bastón.”

From the guidebooks:
“I am diabetic/pregnant.”
In case you were wondering: “Soy diabético/a/estoy embarazada.”

“Can you help me? I have lost my daughter/son.”
In case you were wondering: “Puede ayudarme, se ha extraviado mi hija/mi hijo.”

"Do I need to see you again?"
In case you were wondering: "Debo verlo otra vez?"
[Meant for trips to the doctor, but we found it fitting in warding off potential suitors.--Ed.]

The Mediterranean Diet

After a few days here, between the walking and the biking and the tapas and the shopping at the fresh food markets and the generally smaller portions severed in restaurants, one starts to think, "I'm soooo going to become one of those skinny European bitches."

But then I forget that my version of the Mediterranean Diet involves vino, and when I have too much of it, I get ravenously hungry. Not truly stomach-growling hungry, just drunk hungry, which really isn't hungry at all, probably more like dehydrated, because isn't that what all the experts say--that mild dehydration is often mistaken for hunger? I know this--even in a wine-induced haze I know this--and yet every time, I can't help but stuff food in my mouth.

So so much for becoming a skinny bitch.

Last night we discovered a gem of a tapas place, Casa Paco, which happens to be just across the street from our apartment. Other places we've tried on the Alameda have been just so-so thus far, and though we noticed that the locals jam the place every night promptly at nine, when the kitchen opens, I cannot explain why it took a full week before we finally popped in.

Now it has been a struggle to not go there every night, given the delicious and deceptively simple dishes, such as tuna with peppers marinated in olive oil, bacon-wrapped dates drizzled with honey and the clear star of the menu, as it is escorted out of the kitchen every five minutes: queso de cabra au gratinada, which is basically a slab of goat cheese broiled until the top is crispy, then drizzled with honey and rosemary and served with a side of crostini. Our responses to these delicacies were very Rachel Ray á la her travel show, except genuine.

Is it los tourista or el tourista?

In New York they take to the streets with their fanny packs, cameras and IHeartNY t-shirts. They walk slowly, stretched four-long on the sidewalk, meandering and impossible to pass. The tourist is a scourge to New Yorkers.

After six years of living in that city, I’ve joined the throngs of locals who have grown weary of them. Unfortunately, I’ve brought that mentality to Spain. I am, more than anything, afraid to be recognized here for what I am: el turista.

Since we got here, I have stood at least 10 feet away from Jenn as she snaps photos (as only a tourist would take a picture of nuns going about their daily existance--JM), and I’ve been reluctant to speak to locals in my version of broken Castallano—my own bastard child of Spanish, English and ignorance.

Today, it dawned on me. I walked the few winding blocks to the Mercado Calle Feria, which is one of the oldest food markets in Seville, in search of a few items to cook for dinner. They had everything I could want: fish caught this morning, fresh vegetables, legs upon legs of Jamón Iberico, bottles of Spanish wines, flowers, et cetera.

I wanted to take a photo, but quickly reconsidered: How would I feel, in New York, if some Spanish dude was snapping photos of my freezer aisle as I was grabbing some Hot Pockets? Odd, right?

I returned home with nothing. Surely, if I spoke, if I touched the vegetables the wrong way, if I used the wrong word to order tuna, they would find me out for what I am.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the tourists in New York as I’ve gone about my days here and I’ve also thought about how I, and many New Yorkers I know, have treated tourists. Though we’ve griped about them among friends and laughed from time to time at their silly questions, we’ve always been helpful. We have given directions. We have given recommendations. We have given, at the very least, a smile to those wayward travelers looking for Times Square. And so I’ve decided: Tourists are not so bad. At least they speak the local language, right? I can’t even do that here.

Hopefully, the Sevillanos will offer me the same patience as I try to navigate their city. And I won’t even mind if they laugh at me once I’m out of earshot.

New York: 0; Seville: 2

As different as they are, it's hard not to compare life in New York with life in Seville. Today, the weather was reminiscent of a crisp and cloud-free fall day in Manhattan. Except I was in Seville. See what I'm saying?

Anywho, Seville has this community bike program, Sevici, that for just a few euros gives users access to numerous pick up/drop off bike stations around the city. Jay and I jumped on these bikes today (that's him, at right) and proceeded to pedal around town, which it turns out is not as small as we first thought. The bulk of the path was lined with orange blossom trees, which smell remarkably like jasmine. I almost got hit by a few cars as I however stupidly closed my eyes to truly take the scent in.

I first became scent obsessed last summer, during my stay in Provence, and particularly with lavender. Now whenever I smell lavender, I'm immediately transported back to that trip, which brought about some life predictions that eerily rang true in more ways than one today. As I pedaled and sniffed, I couldn't help but think about how New York needs a smell--something nicer than trash and dirty-water dogs. Scent is such an integral part of memory and I hate that the only time I'm olfactory reminded of home is when I walk by a trash bin. So here, Seville beats New York.

Seville again earns points with Sevici. The program is meant to be an eco-friendly way for residents to get about town, while also helping to eliminating roadway noise. Similar programs exist in nearby Cordoba as well as in Lyon and Paris, France. Why New York has not jumped on this trend, I do not know. Imagine the relief it could provide while they take another eon to build that 2nd Avenue subway line?

Of course, Seville lacks New York's attitude and available international cuisine—though not it's plethora of Starbucks, sadly. So I guess it's a wash.

Dear Diary,

We made a friend! His name is Joaquin--or Quino, as his friends (like us)--call him. He doesn't speak very much English, but whatevs, he is patient with our inconsistent Spanish. He owns a café bar steps from our apartment and he has a dog named Pipa (short for Josephina) who just roams around the place looking for attention. And he, like, totes invited us to his bar's anniversary party on Saturday. Like, we're so excited we may just need to go buy new outfits. Can't wait! More soon...

TTYL,

jm & jb
(P.S. Yay--photos!)

Tapas, Siestas and Speed Walking

It's no secret that the thing I dislike most about New York is its frenetic pace. I'm pretty go-go-go myself, but I've learned being a go-go-go person in a go-go-go atmosphere is exhausting. Which is why I was so eager to move to Spain, the land of siestas and drawn out mini-meals. I hoped, no matter how ridiculously, that the Spanish pace of life would rub off on me, effectively changing a core part of who I have been for the last 28 years. Will it--has it--happened? Damned if I know. It's only day four. 

(Somehow I am doubtful. For no matter how Sevilliano I look with my dark hair and pale skin, my speed-walk invariably gives me away as a non-local.) 

What I have noticed however, is that the Spanish way of life is less languid than siestas and tapas let on. I was surprised to learn that siestas are quite real--part of me thought that it was just some romanticized notion over-worked Americans have of Europe, whose lengthy vacation times have been well documented--because really, how can any business survive when you and all of your employees call it a day, every day, at 2 p.m.? But they do and somehow it works. 

Then there is the whole idea of tapas. I first pictured it as settling in at one place and ordering drinks and small plates all night long, but this is not how the Spanish do it. Instead, they are in for one beer (never more than two), a small plate of olives or meat and are on their way to the next joint. The whole process is often no more than 10 minutes. It seems so contradictory to the way everything else here operates. I don't understand the rush--with siestas in effect by mid-afternoon, where do they have to go? (Of course, this doesn't mean service is fast; just that the Spanish are better at getting what they want when they want it. Another lesson I need to learn.)

Sometimes I'm like a two year old, constantly asking why, why why. I need to stop over thinking it and just embrace it. Seems the process has worked here for the last 200 years--who am I to question it? 

Alive and online!

We made it, though the journey was not without its trials. But I'll get to the complaining later.

Seville is wonderful. It has been 70 degrees and sunny everyday so far and I didn't realize until our first day here that I'd forgotten what the sun felt like. It's true what people say about Seville being what you imagine Spain, and Europe in general, to be like. Narrow cobblestone streets taken over by Vespas and tiny cars, Old World architecture at every turn, and café, after café, after café, after café... I wonder if I'll get sick of the constant beauty.

Of course, it isn't all roses. People don't know how to pick up after their dogs and there is a lot of construction going on at the moment, so in parts it's not as nice as it will be. Our apartment--which is above a marijuana shop, hilariously--is in a great area that's slightly urban and less touristy, which only makes us feel more like tourists when we walk into one of the many tapas bars that line the Alameda de Hercules. (P.S. I've already succumbed to a small piece of jamón.)

So far we've managed to get our wants and needs across in Spanish pretty well; though I hate to say it, not many people speak English, like I expected. (Hoped?) When I think about being here for three months, I admit it's a little daunting, but I'm sure that will change once we get a better grasp on our surroundings. (It took us about a half hour today to find a supermarket in the basement of a department store, an odd pairing in itself.)

So, on to the complaining... As I mentioned, getting here was no picnic. First, my bank denied me access to my accounts, even though I called and said I'd be traveling abroad. Jay already had withdrawn the maximum his bank allowed, so, until I was able to call to correct the mistake, we traveled through Spain like little paupers, debating whether we should dip into rent money in order to eat. A quandary for sure, but not an unfamiliar scenario for anyone who lives in New York.

Our experience with the high-speed Avé train immediately made me miss New York (N.B. to our visitors: Sometime soon I'll post pointers so that you won't have to go through what we did). We arrived at Atocha Station at 1:30 p.m., hoping to catch the 2 p.m. train to Seville. To say the tellers operate at a snail's pace is being kind; it was almost a full hour before we got our tickets, leaving us to wait for the 4 p.m. train and kill time in the rain forest-like train station, with no money to burn.

In addition to all this, my luggage handle was broken, which made for all-around navigational awkwardness. We also hadn't showered or brushed our teeth in 24 hours and looked like it. We were so tired, both of us fell asleep for most of the two-and-half hour ride on the Avé, though I managed to catch glimpses of the Spanish countryside, with all of its olive groves and orange trees.

My day-three assessment: I get the feeling that just when I start to get a handle on things, it's going to be time leave.

(I do have a photos for you, but it turns out the Internet connection we're using has its limitations, so I may need to head to an Internet café to get these online. TBD.)

Sevilla Later: The Party

What a great time it was. We drank, we ate, we practiced flamenco and no one cried. Which, now that I think about it, kind of pisses me off.

Party pics here.


(Special thanks to Ilyse for creating the hilariously embarrassing invite.)

And now, my photo homage to everyone who could not be there and was very much missed. (Some of these photos are ooooold, which means we need to hangout more. If you don't even have a photo, then we reallly need to hang out more.)

Abby














Forever my art girls: Nicole, Lauren and Kelly













Casey















The CDs, although Corrie gets a pass since she's coming to visit














Dawn and Gina, who I think took this picture, which is why she's not in it












Debbie, who was in Meh-he-co














Erin














Kerry, who would kill me if I put a photo of her on my blog














Lloyd


















Mariel














Megan














Molly














Renee, Danielle, Brendan and Arielle














Ratterman














Sue














Vicki














Ysolt

My Mom's Better Than Your Mom

...because she's on ABC!


You'll have to go here to see the actual video (seems ABC isn't quite as technologically savvy as CBS' Andy Rooney). She was selected for the segment based on her outstanding volunteer work with the New Jersey chapter of the American Chronic Pain Association. (She also has her own alternative therapy practice.) Moms has become quite media savvy over the last few years; so much so I think her industry contacts are now far better than mine, as is her forward bend.

Oh well. Yay, Mom!

Sevilla Later: FAQ

Ever since the announcement of The Move 2.0, Jay and I have fielded a lot of the same questions about the decision. They are, of course, all valid, as our friends don't share the same brain, but because I'm procrastinating packing, I've decided to round up the eight questions we're consistently asked, for your inquisitive reading pleasure.

Q: How did you guys decide to do this?
A: Well, the frou-frou answer is that we both love to travel and living abroad is something that we've both always wanted to do, before we even met. Now, that's mostly true. But the honest answer is, after I initially (and half jokingly) presented the idea, he later called my bluff on how serious I was. Then I called his on researching an apartment. Next, he called me out on putting a deposit down, and so on and so forth. So, here we are.

Q: Why Seville?
A: We were split on where to go. I wanted Italy, he wanted Spain. After a few weeks of deadlock, one afternoon we were at Sunswick, talking to a 20-something bartender who had grown up all over Europe. We asked what his favorite place was in all of Europe and he said Seville. We researched it, and loved that it's a university town and is pedestrian friendly. Plus, the idea of daily siestas, nightly tapas and warm weather was a huge draw. Oddly, neither of us have ever been to Spain.

Q: Do either of you speak Spanish?
A: After six years of Spanish classes in high school and college, I'm conversational, at best. Jay can say, "Hola! Que tal? Me llamo Jay!" I think we're in for a big shock upon our arrival.

Q: Why just three months?
A: Because that's the longest you can go without needing a visa. After that, if they find you, they kick you out and you are not allowed back into any country in the EU for at least two years.

Q: Are you sure you'll come back?
A: Yes. We both have leases to get back to, plus, I imagine getting paid in dollars but living with the euro can't be sustained for very long.

Q: Will you travel around while you're there?
A: Absolutely, as our budget allows. We have earmarked Morocco and Paris specifically. (Suggestions on where to go are welcome in the comments below.)

Q: Are you nervous/excited/packed?
A: Yes/yes/see above.

Q: OMG, you're soooo coming back engaged!
A: No. Not that I've asked--more like relayed the recurring question--and have very gently been told it's not going to happen.

Sevilla Later: Binge Edition

The day I returned from my month-long stay in England, my parents, driving me home from the airport, asked what I wanted to do on my first day back in the states. "Go to a diner," said I, a born-and-bred Diner State girl, and the 'rents promptly obliged. Therewith, I proceeded to pig out on mozzarella sticks, potato skins (this was pre-vegetarianism) and other various and nefarious fried foods that are hard to come by abroad.

So, with less than a week left before the move to Spain, I made a list of all the foods I knew I could not get (or wouldn't be as good) overseas and therefore had to eat before my departure. These included, but were not limited to: a bagel, sushi, a slice of pizza, popcorn, cheese fries, pickles, et al. This weekend, I went on a bender, aided in part by the free pizza available with every drink purchase at Crocodile Lounge. The evidence...

First, on Saturday night, the pizza:



Then, the morning after, I ate like I was on vacation.



From left to right: pancakes; cheese fries with gravy on the side (for people who like that sort of thing); onion rings (not pictured); grilled cheese with bacon and tomato; mashed potatoes; roast beef sandwich (I did not partake); BLT (not pictured, also not eaten, though I did snag the pickle); scrambled eggs; and a Diet Coke, which is more syrupy here than the Coke Lite available everywhere else in the world.

It tasted oh-so-good going down and I expectedly felt disgusting the rest of the day, both physically and emotionally. In fact, I feel so full I don't think I'll need to eat anything until I actually arrive in Spain on Saturday.

The dude sooooo got grammar hammered

The New York Times writes a laudatory article about a subway ad that properly uses a semicolon (a lesson we know a few of you need to revisit), only to have to later amend the story with this correction:

Bizzaro World

"The first year and especially those first few months can be really isolating. Sometimes just getting out for a cup of coffee can be the most entertaining thing of the day."

That's a source I recently spoke with for an article. She was talking about having a baby, but I think it also speaks well of going freelance. Does this mean I'm ready to be a mom now?

T-minus 10 days...

Witness the cannoli-filled cake that wishes us well in French for our upcoming trip to Spain. Bit internationally schizophrenic, but delicious nonetheless.

Out With The Old

Does anyone actually enjoy Andy Rooney on "60 Minutes"? If you do, please tell me why, because I'm having trouble understanding how this dated, unfunny old man still gets paid. To wit, his recently aired segment on the Super Bowl:

Screw Union Square's farmer's market

I've always complained about the poor-quality produce in Astoria, which is why I'm so excited about this:

"...[Dan Wood and Amale Andraos have] convinced P.S. 1 to let them fill the museum's courtyard with... um, crops. Wood and Andraos have won the institution's Young Architects Program competition, which means that by summer, they will have stood dozens of giant cardboard tubes on one end, filled them with dirt, and used them as planters for cabbages, lettuce, tomatoes and herbs."


The veggies will be harvested and distributed--perhaps to the local Key Foods? For the love of God, please?! The project also calls for:

"...two sound columns--one that plays farm sounds when you sit down, another in which you can look upward, see stars and hear crickets. There is a phone-charging column, a children's grotto of columns with swings, an herb-growing column with circulating fans dispersing scents like basil or lavender [Ed note: Yay!], and a juicer column where fresh juice will be made and sold."

There's even talk of growing barley and hops to brew the first P.S. 1 beer, as all of this will be constructed around a pool, in an outdoor space dedicated to summertime dancing and drinking. The space will debut just in time for my return from Spain, so guess where I'm having my welcome back party? (Sorry Jay, you get no say in this one.)

It's likely I'm the sole person who gets excited by the idea of an urban farm, but what else would you expect from a girl who only knew cows as neighbors until the age of six?

Photo: Work Architecture Company (The example photo they released kind of sucks, but the web site has much better depictions, which unfortunately cannot be downloaded.)

Could this be the beginning of the end?

This post is at risk of over sharing. Consider yourself forewarned.

Around that time of the month, I tend to get severe cravings, usually for chocolate or salt, which, as every menstruating woman knows, is a big no-no, as caffeine and salt only make cramps worse. This month, however, has been different--I'm craving meat.

As a vegetarian, I know that having meat on the mind usually means I need to up my protein intake, but thus far that tactic hasn't worked. I happen to have a bit of pepperoni in the house, as I made the coveted pepperoni bread for Corrie's Super Bowl party on Sunday. By and by, I've been cutting off just a sliver and eating it. I didn't realize how often I'd been doing this until today when, on a recent trip to the refrigerator, I horrifyingly realized there's only about a quarter of the 'roni left (about half of the stick went to use in Sunday's bread). That's a whole quarter of pepperoni in three days, people. I'm so ashamed!

Perhaps there was something prophetic in what Jay's friend, Gabel, said to me on Sunday, after he found out I made the pepperoni bread: "You know Jenn, some people say pepperoni is a gateway meat."

A preview

...Of our apartment in Seville! I've been meaning to post these photos for a while and I figure my standard 3 p.m. procrastination hour is as good a time as any. Behold:



The living room, with what we hope is a futon so that when people come visit, we won't have to share a twin bed (more on that later).



The uneventful kitchen. Since I don't cook, its sparsity doesn't bother me much, though I'm not sure how well Chef Boehmer will manage.



The bedroom. Just like Lucy and Desi's.




Bathroom. Fascinating, yes?



The view of the Alameda de Hercules from our shared roof terrace. It doesn't look like much here, but we've been told that in the warmer months this is where las personas de Espana come to relax in the evenings over a bottle of vino. (And therewith, is about the extent of my Spanish. That, and "Donde esta el bano?")

photos: Seville5

All is right with the world

The Giants just had to win the Super Bowl, because I couldn't stand the thought of Tom Brady pulling off the unbelievable trifecta of knocking up Bridget Moyhahan, leaving her to bang Gisele and leading an undefeated team to a world championship win.

Plus, last night's win managed to raise my father's excitement decibel from Eeyore to Charlie Brown.

Good work, team.

Upon discovering PetFinder now features video...

Eat Me, Pray for Me, Love Me

My instinct is to hate this blog. Reading it generates the same "ugh" feeling I got after taking in a few pages of Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat, Pray, Love." (Truth be told, I didn't hate the book, just Liz's pig out across Italy. Her determination to successfully meditate at an ashram was much more fascinating to me.)

Why all the hate, you ask, especially since I'm about to embark on my own similar journey?

Well, I'd like to think that it's only partially because they got the recognition or scored the book deal before I did. Mostly what bores me is yet another story of a glamorous Manhattan media-type who takes off to some far off land because she got dumped/dumped someone/thinks she deserves more both psychologically and spiritually than what her current living situation offers.

Enough already! These stories are on the fast-track to Clichéville and smack of self-importance. It bothers me that such quests have to be wrapped in a cloak of spirituality and tied with a bow of meaningfulness in order to appear purposeful. Come on, kids, lets call these journeys of "self-discovery" what they really are! Exercises in self-indulgence! (As evidenced by The Lost Girls' media inquiries page and Gilbert securing the book deal for EPL before she embarked on her trip). Unless you're going to Africa to give malaria shots to orphans or to Peru to help rebuild a city after a devastating earthquake, the trip ultimately helps no one but yourself, no matter (or perhaps in light of) how many copies you later sell.

This is true even of my own experience. People often ask me, "What prompted you to move to Spain?" and for a while, I had trouble answering the question, because the truth sounds so selfish, and no one wants to sound selfish.

But simply put, I'm moving to Spain because I can. No psychological crisis necessary. Although a book deal would be nice.

Exclusive! Media Use of Exclusive is Spiraling Out of Control

A magazine I used to work for tended to get a little out of hand in its pursuit of the "exclusive" slug, tagging it on items as meaningless as some exec saying they might maybe do something about that thing soon. But none of that matters, because this Us Weekly "Exclusive" takes the cake, and makes me so happy that I am not required to be that inane for a living.

Signs of a Frequent Flyer

JEOPARDY! is not my game. Usually I'm a Wheel watcher, mostly because it requires less thoughtful effort. But this week, I happened upon JEOPARDY! and managed to kick ass in one category, "Landing at JFK." I got every question right, and while I was elated at first, my usual stupidity in every other category quickly set in, which made me feel less smart and more like a female version of Tom Hanks in "The Terminal." You are what you know, I guess, and so, in an effort to keep that feeling of smart superiority going, this quiz here is meant to determine whether or not you are enough of a quick-thinking frequent flyer to hang with me. No cheating!

For $200:
Located at Terminal 3, this company with a Greek letter as its name offers 1,500 daily flights.

Answer.

For $400:
This airline at Terminal 4 was formed by the Irish government in April 1936 and has been in the "Aer" ever since.

Answer.

For $600:
Now at Terminal 4, this company's first flight, from Amsterdam to London on May 17, 1920, was letter perfect.

Answer.

For $800:
This Terminal 4 company was founded in 1984 by Richard Branson; over million people flew it by the end of the decade.

Answer.

For $1,000:
On February 20, 2007, this Terminal 6 airline introduced its "Customer Bill of Rights."

Answer.

I'll take friends that score $1,200 or better, Alex.

Mice on a Plane*

First poop, now this:

"Chinese inspectors found eight mice, dead and alive, on a United Airlines flight [from Washington, D.C.] to Beijing after the airline reported the stowaways to local quarantine officials upon landing Sunday afternoon, Xinhua news agency said."

I'm not so concerned about mice on a plane, per se. They're kind of cute, minus the tails; and really, any diseases these rodents might bring are just China's karmic retribution for shipping us all those lead-tainted toys this holiday season. What gets me is that these mice, both dead and alive, were found (among other places) in the pillows supplied to flyers for their comfort.

I happen to have two of those neck pillows made for flying (basically the frequent flyer's equivelant of fanny packs) and when Jay and I were packing for Scotland, I asked if he wanted one. He declined, replying, "Why would you lug that around when they give them to you on the plane?"

At the time, I couldn't think of a viable reason for such geekiness, but now, about a month later, I have one, and it will forever be my excuse for flying with those lame-ass looking things.


* yes, its an obvious title and I'm certainly not the only one to think of it, but I'm feeling especially uncreative today.

So this is the new year

...And I feel somewhat different. Mostly, hungover. But, in other news:

• I severely fell off the vegetarian wagon New Year's Eve, thanks to another of Jay's stupendous stylings in the kitchen: these delectable little ham croquettes (pictured here). Yes, they look suspiciously like Jay's famous risotto balls, but these croquettes are on another level. Never have everything I usually avoid ingesting tasted so great: meat, cheese and milk, all wrapped up in fried panko break crumbs. Never fear, I'm back to my veggie-eating ways as of today.

• Spain is happening, people! Most of you know this, but for those of you that don't, Jay and I are moving to Seville for three months beginning in March. Just for the hell of it, really, but largely because of this. All are welcome to come visit and I suspect I'll see more of you making the six-hour transatlantic trek than I did when I moved an hour away to Queens.

• As I mentioned before, I've quit my job. People have asked why I would quit a job that allows me to travel the world on someone else's dime and the answer is two-fold: Mostly, it's in preparation for Spain, but also because some times the dream jobs are, in actuality, nightmares.

• So! I begin life as a freelance writer in the next few weeks. All of your well wishes (and leads) are mucho appreciated, as are your encouragements that all will work out. I promise to do my best to remember to brush my teeth and shower every day, even though I may not leave the house. In the coming months, you can see my words in Zink and starting soon, I'll also be a regular contributer to HotelChatter. Plus, a shamelessly self-promoting web site is on its way.

Feliz ano nuevo!

Thank you

I'm the type of person who looks for signs. Signs that what I'm about to do is the right thing; signs that I did the right thing; signs that I missed an opportunity. Sometimes they appear; more often than not, they don't. But when they do appear, I feel a confidence that no person or words can otherwise give me. Whether these signs come from God, fate, the universe, or are just mere idiotic coincidence, I don't know, but they are nonetheless comforting.

Yesterday, I turned down a promotion and quit my job. Honestly, I had sort of expected to panic the second I left my boss' office, much like I had when I plunked down the hefty deposit for my own apartment in New York. I'd be lying if I said I didn't experience a little anxiety over the move--especially after the guttural "What?!" my usually laid-back father uttered when I told him--but in general, I felt calm. Still, on the subway ride home, I asked for a sign. A sign that I had done the right thing in quitting my job--and not just in quitting my job, but in uprooting everything I know and truly testing the strength of mine and Jay's relationship by moving to Spain.

This morning, in yoga class (of all the places this may be completely apropos or incredibly cheesy), my instructor read the following quote from Anais Nin at the end of a particularly challenging hour and a half:

"It takes courage to push yourself to places you've never been before, to test your limits, to break through barriers. And the day came when the risk it took to remain inside the bud was more painful then the risk it took to blossom."

I got my answer.

The suite life

Jay said it best upon our arrival at Gleneagles Hotel in Perthshire, Scotland: People don't even honeymoon this good. Below, a video of our suite (forgive our giddiness, we had just arrived) and here, photos.



Now the run down:

Day 1
Despite its royal reputation, Gleneagles is anything but stuffy. (In 2005, the G8 Summit was held there, and in 2014, the hotel will host the Ryders Cup on its famed golf courses.) In fact, the only thing I found stiff about this hotel was my starchy napkin during breakfast. We arrived at Gleneagles just in time for breakfast, a stroke of luck, as we’ve heard wonderful things about its buffet from dear Corrie, who visited earlier this year. It certainly does not disappoint, offering up tailor-made omelets, classic Scottish haggis and an array of delicious pastries, which we had no problem devouring every morning.

After breakfast, we were escorted to Gleneagles’ hunting school, where Ian schools us in the craft of clay pigeon shooting. Given that the only hunting Jay and I have ever taken part in was through Nintendo’s “Duck Hunt,” we need some work. We each hit a few, but I'm told I have a quick trigger finger. Guns are heavy things, so afterwards we head for massages, natch. Every day should be so difficult.

Day 2
The day we venture to Edinburgh happens to be the coldest day of the year so far for Scotland, as my occasionally forced smile in the photos will show you.

Day 3
When I told people I was going to Scotland, those who know I haven’t eaten meat in six years scoffed, “Good luck!” Surely there’s more rabbit, lamb, and haggis on every menu here than I’ve likely seen in my entire life, but that doesn’t mean the country has turned a cold shoulder on its herbivore residents and visitors. In fact, they’ve even managed to come up with a vegetarian version of haggis (a Scottish dish similar to sausage), made of lentils and other beans.

But it's no doubt that Scotland tested my animal-loving limits. First was falconry lessons at Gleneagles Hotel; followed by gun dog training. When William first introduced us to his collection of hawks and eagles, I thought I’d feed the birds some seeds and watch them do some tricks; I had no idea we’d actually take them into the surrounding fields of farmland to hunt rabbits.

On the three-hour trek, our birds of prey, Saunders and Victor, were 50/50, netting two kills out of four attempts. Watching the kills weren't as heart wrenching as I thought they would be—after all, I wasn’t the one killing the rabbit, merely following the bird that did. (Although one rabbit did manage to let out a heartbreaking scream during one kill, which slowed my enthusiasm a little.) William was careful to make sure the animal didn’t suffer; discreetly ensuring the rabbit was dead (i.e. breaking its neck) and not just in shock before he disposed of it. (The deceased are later taken to a nearby rehabilitation center to serve as food for wounded wild animals, so at least it's not all for sport.) In truth, it’s the chase that’s thrilling; but you’d be mistaken if you thought I looked hard to spot rabbits for these hawks to swoop down and kill.

Next, gun dog training. Having grown up with dogs and now being residents of New York with small apartments and no yards, Jay and I were in terrible dog withdrawal, and may have been more excited to be out playing with dogs more so than they were to be out of the kennel and playing with us. Here too, the animals are well cared after and the trainer was delicate yet stern with the more rambunctious animals. The trainer also tells me that once the 11 dogs, which are between three and four years old, become too old or are injured, and therefore no longer are as spry, they will be found good homes, rather than dispensed to a shelter. I’ve already signed up to have Debbie, a three-year-old black lab who nuzzles your leg for attention, to be shipped to me when the time comes.

Day 4
Back to reality in coach on Continental. Oh well. Being nouveau rich was fun while it lasted.

Doppelganger Strikes Again

I've already gotten my second congratulations-but-sad-to-see-you-go e-mail about this news from BizWeek:

"The Wall Street Journal hires Jennifer Merritt (jennifer.merritt@wsj.com) as 'CareerJournal' editor."

Sadly, it's a success of JM 1.0, not my own. Truth be told, it's slightly annoying having to deflect these e-mails, as it only reminds me of how stunted I am in my current position. For sure, when I vacate my current post, no one will give a hoot--and not just the folks at BizWeek; even more likely, my own boss.

More reason to move to Europe

On Yahoo!:

Tourists, theatergoers, shoppers and pub patrons in London's West End can now text the word "toilet" — and receive a text back with the address of the nearest public facility.

Leave it to our friends across the pond--where public toilets abound (albeit for a small fee)--to come up with loo-finding technology.

If you've ever spent more than an hour with me, you know how small my bladder is. The absence of public restrooms across cities in the U.S. always shocks me, especially in New York, which is such a heavily traffiked tourist destination. Goodness knows I've been driven to desperation. I'm surprised we don't see more people pissing in alleyways and on subway tracks.

Though apparently here in the U.S., a company called Vindigo offers a service similar to that of SatLav, but coupled with mapping, shopping, movie times and other info, because, you know, Americans are such tight wads no one except me would ever admit to using a service that solely exists to meet excreting needs.

Image: Peters

Signs of Aging

Driving in the slow lane, five miles under the speed limit, on a highway you used to do 85 mph on just a few years ago; cringing the entirety of the hour’s drive, not just because it’s been a few months since you’ve driven—let alone on a major highway filled with raging New Jerseyians—but also because your driving skills now resemble that of your mother.

Also; buying eye cream.

Because Susan Miller says so

It appears the planets are aligning for mine and Jay's plans to temporarily move abroad next year. Like, for real:

Scorpio (aka me): From now on, Mars will be in your long-distance travel/foreign people and places sector, so something big seems to be brewing for you in this area. You may travel abroad in coming months (very likely) [Ed note: Given the job, duh] or you may get special help from people who are based in foreign countries. Sometimes it works out that a foreign person that you meet or know from your city, and not abroad, will be the one who is lucky for you. The point is that there will be a strong and positive international influence entering your life, one that will be sustained for quite a long time, taking you at least to May, if not longer.

Sagittarius (aka Jay): If attached, there's a good chance you will travel to an exotic country together soon, either now or sometime prior to early May. This would be a worthy goal, for you'd enjoy this particular trip very much. It would not be a trip to take alone, if possible, and not one meant to take with your Mom, sister, brother, child, or friend. This trip needs to be with your partner for the most fun.

Needless live blogging: Gossip Girl

(From L-R: Blair, Dan, Serena, Nate, Chuck and Jenny)

Anyone who knows me well knows how much I love a deliciously cheesy teen drama. It all started with 90210, moved on to Dawson’s Creek (Jen Lindley being the only blond temptress I’ve ever sympathized with), graduated to Felicity, then, after a too-long dry spell, the gloriously witty O.C. (the first season, anyway) and lately, during my second dry spell and albeit a little late to the game, One Tree Hill.

Now, I have Gossip Girl. Let’s just hope it’s not Josh Schwartz’s answer to Hidden Palms. (Shame on you for that one, Kevin Williamson.)

So, here we go. My first impressions of what I hope will encompass my Wednesday nights for the foreseeable future.

9:06 p.m.: Our first look at Serena: She looks old—are those frown lines that I see? Update: IMDB tells me the actress is just shy of being old enough to drink. Unfortunate. (Also, a side note: These actors all have names as ridiculously upper-class and white-bred as their fictional counterparts: Blake Lively, Leighton Meester, Taylor Momsen—Chace Crawford?)

9:08: Peter Bjorn & John’s “Young Folks” plays in the background at Grand Central. I’m not sure how I feel about this, especially since it’s followed by an extremely outdated Justin Timberlake song (by a high schooler’s standards, anyway. I mean, it was JT's musical diatribe to Britney’s alleged cheating—so circa 2002).

9:13: As for Blair—wtf is up with that bow on her head?

9:20: At least Jenny’s cute. I love how after everyone introduces themselves to her, she says, “I know.”

9: 26: Ooh, first secret rendezvous between Serena and Nate. Hmm… uneventful. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a duller supposed-to-be heartthrob.

9:30: Blair is deliciously bitchy. I already feel myself sympathizing with her á la Brenda Walsh over that blond bubbleheaded and oft-coveted Kelly—er, I mean Serena.

9:37: So far, I have yet to hear any of Schwartz’s characteristic Seth Cohen-Summer Roberts banter. Sigh.

9:41: B’s mom: “You will never be more beautiful or thin or happy than you are right now. I just want you to enjoy it.” There it is.

9:45: Dan Humphrey is so quickly becoming Serena’s Noel Crane.

9:51: I think I’ve heard this music playing in the background of the fight scene on an episode of Melrose Place.

10:00 p.m. I may be hooked, but something within me remains skeptical. What Gossip Girl lacks in wit, it certainly makes up for with dra-ma. However, Schwartz needs to amp up the music choices. There was not one song in the entire episode that I felt compelled to immediately download and put on a playlist for my boyfriend. Even the network is hinting at something. The CW didn’t even do its standard, “Tonight’s episode featured music by…”

Until next Wednesday—you know you love it. Ha!

Syanara summer

The last time I was in Hilton Head, SC, I officially entered womanhood, receiving my first-ever visit from the now much-loathed Aunt Flo. I was 12. So it somehow is fitting then, that on my second visit, 15 years later, my biological clock starts ticking.

It's Jay's own fault, really. First, on Friday, there was his friends' wedding. These things inexplicably get to me, making me think "Oh, I want this!" for the preceeding four hours. Then, over the weekend in Hilton Head, I was exposed to baby fever brought on by his four adorable nieces. To wit: Maggie is still working on prounouncing her J's, so she called me me "Zen." Which I kind of like. I hope Maggie never learns how to properly say my name.

Then there's Libby, who is the most encouraging toddler I've ever met in my life. Stuck inside on a rainy day and working on a 550-piece puzzle of the Little Mermaid, Libby popped in every so often to tell Jay and I what a good job we were doing.

So, once I start conspicuously leaving Tiffany's pamphlets (does Tiffany even make pamphlets? Probably not.) and stop taking my birth control pills, Jay has no one to blame but himself.

Pics here.

Budapest for the rest of us

So clearly my recent trip to Budapest is not something I would have been able to accomplish on my own meager salary, even though my boss continually likes to position her staff as “experts in the luxury market,” when in reality, on particularly bad days, my coworker and I go in on lunch together, splitting a slice of pizza and meticulously dividing up a can of Diet Coke from the vending machine. But I digress…

I took a few notes when away from the high-thread count of the hotel and here’s what I came up with, so that Budapest seems less like the London of Hungary.

First, I should say that now is the time to go to Budapest, before it turns into a shiny, reconstructed European city. Budapest was battered during World War II, and a few gritty remnants of this period remain. There is anti-Communism graffiti everywhere, which the city is in the process of cleaning up. This, I understand, but what makes me sad is the refurbishment that is ridding various buildings of fascinating bullet holes from the war. If you’re at all a history buff, you’ll want to experience this city in the next two years, before all of these time stamps are erased by new construction.

Hungary’s currency is the forint, which when I was there, roughly equaled 192 forint for every American dollar. This rate fluctuates a lot and its instability is one of the reasons why Hungary hasn’t yet converted to the euro. If I cared and/or was smarter, I could better explain the reasoning behind this, but I don’t and I’m not, so if you’re that interested, contact one of those finances types for an explanation.

Anywho, though the exchange rate ain’t great, Hungarian goods are cheap, especially the wine, which is next to impossible to get in America, simply because the wineries don’t have the capacity to meet the demand. For $20 each, I essentially got “ripped off” buying two bottles of red wine I had sampled during dinner at the Four Seasons the previous night, from a wine shop in Budapest’s fashionable Castle District.

Budapest is split down the middle by the Danube River and actually used to be two separate cities—Buda and Pest—before becoming one in 1873. The Buda side is the more fashionable, artsy side of the river, where you’ll find landmarks like the Holy Trinity Square, the Royal Palace and most shopping. It’s also the side where you’ll find the Amigo Hostel, which is oddly Mexican-themed, but offers cheap rooms and, for a little more forint, private rooms and baths. (Mind you, I didn’t stay here, it came on recommendation of the tour guide.)

You can easily walk east across the Chain Bridge to get to the Pest side of the Danube, which is noticeably less trafficked. This is where you’ll find Parliament, the second largest synagogue in the world (second to New York) and St. Peter’s Basilica. (Can anyone tell me why there seems to be a St. Peter’s Basilica in every major European city?). It’s also where the famous Gerbeaud Ház café is located. (I highly recommend the dark chocolate cake and taking home a tin of their coffee, which will run you about $16.)

While the Buda side is all hills, Pest is flat. I found out from a fellow traveler that for as little as $1.50 an hour, you can rent a bike, peddle slowly and see all the sights of the Pest side in about 30 minutes. The metro is also cheap and quite efficient for getting around as well.

If your travel times are flexible, go to Budapest during a festival, when the city is replete with markets showcasing homemade goods like handmade lace, semi-fashionable clothing, pottery and other cheap yet original goods. Admittedly, you could see all there is in Budapest in a day or two, so going during a festival easily tacks on another day to soak in the culture. It didn’t appear to me that you could haggle prices with the proprietors, but I was too shy to try, so I can’t say for sure. For a list of upcoming festivals in Budapest, click here.

Typically, the best time to visit is in the summer months, but that is when airfare will run you about $1,000—coach—roundtrip. My insiders say, however, that by planning your trip between November and March, you could easily score a roundtrip flight for $400. Despite the annoyance of having to lug a winter coat, I think Budapest in the winter could be quite charming. If you’re lucky enough to be there when it snows, I can only imagine how magical the whole scene of the Danube and the surrounding medieval architecture looks.

The city knows winter is its slow season, so as further incentive for tourists, Budapest is running the same promotion it did last winter, which is its stay three, get one night free campaign. Here you can get a full list of participating hotels that run the gamut from—yes—the Four Seasons to cheaper three-star hotels.

So that’s Budapest for the rest of us. For an overwhelming amount of photos taken over a three-day period, click here.

Are you there God? It's me, Hungary.

I'm in Budapest right now, taking part in Hungary's St. Stephen's Day celebrations. Apparently the city is on high alert this year, after what happened in 2006:

"At least three people died and more than 250 were injured when a storm lashed Hungary's captial, Budapest, as huge crowds watched a firework display."

With three hours left to go until 2007's fireworks, Budapest is again currently under seige by heavy rains. Trees are toppling sideways and people have fled screaming for cover. The winds are so strong, I had to throw my body into my balcony door in order to close it. (For once, work has possibly saved my sanity. Earlier, I opted to go back to the hotel to work, instead of remaining on the large ship floating in the Danube that I'm supposed to be on right now.) I have to admit it's a little freaky.


Yesterday, during a guided tour, our guide stopped at the Holy Trinity Column, which was erected near the Royal Palace in 1713 to protect the city from the plague, which Budapest was repeatedly (forgive me) plagued with. "We don't have a lot of good luck here in Hungary," she said.

No kidding.

An American in Budapest

Of all the things Budapest has to offer, you might be surprised to hear the one thing it has an abundance of—American tourists. Especially these last three days, when Hungary celebrates St. Stephen’s Day, the former Communist country’s equivalent of the Fourth of July. Along the Danube River, mixing well among the locals enjoying the specially commissioned music, events and markets for the occasion, Americans are roaming the streets, taking in the Parliament, shopping in the city’s newly established fashion district and eating at Gerbeaud Ház, the city’s famed pastry and coffee shop. Of all the times I've been to Europe, it's so far the best I've seen Americans blend. I don't think that speaks to Hungarians, I think it says more about the type of American traveler that is coming here.

You could say that being an American has attuned my ears to an utterance of an English word, but in Budapest, you are hard pressed not to find someone who speaks English, making it a very easy city to navigate. The reason I know Americans are beginning to flock here is because Julien Carralero, general manager at the Gresham Palace Four Seasons Hotel here, where I’m staying, tells me that 60 percent of his guests are American leisure travelers.



Though tourists often march in and out to admire the detail-oriented renovation, as well as the hotel’s stunning lobby, the 179-room hotel is rarely at occupancy. The building itself offers a rich history that spans a life as a luxury apartment building, insurance headquarters, even neglect, before the Four Seasons took it over two years ago and renovated it. It is so breathtakingly beautiful that Condé Nast Traveler in 2007 voted it best in design, service and rooms on its Gold List.

Indeed, my room, a standard king that overlooks the Danube and the Chain Bridge, is quite comfortable—a welcome respite from the 10 or so hours it took to get here. (Malev, Hungary’s carrier, flies direct from New York, but flights are so full—further evidence of an American invasion—I instead flew Oneworld alliance partner American Airlines to Zurich and connected there to Budapest on Malev.)

Also helping me to relax is the helpful staff, particularly Magdi, my masseuse at the hotel’s spa, who dutifully worked out the kinks in my shoulders and was so highly trained she said to me as she worked on my left hand, “You must type a lot.” A hazard of the job, I told her. (I'll make sure my boss reads that as evidence of my commitment.)

A delicious dinner and wine pairing at the hotel’s restaurant, Páva—appropriately translated as “peacock”—rounded out my first day. Well done simple pleasures like tomato soup, asparagus risotto with truffles and chocolate molten cake fulfilled me well enough to carry me through three hours of private car sight seeing the next day, graciously arranged by the hotel concierge. Such an extravagance isn’t necessary, however, as the hotel is located well, across from the famous Danube and within walking distance to a good number of the city’s attractions and landmarks.

If it sounds as though I’m being pampered, well—I am. What else would you expect from the Four Seasons? Plenty of non-PR commissioned pictures to follow upon my return later this week.

The New York Times has my number

Although unfortunately, it's not for an interview. This is the second time now that their travel section has graciously prepared one of their "36 Hours" pieces about a place I'm traveling to. First, Scotland, where Jay and I will be off to live in the lap of luxury for four days come December, and now, Budapest, where I'm headed this weekend, quite appropriately, for roughly 36 hours. It's almost like the editors there have a dossier in my head (or more acurately, in my trip log at work).

It's happened again

Another equally boring writer lands a coveted (at least by me) gig at an online media gossip rag. This is a girl who once earnestly blogged about why she joined one bank over another. Seriously.

Meanwhile, I can’t score a call back no matter how much I tailor my cover letter, and am left to languish at a job that values plagiarism over original reporting. Not that I’m the next big thing, but I like to think I can at least construct a few interesting sentences. I guess I just need to follow my 21-year-old, still-in-college sister’s arrogant advice and just “put [myself] out there.”

As I told Corrie, who relayed this latest news, I’m either going to kill myself or quit journalism altogether. I’ll decide later. It's all just too much right now.