If you don’t want to be in the rush and crush of South Beach, The Viceroy Hotel (now part of the W Hotel Group) is your ticket! A stones throw from all the action, at The W you’ll actually be able to get a good night’s sleep without all the revelers outside your window.
Located on the famed Brickell Avenue, The W “deftly juxtaposes elite residential necessities with scene-making dining, roof-raising lounging and the intuitive service and unexpected delights recognized as Viceroy signatures.”
Although the W is adding it’s own signature style, the mainstay of it’s design is by Kelly Wearstler. Wearstler is known for her distinctive interiors from Anguilla to Beverly Hills and this Miami property is as eclectic yet discerning as her others. From the unexpected poolside touches, to the Spa with it’s adjacent Library and ‘Party Room’, nothing has been left to the imagination.
Have a rental car? A trip to Miami wouldn’t be complete without a tool around the oak lined avenues of Coral Gables or perhaps a dip in The Venetian pool. Created in 1923 by George Merrick from a coral rock quarry, the property also features two large historic lookout towers, with a view of the beautifully designed city below. Nearby, you could take a relaxing stroll through the exquisite museum and gardens of Viscaya. Both require entrance fees.
Parking in South Beach can be a bear so when you’re ready to step into the fray, grab a taxi and head over the bridge to one of these top restaurants. Just a few of the hottest spots for food with a lively bar scene, include, Dolce , The Bazaar by Jose Andres or La Cote, which adds the bonus of being right on South Beach for great people watching. Finish your evening by cruising down Lincoln Road before you head on back to your reprieve at The Viceroy.
Back in the 70’s and 80’s, being in the top 1% meant an income of $200,000 and more. In these times and if you have a family, that income can leave us feeling barely middle class. Just figuring in the cost of healthcare, housing and education alone leaves us with far less in our holiday kitty. Resorts catering to the 1% are for the über, ridiculously rich and not likely attainable to the rest of we 99%. But just because we don’t travel with a cadre of Louis Vuitton luggage, assistants, an au pair and chauffeur doesn’t mean we don’t desire luxury. So where can we go to feel pampered, engaged, invigorated or enlightened and still pay the bills? Well, how about Europe?
I am having a love affair right now with a budget hotel chain named Motel One. Not even for one fleeting moment allow yourself to equate it to the American ‘Motel 6’. Begun in Germany with the concept that style and design need not be exclusive, Motel One’s properties are breathing fresh new blood into the ‘budget’ market. The brains behind the concept, is veteran hotelier Dieter Müeller, who took home the coveted ‘Hotelier of the Year’ award in 2009. Poised to conquer Europe, Motel One now has 48 properties in Germany, Austria, The Czech Republic and UK, with plans to expand to include an additional 26 destinations. Having recently spoken to a German Film Commissioner, who has stayed at many of their locations when traveling for business, I have it on good authority that the properties are also located in prime districts! But location and price line aside, what you get is a delicacy for the senses.
Each property has it’s own distinct styling often created in concert with its location. Yet all have touches of the Motel One signature color, turquoise. In Prague, the bar is embellished with crystal chandeliers. In London, across from the London Tower, the design is based on the crown jewels, Scotland, bits of tartan plaid and in others, the trademark Egg Chairs. Curated by the inimitable Beate Ohnesorge, Interior Designer and Head Buyer, Ms. Ohnesorge will be the first to remind you of the hotel’s motto, ‘All originals – no fakes’. That alone is what takes Motel One to an entirely new dimension in ‘budget travel’.
I have long been a believer that traveling on a budget should never mean scrimping on simple luxuries. Borne to make one’s vacation a true respite, my non-negotiables, a cappuccino when desired and my glass of Pinot Gris at the end of the day, are conveniently all-available in the One Lounge. As with every other well crafted detail, the hotel’s creative use of space melds a Breakfast Café, Living Room and Bar into one congenial arena. At night, the bar area is often cordoned off for an even more intimate experience. Not to be outdone by decor savvy alone, Motel One is situated firmly on trend as even their breakfast leads the hotel pack by serving a variety of organic items, including coffee.
If you’re like me and often travel with your furry family member, breathe easy, Motel One is pet friendly and their fee is a little over $5. per night. Wifi is free and available throughout the hotel. Forgot your iPad or wish to look something up? Motel One has some to borrow. Wish to plan your itinerary with local happenings and must see attractions? Motel One has that covered too on their website. Not only do they list a calendar of events throughout your city of choice, they list many of the sites you don’t want to miss with an interactive map and directions from the hotel.
With rates starting at €59, that’s around $64. for a single and €69. or around $75 for a double, depending on location, the money you save can surely leave a lot extra in your pocket for your must have splurges. Motel One may not be The Ritz but with design, location, styling, elegant rooms and a breakfast that could rival any 5 star hotel, the most redeeming feature at Motel One, is you can actually afford to stay there!
*First Published in Embark Magazine. Photos Courtesy of Motel One.
There's not much you can't do in Newport, Rhode Island!
Long considered the playground of the rich and famous. Newport, Rhode Island has far more than a storied party past to its name. Home to America’s first Synagogue, past home to the Navy, site of Rochambeau’s landing to help America win independence during the American Revolution, summer home to those whose wealth one can’t even imagine and site of Salve Regina University, Newport is a must on your to do list.
What's fabulous is that the famed mansions of Newport, now mostly owned by the Newport Historic Preservation Society, are open to the public. The Breakers built by the Vanderbilt’s is a 70-room Italian Renaissance style palazzo modeled after 16th century palaces in Genoa and Turin, Italy. Theresa Fair Oelrichs modeled Rosecliff after the Grand Trianon in Versailles and Mr. and Mrs. Edward Julius Berwind built The Elms in the style of the mid-18th century French chateau d'Asnieres. The summer “cottages” as they were referred are perhaps just a part of Newport’s history but a trip without venturing inside the grounds or mansions themselves is akin to going to Val d'Isère and not skiing.
Newport is also famous for it’s Tennis Hall of Fame, oft home to the America’s Cup and home to the best chowder on this planet. The Jazz and Folk Festivals have an entire life of their own and have been going strong for over 50 years. Honored with the likes of Bob Dylan, Joan Baez and Judy Collins, more recent years have included talent ranging from the roots of folk with Bluegrass musicians whose prowess on a banjo will leave you staring in hypnotic disbelief.
For those who grew up in Rhode Island, as did I, seafood, the ocean, beach and sailing is in your blood. They don't call it the Ocean State for nothing! And there are certainly enough of all of the above for any visitor. Charter a boat for a day, take a tour around the island or just lie out and enjoy the sand and sea. Although not technically still in Newport, (it's in Middletown), and certainly not prettiest, a stop by Second Beach will give you a taste of Rhode Island that’s hard to find anywhere else in the country, Del’s Lemonade. The frozen concoction of lemons, sugar (yes good old-fashioned sugar) is like nothing you have ever tasted. There's also little stand that sells lobster rolls. But get there early, as parking is limited. If you missed out landing your car in the lot, there are certainly enough other options. Middletown, in all of its creativity named it’s beaches First, Second and Third, the latter being where many learn to wind sail due to being on a semi-protected inlet. For a beach with amenities in Newport proper, head over to the other side of the island and visit Gooseberry Beach, which sells Day Passes. Letting you in on a poorly guarded secret, is Rejects beach, appropriately named for those not members of the exclusive Beach Club next door. Unfortunately Rejects has no amenities, is a bit hard find and parking is nearly impossible. But you can take the Newport tram and it will drop you right off in front of it.
If tennis is your thing, a stop by the International Tennis Hall of Fame is a must and if you're lucky you'll actually be able to catch a match. Originally opened in 1880 as a social club for Newport’s Summer Elite, the grass courts are now open to the public to either oggle the prowess of some of tennis’ top players or to experience a slice of history by booking your own court time.
Newport is also home to fun boutiques, nightlife, great food, restaurants and a town filled with more options than most, Can’t make it this year? Fret not, there’s always off-season or next summer but if you’ve never been, you’re missing out! Plan ahead, hotels and rentals are snagged up early. And if you do make this trip and fall in love with it’s charm, here is a fabulous website called, 'Moving To Newport’ which can help you with everything from renters agreements to local laws and how to register your dog. http://www.movingtori.org/cities/newport/
In some ways I may be a special case but many can relate to relentless battles with our healthcare providers. The refusal to allow drugs we need simply because of expense, regardless of necessity, is something insurance companies inevitably turn down without foresight. Medical providers make a paltry effort on our behalf to appeal insurance denials, then throw up their hands and return to us to continue a fight we seemingly can't win. The advent of new laws restricting pain medication in attempts to stave off addiction, has left those in chronic pain finding it harder and harder to receive medications they so desperately need. Sadly it seems, our care is only getting worse, no matter how much you pay, no matter how reputable the doctor, no matter how many hoops you jump through. The bottom line is money coupled with a misguided attempt to save those with addictive tendencies from themselves. Yet those who live in chronic pain have been swept up in good intentions gone awry.
I suffer from a rare disease called Achalasia. Because of this, the muscle between my stomach and esophagus had to be cut open. In normal esophageal function the muscle between the esophagus and stomach opens and shuts when food travels down the esophagus then into the stomach. We eat by gravity and force food down with liquids because the nerves in the esophagus have been destroyed and that muscle is uncoordinated. Without surgery, Achalasia sufferers are unable to keep food down.
Acid has now made it’s way up to my vocal chords. This condition if not controlled has serious consequences. The acid can cause irreversible damage to my vocal chords so I could permanently lose my voice and it can cause me to develop Barrett’s Esophagus, a precursor to esophageal cancer. It is causing damage to my esophagus where I would either have to have a gastric bypass or eventually have the esophagus removed all together. Yet the medication dose my surgeon wants me on, the insurance company has refused due to FDA recommended dosage. The shortsightedness of our insurance companies is blinding and it all comes down to a Capitalistic system out of control. Here they could approve my medication or pay for major surgeries later, since their way hasn’t worked. Yet their determinations are based on dollars spent now with no concern for what is being done to the patient or foresight to future procedures if left improperly treated!
We know this is being felt by so many, including those not in the rare diseases communities. So the question is, what can be done to stop big business from running our healthcare and to put the patient first?
Ever wish you could buy an island and escape from it all? How about owning an exotic villa on a tropical island? Well maybe those aren’t realities unless you also own a personal jet but you can have the experience for a week in Koh Samui, the third largest island in Thailand. Samujana, an enclave of 25 luxury hillside villas are available not only for sale but also for rent. So even if you can’t cough up an extra $2-5,000,000, you can live the high life by renting a slice of it. Imagine lounging in your own personal infinity edge pool with an unobstructed sea view or walking to the stunning beaches of Choeng Mon and popular Chaweng . All while surrounded by the design of Asia’s celebrated Gary Fell of GFAB Architects. There’s even a property with five en- suite bedrooms, a state-of-the-art cinema and a private gym. Want a rain shower, a full service bar and rooftop BBQ deck to host your rock star dream get-away? How about a team of dedicated attendants looking after you during your stay. Then this is the place.
First opened only 3 years ago, Samajana was built with the idea of preserving the incredible beauty of it’s surrounds by building the villas around the nature encountered. Thus, several villas have mature trees and rock formations incorporated right into the living areas, gardens or the pools. The design itself offers clean lines and modern style.
Activities are plenty in Koh Samui, which is also home to the Angthong National Marine Park. You could spend an entire day exploring the archipelago of 40 protected islands and limestone cliffs. Prefer to ride an elephant? Trek through lush jungle and head to the scenic waterfall Nam Tok Na Muang, the tallest on Samui and located in the center of the island. No trip of course would be complete without visiting the island’s grandest sight, The ‘Big Budda’. Whether you decide to just simply decompress from the ‘real’ world or venture off to explore, this is one destination that’s worth putting on your bucket list.
Dream, Travel, Explore
Note: Originally appeared in Embark Magazine in Travel With Nancy section. Photos Courtesy of Samajana.
We’ve handled stylin’ in boots that can hold up to the elements, but what about the rest of our body. Spending two years barely 30 miles from the Canadian border taught me a trick or two and much to my father’s disbelief, I really did learn something in college beside pool hustling; I learned how to layer. My favorite trick, layer a pair of silks. For those of you not familiar with silk underwear, no, it’s not just a bra and panties. Silks take the place of long underwear, and are, as their name implies silky to the touch while affording a non bulky layer of warmth. No longer do you need to be bundled up like the abominable snowman to play outside. My favorite silks from Cuddl Duds are made of 93% Modal and 7% Spandex. So yes, literally these are not silk but they work just as well without being as delicate as silk which can snag. The best feature of the Cuddl Duds bottoms, they have a low rise crossover front so you aren’t struggling to pull these down under your leggings or jeans. Easy to wash and quick to dry, I bring 2 sets; one white and one black to layer under all my outfits. They roll up into nothing and are as lightweight as can be both on your body or in your bag.
For an outer layer, I snagged up the Uniqlo Ultra Light Down Collar Coat. I chose black for elegance and to keep my pallet simple for travel. But the cream color is out and out sophisticated and can add the same amount of style cache to any outfit. The Uniqlo Ultra Light line packs easily into it’s own travel pouch however I find that simply laying doubled over flat, packs perfectly and takes up barely a whisper in your suitcase. Remember, you can always use a scarf to add color and dimension. Here I added a skinny beaded and metal trim scarf from Free People to add contrast when paired with black and which blends perfectly when layering with the Ultralight jacket mentioned below.
For colder temperatures or climes that vary greatly, I also travel with the Uniqlo Ultralight jacket which is great for layering under the coat or to wear on its own for milder days. There’s no question that Uniqlo has filled a market void offering lightweight travel material and prices that are just as reasonable on your pocketbook. Hit the staples and you’re sure to look pulled together while keeping toasty warm. In a plethora of colors, find a pallet to create your own signature look.
Heading to the UK, Scotland, Ireland or the Pacific Northwest? Then a raincoat is a definite must. When I saw Dawn Levy’s Kyndra Belted Trench Coat, I fell in love. For once, a trench that shows your curves, has a zip away hood and even comes in it’s own travel pouch! Here is one occasion I say spend the extra money and make the investment. A trench is unlikely to go out of style and is a staple you will have for years to come.
Lastly, when I want to add a little edge to my look I wear my black leather moto jacket with the Uniqlo Ultralight jacket and my silks underneath. Add that with a pair of La Canadienne boots, a scarf and a crossbody messenger style bag and I guarantee 'tourist’ will not be what comes to mind in even the most critical of cities.
I refuse to allow travel to take away my style! Of course as a minimalist that means I need to find shoes that are not only comfortable but that afford me the ability to still look stylish. Think a Parisian or New Yorker hitting the road. Sure that may be easier in the summer but realistically we don’t only travel one time of year. So here are a few of my faves.
I am a huge fan of shoes that can do double duty. If Europe is on your itinerary, know that weather can be iffy through the remainder of the year beside summer. Winter will call for real boots and they must be water resistant. Fly with your heaviest pair of shoes so packing them is unnecessary. My pick, Celina by La Canadienne. These are suede but also come in leather. Great for leggings, skinny jeans and skirts of all lengths, these don’t skimp on style.
For something a little more rugged, try the Camilla offered in black and brown oiled suede. I bought the brown, but in black, these are a perfect travel staple for a simplified pallet. For fashion and ruggedness together, check out the Vogue with a rubber sole for added traction in snow and rain but with a streamline design.
The French brand Arche is also known for offering fashionable walking shoes in weather resistant styles, so worrying about getting caught in the rain is a nonstarter. The patent with faux fur animal print booties keep your feet comfy but are sophisticated enough to travel even Paris or Milan in style.
For when nothing but sneakers will do, Ugg’s leather Blaney with it’s side zip, sassy tassel and EVA foam insole is the perfect choice. Available in 3 color options.
AirBerlin’s gateway in Germany is Dusseldorf. Regardless of where in Europe you travel, if you’re flying Air Berlin, in all likelihood you too will end up there. With my ultimate destination the lesser-visited city of Dresden and with time to spare, once landed, I sought out my connecting gate by making a beeline to the customer service desk. The sole purpose of the flight concierge, by the way, is to direct travelers to their connections. “Go down the stairs and then just keep going straight”, the gentleman with marginal English, tells me and, oh “There’s no elevator or escalator, at least not a working one”, he continued.
Priding myself in traveling light, my twenty-one inch rolling nylon bag is sporting a well-loved but fairly weighty hand me down leather Gucci carry-on on top for easy maneuvering. I head toward the stairs, peer around the corner at the curved and empty stairwell and with a good dose of skepticism look back for reassurance. He waves me on. Awkwardly, I navigate my way to the bottom and find myself in a long, underground and rather desolate corridor lacking any directional and of which I can only assume will lead me to a different terminal; at least I am apprehensively hoping so. Somehow I land back on the main floor of civilization and continue my direct path. Just keep going straight, just keep going straight, keeps floating in my head and with my newly found German obedience, I do. But then, after walking what feels like forever, I find myself at yet another set of stairs, albeit short and head down toward the back of a group of booths. As I came around front, I startled a, okay; lets just say ridiculously handsome uniformed man. In perfect English he asks, rather baffled, how I got there. Explaining the directions given me by the concierge, my new crush laughingly informs me I have just walked out of the terminal. He now needs to see my passport. After what could only be an immoderate inspection of this creature I am now armed with a renewed belief in God, a new set of directions and knowledge that should I lose my way again I can come back to him and he will personally take me there; I am filled with an overwhelming temptation to get lost. Yet this time, instead of heading straight back again, I am to veer to the right and I will come upon my gate. And that I did.
Still ahead of schedule and seeing no plane outside, I walked around a bit checking out the little shops, perused the bar and then headed back to my waiting area. Still there was no plane, no line of boarding passengers, just seats filled with what I believed to be fellow travelers waiting for our plane to arrive. Curiously and not quite having realized this at the time, I hadn’t heard a word of English spoken over the loud speakers. But I was fine, the gate area was full, there was no movement, I continued to dally around until suddenly I heard it. Clearly, unmistakable amidst a cacophony of German, was my name repeated with a sense of urgency to it. I ran to the desk and was immediately ushered toward a ramp and more stairs. Again I trepidatiously turned back for reassurance and was again instructed to keep going. But where was the plane and where exactly was I hysterically running? I saw a man on the stairwell and by this time near panic, I asked where the plane to Dresden was. Speaking German interspersed with a few words of English he told me to get on the bus at the bottom. What? We’re going to Dresden by bus, I incredulously blurted. Still a bit wary and more than just a bit confused, I boarded the nearly empty bus and we took off. After about 10 minutes we approached an isolated tarmac and there in the middle sat a little puddle jumper; our transportation to Dresden was a commuter plane! Things finally made sense. Most of the other passengers were already on board waiting for the dawdlers to arrive. Uh, sorry everyone. The crew took my bag and I settled in for the short flight.
Dresden’s airport is quite small and as we disembark I noticed a group huddled around the plane while another group heads toward the terminal. After 14 hours of flying time, I was nearly robotic and headed inside as well. But the terminal is completely desolate. Conveyer belts aren’t running, no other passengers have followed in behind me and my luggage is nowhere in sight. Seeing a lone worker I tried to get his attention, he ignores me. By now bordering on frantic, I scan the terminal and spy an office at the far end. Racing in, I found myself face to face with a woman behind a counter who speaks not a word of English. I head back out toward the tarmac, panicking all the more as I imagine my baggage is still on the plane and the plane is now gone! Eying a woman walking past, I race up to her and ask if she speaks English; this time I strike gold. I inform her of what has happened and graciously she goes with me back to the office and explains the situation to the woman behind the counter. I am asked for a baggage receipt, which I hadn’t received since it was a commuter flight and, well as we know already I was a tich late. As the woman types into her desktop computer, my heart sinks lower and lower. How is this possible? My first leg of a five country exploit and I’ve lost my luggage? Adrenaline courses through every inch of my weariness. Each key stoke elevates my envisioned disaster. And then, like magic, the lovely, charitable woman who came to my aide opens the office door and there sits my sole bag. How it appeared I would never know. But there it was, my life for the next two weeks in twenty-one inches of beige ballistic nylon. But if you think it was all smooth sailing after that, tune in for Part ll and my errant day two of my German foray.
According to polls, the worst worldwide airports don’t include Dusseldorf or Dresden. However two other German airports have managed to end up in the top 10, the lucky winners, Frankfurt and Berlin. But in my book, having yet to travel to Frankfurt or Berlin, Dusseldorf is the most confusing airport hands down and if you think you know what’s going on, you probably don’t. So what did I learn in Germany? Well, there’s this, no matter how you rock it, my name is, in essence pronounced the same in German as it is in English. And you may not be totally SOL even if you don’t speak German, your sign language skills aren’t up to par and your itranslate isn’t set up yet. Amen.
To me, there's nothing better then stepping inside my front door after a long and arduous flight...or flights, only to glance around the room and think, who the hell cleaned up around here? So on my list of 'musts' is to leave my home tidied, the sheets new and crisp, the dishes done and the trash taken out. Because returning home needs to embrace as wonderful a sentiment as the adventures I will replay with memories.
I love my luxurious sofa with it's seasonal slipcovers, even if summer is nearly up before I switch them. I have a Louis XVl clock that I will either donate to a museum or get buried with, out of the sheer eternal joy it will give me. And I admit, I take pleasure in leafing through my muted rainbow of leather jackets I have finally pledged to actually wear from time to time. If I've been out of the country without my best friend in tow, what could be better than the look on my baby's face when he sees me coming through the door. That is except when he follows the pet sitter out as she leaves thinking he's going for another walk!
Sure, there is the part of me that wanes over the uncomplicated life I once led out of college yet the thought of being a no-mad is better left for others. I love coming home, if only long enough to regroup and to complain about the smog, traffic and brittle population. Simply put, how could I possibly plot my next escape if there weren't some sense of dissatisfaction burrowed deep inside?
Elms lined the historied brown-stoned promenade with an air of sophisticated Parisian urbanism. While well-heeled pedestrians paraded their acquisitions from the elegant shops and specialty markets of Back Bay, there was a hint of Fall wafting in the breeze.
It was the days when all of my possessions could fit in the back of my Honda Accord. Long flowing skirts with tank tops, a pair of well-worn lace up boots and a pair of Fryes accompanied me to Boston, the city of the Irish, Red Sox, collegiate and post-grads. It was there I would attach myself to a seat at a local bar and hang on the every glance, word of my yet to be boyfriend. Being the 'In' place at the time, just getting past the front door was in itself a feat. But I had two things going for me, I was young and I was a master of flirting. Deep within the sea of pink and green clad White Anglo-Saxon Protestants stood this sable haired bohemian wild child marred by being the first generation of children of divorced parents. Within short order, the blond haired U Penn grad became my boyfriend and there I would sit, night after night laying ownership to my knight in tarnished armor.
One night, my fellow barflies included two woman speaking French. With a year of study in 2nd grade and a subsequent two years of French ll, I began to converse with the pair. I asked them if they were from Paris and one of the women queried as to why I had asked. Brazenly I stated the Parisians were a snooty bunch. One of the women took a moment of restrained indignation, then, replied, “Yes, that’s true.” Now having yet to go to Paris, I had made this pronouncement without ever having even stepped foot in France. But from that moment on, the Swiss girl, the Parisian and the New Englander became inseparable.
Being the sole American, our crowd was a blend of Spaniards, French and Swiss. Meals were on Euro time and often culminated with dinner at ‘Division 16’, our home away from our home away. Conversations may have begun in Spanish, which slid into French and concluded in English. Armed with my limited French studies and having had a pen pal I met in Morocco at age 11 and a summer spent living in Mexico (my father reneged on the summer in France), I was able to keep up. Especially when they would speak about me in French, as the Parisians were known to do.
Our friendship flourished. But as happens, within time we began to scatter. I moved to the West Coast, the girls to NYC. We saw each other infrequently and at one point even lost touch. Much later I found out my Swiss friend had even spent a year in LA before running away to the more-sane playground of San Francisco. Eventually the Parisian moved out west too and though I can’t tell you how, we reunited.
Fast forward. Last Spring, after years of threatening to ingratiate myself on the hospitality of my Swiss friend, I took a five country European adventure ending in Geneva. By then, my Swiss friend was back in Switzerland full time and offered for me to stay with her during my Swiss stint. Neither rich enough nor foolish enough to decline, I happily accepted the gracious invitation. Arriving via Vienna, my friend picked me up at the Geneva airport and we picked up as if we had never lost contact.
An hours drive to Échenevex, a small town on the French Swiss border, we arrived at the childhood home my friend had inherited. During our time apart, my friend had created two of the most well behaved and charming children, a boy, 8 and a 10 year old girl, each of whom had learned to make a killer cappuccino, courtesy of their mother. What more could an espresso addict ask for? And yes those Europeans do love their caffeine as much as we do.
From the living and dining areas, on a clear day, past the acres of verdant pastures, one could see the top of Monte Blanc, the highest mountain in the Swiss Alps. We spent the weekend contentedly eating, meandering around the property, visiting the horses, playing with the kids, dog and watching my friend’s daughter compete in horse shows. It was there I learned about Nutella crepes, fastidiously prepared by said 10 year old, my new and thankfully fleeting obsession.
By Sunday evening we headed into Geneva’s Old Town to get the kids to school the following day. Ecstatic, I near immediately discovered another Nespresso machine I had learned to master over the weekend. Not exactly rocket science, as you shove in a pod, add water and throw milk in the frother. Yet a luxury I certainly didn’t have at home. Boy these Europeans certainly know how to live!
Our evenings were filled with the international din of dinner parties at the homes of my hostess’ friends, while my days consisted of meandering around the city, camera at the ready. I had the best ice cream ever walking the promenade of Lake Geneva, even for a lactose intolerant like me. Milk, yogurt, ice cream, all easily tolerated and must have to do with the fact that their cows are skinny. In fact they look downright anorexic to an American like me, used to seeing cows so plump that if Michelle Obama had her drothers they too would be on a diet.
One evening we were invited to the home of a couple, whom for now will remain nameless. As we drove in the husband came to meet us and immediately I introduced myself with, “Je suis Nancy”. He did not return the introduction. As we entered the apartment, the husband turned to the rest of the group and in French said, “This is Nancy, her French isn’t very good.” Now wait a minute, all I did was introduce myself you pompous Swiss! Keep in mind, that at their earliest of schooling, the Swiss are taught English yet during the majority of that night French was spoken and mine was at best rusty Only the wife would turn to me from time to time and explain what was being discussed. Unlike the other parties we had been to, I left that dinner thinking, my God, the Swiss are worse than the French! And for the entire year since, any chance I had I would express that to friends.
Fast forward again and I receive an email from my friend telling me that a family from Geneva would be visiting in Los Angeles and could I help them with some itinerary suggestions. Happy to do so, I began an email correspondence with Claude and Catherine. They seemed lovely and I forwarded the best of what to do with kids of varying ages to keep them all engaged. Once here, Catherine and Claude invited me to dinner.
I met them and their brood, along with an adult cousin at an innocuous Japanese restaurant. Claude came in first. We chatted for a moment and I told him my story of the mean Swiss guy who made fun of my French and he respectfully tisk, tisked such inhospitable behavior. The rest of the family arrived. I sat across from Claude and next to Catherine. We then embarked on a surprising gastronomic adventure curated by the cousin, who knew exactly what dishes to order. There was a great deal laughter and conversation. I was having a lovely evening and was so thrilled when Catherine insisted I come back to Geneva the next summer to visit them.
Toward the end of the evening Catherine asked to see some pictures from my trip to Geneva. I pulled out my iphone and showed her a photo of my friend and myself at the dreadful dinner party. All of a sudden Catherine let out a discernible howl. “That’s our living room!” “What?” I replied, “How is it that none of us recognized the other?” We burst into uncontrollable merriment and then a beat later I said, “Wait, if you’re the couple we had dinner with that makes Claude the evil Swiss”. More hysterical roars, “No, Claude is French”. “You mean this entire time I’ve been badmouthing the Swiss?” I choked out. “When it really is the French”, just like I always stereotyped.
So how do you travel on a budget and not end up someplace that resembles summer camp from when you were 9? It's actually not that hard once you get past the semantics. Last year I traveled 5 countries and yes, on a budget. After trying to coordinate the trip myself, when it started to become daunting, I pulled out my trusty American Express Card and called their travel service. I made an appointment to go into their Beverly Hills office although I must say budget and Beverly Hills in one sentence is a tich of a dichotomy. I sat down at the first desk and once I gave the woman my budget she began to sigh and twitch and sigh some more. Finally she informed me she doesn't normally work within my budget but would, much like a Jewish mother, make the sacrifice to help me out. I silently got up from my chair and sat back down with another agent. Now to my dear American Express travel agent with an attitude I can only say, if hotels within my price range are in your inventory and on your website, I doth protest, and it is you I protest!
Properly situated with an agent 'further down the line', he and I began plotting my adventure. I had what I thought to be a reasonable budget and as I was to find out once I arrived in Europe, my budget was perfect for what I needed. My needs: close to the action and in walking distance to the city center, breakfast (and do buy that before you arrive with the cost of your room...it's cheaper that way), nice, clean private rooms with private baths and of course, cappuccino and a glass of wine for purchase either in the bar or lobby. Simply, a boutique hotel.
Agent #2 did quite well. He found me hotels near the train station I would be arriving at and close to the city centers with all the amenities I asked for. That is, until I arrived in Vienna. Yes, even in American Express' inventory there are hotels (and I use that word loosely) that resemble tenements from 1940s New York. It was around 9PM when I arrived at my not so stellar hotel which even with the windows closed rattled away under the din of the trolly line outside. I knew immediately this was a no go and went to pick up the room phone to call AMX only to find the phone didn't work. I then called the AMX 24 hour travel line from my cell phone to get some help in making my move. That too turned out to be not as great a travel perk of owning the gold card either. As I also had no internet service (shocking), I used my data plan and did an online search. And there it was, the near perfect Hotel Mercure Secession Wien. Here's where a late arrival can actually help. Hotels would rather negotiate a rate than to leave a room empty and in the end, I ended up in a much nicer hotel which was quite a bit higher then my initial budget for just a little bit above what I had planned.
When I got back stateside I did make the perfunctory call to AMX. One to have them pull that retched Viennese hotel from their inventory and two, to share a few choice words about their service. Bonus, a cost adjustment, a plethora of apologies and few miles tacked onto my account. So in the end remember these things. You can always move hotels, you can always complain (nicely) about substandard service and most importantly, if you have a budget with definitive criteria like mine, you can find what you're looking for. And to those bloggers who call college dorms budget travel, maybe you could change your description to 'Slumming It For Less' so real budget travelers like myself don't click on your links.
Every Christmas my mother would come to Los Angeles to visit my brother and me. It was a family ritual to dine at the Hotel Bel-Air, the most exquisite hotel property in all of LA County. Surrounded by ethereal gardens with a stone bridge perched over the soothing sounds of the murmuring stream, the hotel simply exudes serenity. It is a haven in the midst of a maddening city of traffic and rudeness, pretension and egoism. A throwback to the days of manners and quiet moneyed guests, the hotel is the antithesis of tabloid Hollywood, at least around Christmastime.
After enjoying our celebratory dinner we all moved to the little bar for a quiet nightcap. There, was a rather proper English gentleman who took quite an interest in me. We chatted for a few minutes, I gave him my number and in the days ensuing he would call and we’d talk for hours. In LA on business he was soon back off to London where he continued to pursue me with calls, gifts and compliments. After about a month of this he asked me to visit and arranged a business class flight.
Now before moving on to the meat of our visit, I must tell you my experience once I arrived at Heathrow. My interrogator was a woman, a no-nonsense woman who grilled me thus. Where was I staying, did I plan to work, who was I visiting, how long had I known him, where did I meet him, what were we planning to do while I was there…Finally I proclaimed in indignation, “Lady, you are worse than my mother!” She sent me on my way without even the tiniest of an upturned lip.
I exited the terminal to my handsome, distinguished host and his awaiting chauffeur driven Rolls Royce who sped us off to Grosvenor Square in Mayfair. This was beginning to feel like a fairy tale! There I was in the midst of Embassies and brownstones of the titled. Yet no sooner had the fairy tale started had it begun to unravel.
As with any self-respecting woman, before arriving I had made it clear that I would expect my own room. After all, I hardly knew this man regardless of our countless hours on the phone and his fancy credentials. I was offered the quintessential cup of tea, shown my room and instructed that the room by the kitchen was off limits. What could possibly be beyond that door? His office? Photos of his unmentioned girlfriend? Her belongings, methodically hidden from view? Red flag #1.
On the first evening my host made plans for us to dine with his close friends; a lovely couple I quite enjoyed. However my date, evidently not much of a drinker, had had a bit too much wine and it fell on me to make our way back to Mayfair with little help in the way of directions. So there I was driving on the ‘wrong’ side of the street, in a city I didn’t know calling upon my experience as a Location Scout to make it back in one piece. No sooner had we made it up the stairs to the flat was I cornered on the couch and practically mauled by an overzealous suitor full of Bordeaux. Red flags #2 + 3.
Deciding to excuse the evening’s behavior as a miscalculation on my date’s part, the next day we carried on with our scheduled itinerary around the city. A trip to eye the Crown Jewels in The Tower of London, a gander at Big Ben and London Bridge, an open double decker bus tour through the Financial District and so on. It was a fun day. After a quick respite back at the flat, we moved on to a pub style dinner; a blur of comfort foods piled onto the plate reminiscent of a Thanksgiving meal. Unkempt dogs patiently awaiting their owners were tied up around the entrance in the intermittent rain.
The following day we left for our weekend visit to Brighton, a crumbling seaside town once known as an off radar destination where prominent men would bring their mistresses. Even while staying at the Grand Hotel Brighton, the town’s most prestigious hotel, there remained an air of louche secrecy. The crumbling boardwalk with its blue-collar touristy attractions left me once again pondering the closed door passed the kitchen. While the Brits are known for their fun and witty humor, my date was an uptight rather humorless, entitled fellow whose interaction left me feeling as I could only imagine Diana felt with Charles. I began to think of my suitor as a stuffy old Tea Bag whose distaste for my love of coffee and often silly, playful demeanor seemed to leave him in horror. Our weekend ended with what could only be reminiscent of the fumbling’s of a fraternity boy void of finesse and romance. Red flags #4 + 5.
Our journey back to London was mired in stale air, the discomfort palpable. In an attempt to rescue the last few days of my holiday I decided it was time to move to a hotel. I was set up in a rather lovely area near Harrods in Knightsbridge. Single rooms in London are renowned for being unceremoniously small so without a moments hesitation and equipped with my date’s American Express card I immediately moved to a double room.
The remainder of my visit created it’s own set of interesting circumstances. My first night alone I chose to treat myself to dining at a top restaurant. A pitfall of being a single woman, I was eyed curiously by the maître d and directed to a table in the far back where service seemed to be begrudgingly provided. It was reminiscent of my days in Boston when I would meet my father at the Ritz Carlton Bar before dinner. Regardless that I was dressed in the conservative attire dictated by the provincial onus of the 80s, the bartender would summarily ignore me as if I were a workingwoman waiting for my john.
Once again I shrugged off the offending behavior and spent the remainder of my days knocking around the fabulous Knightsbridge boutiques culminating in the essential visit to Harrods. I discovered the eclectic style of Nicole Farhi and bought two sweaters, which I have to this day. They are void of being a reminder of my failed fairy tale and stand instead for the independence and fortitude I exhibited by leaving an awkward situation.
Though my fairy tale may have not come to fruition, I fostered my own inner aptitude by taking care of myself and relishing in the energy and historical beauty surrounding me. London is a vibrant, cultured city where I regretted not for one moment having made the decision to leave my ‘palace’ in Grosvenor Square. So perhaps I didn’t leave with my Prince but instead I left with a new respect for myself.
How I hung out with a rock icon by going it alone.
As a New Englander it was easy to jump in the car, change scenery and recharge. Literally you can be in a different state in less than an hour! But when I moved to Los Angeles and became a Location Scout in the Film Industry, getting away wasn’t so simple. I had scouted far beyond what is called the 30 mile Studio Zone and was eager to forge new trails. The mantra ‘Been there, Done that’ rang in my head every time I tried to make a quick weekend escape, and you simply can’t be a Location Scout without a great need to explore new territory. Never one to love the desert (unless I was getting paid to stay in a sub par motel, get sweaty as hell and take photos of piles upon piles of dirt), I knew what I needed was to get on a plane and arrive someplace visually stimulating. And by that I mean green, tropical, with history and someplace I had never been. And then I saw it! Antigua!
Through trepidation, tough financial times and a modicum of neurosis I booked the deal, however I do admit to spending more than the $500 AMX had sucked me in with. For those of you who don’t know, the ‘u’ in Antigua is silent. So don’t start out sounding like a tourist the moment you step off the plane! At the airport, perhaps because there are those that actually fly there with no place to stay, photos of hotel properties line the walls. Unlike today you were picking your hotel somewhat blind. Once seeing my hotel, I knew it was too big and impersonal for me. Being a fan of small, rather intimate properties, I made a few calls regarding availability, did some negotiating, grabbed a cab and had him drive me around until I found an acceptable place for my respite. Once I found it, I had the cab wait while I went in to cement my negotiated rate. And at that point, I knew I had arrived, I was in paradise.
I had found a lovely ‘boutique ‘hotel on the beach called Blue Waters. With a centralized bar and the infectious reverberating sounds of reggae wafting through the sound system, it was the quintessential Island experience. I became fast friends with a married couple from England, a writer for the UK’s Daily Mail and his artist wife, along with another fellow who lived on the Island and ran a Caribbean PR company. We dined together, drank together and during the day we went off alone and enjoyed doing absolutely nothing on the beach or partook in snorkeling, water skiing and sailing activities sold by Antiguan vendors walking the beach.
So to get on with the rock icon. Before leaving Los Angeles a friend gave me the name and number of a fellow who lived on the Island. I gave him a call and was immediately invited to dinner to join he and a couple of his friends. Kind enough to come and fetch me, we ended up at a fabulous little casual restaurant with bench seating and laid back vibe. Across from me sat a rather innocuous fellow in his early 50’s. As we were chatting he mentioned that he came to Los Angeles quite often. I asked him why and he told me he was in the music business. Having been in Los Angeles long enough, I knew that most folks who told me they were an actor, writer or musician were nothing more than still aspiring to ‘make it’. So I asked him how it was going and he told me things had gone well for him so far. The subject changed, the night waned on.
It was a clear night and on the ride home the Southern Cross made a spectacular showing. We pulled off the road and took it in with all it’s illumines. My new friend turned to me and asked if I knew whom I had been talking to all night. I replied, “Eric”? And he said “yes”. “What about him” I queried. “That was Eric Clapton”.
The next day I went off to explore the island in my jeep. As I was going up a hill to perch myself at the perfect locale to photograph the sunset, a truck heading down stopped short aside me, it was Eric! “Where are you going?” he asked. He then suggested I come back to his house for tea. Now by this time, having found out that I was talking to God and the charm of my naiveté having worn off, I stutteringly accepted. And there I was hanging out with the most famous guitar player in the world!
Perhaps this is where you expect me to share his very personal exchanges but I will save that for my fantasy biography. I will tell you, as most of the world knows, relationships were not Eric’s forte and I did have to bite my tongue when he lamented as to why his relationship with a 19 year old island girl wasn’t working.
Eventually we made our way up to view the sunset and hung around chatting while waiting for the sun to touch down. I had dinner plans with the writer for the Daily Mail, his wife and the PR fellow so I had to leave. With a bit of reticence I invited Eric to join us, all while pondering how I was going to juggle a gossip columnist and a rock icon at the same table. I supposed it was for the best Eric declined and that was the end of our private time together. For the remainder of my trip our time was spent in groups hanging at the beach and having cookouts.
So the next time you’re pondering taking that adventure solo, just do it! You never know whom you may meet! And in the worst case, you spend a week on an island paradise, make new friends and stow away another lifetime memory! Who have you met while taking a trip solo?
When on a job I have traveled with a rolling camera bag filled with equipment and my laptop that I carried on the plane. But that along with my purse, my doggies rolling cart and my luggage is a lot to account for and manage. Since the older I get, the less I want to lug around, if I don’t need it, I simply don’t bring it!
On my last European adventure, I hit five countries in two weeks with only a 22’ Briggs + Riley nylon rolling bag and a vintage carry-on that contained my make-up, ipad, camera, and a small hint of jewelry. But since I was going to be extremely mobile and doing lots of walking at each of my destinations, I packed a collapsible nylon Lacoste cross-body bag and used it for my camera and all of my daily needs. When not shooting, I simply locked my camera in my luggage or the safe for the evening. At my first destination however, the zipper of my carry-on broke and I found myself in Dresden, Germany (where they speak little to no English outside of the hotels) with a useless piece of luggage I needed to send home. Luckily for me I had packed the Lacoste and that ended up pinch hitting for my carry-on as well.
Since that trip I have found what looks to be a great alternative to my Lacoste made by Aide de Camp. Instead of being a structureless bag like I used, the Aide de Camp series of functional yet fashionable bags come with moveable camera padding inserts to easily access your camera and other packables. “The Valencia" is a carry-on with a camera bag inside that can be removed and carried for when on the go. This is the absolute best alternative I’ve found in my years traveling and working as a Location Scout. One exterior bag that readily attaches to your luggage handle for running through airports and train stations, with a smaller removable camera bag inside that can double as a purse. Pro photographer or amateur, this is a perfect solution to subtly carrying your camera equipment. My only dilemma, I am also in love with "The Leyden".
Can’t spend the money for a new travel bag? Here’s a make shift alternative if you already have a cross-body or messenger bag. You can buy excellent quality camera inserts from Tenba at a low cost and place them in your existing messenger bag. Have a smaller cross-body? Order your own custom insert from Martilena and chose the size and color you want.
The whole idea is to simplify, fashionably and subtly. So get rid of that ugly camera bag and travel in style while below the radar, even when on a budget.
When ready to purchase luggage, one of the biggest mistakes a traveler can make is to buy something cheap and poorly made. I've done it myself and paid the price by spending one of my precious days on the beautiful island of Turks and Caicos trying to track down and replace luggage, baggage handlers had destroyed. After that, I never scrimped again!
For years my go to line was Bric's Life Collection.
I own a 30', 26', the Pilot case (for all of my camera and computer gear) and another bag which has morphed into the Train Case. Bric's is extremely well made albeit not inexpensive. But isn't that the entire theme here, don't buy cheap luggage? You don't need it all now. Buy for this trip and fill in additional pieces as you go. The Life line has been around for years and although the designs have been tweaked, the mainstay colors and fabrics have stayed the same. You can also search local discount luggage stores where you can often find last years models in full sets or pieces, at a cut price.
Though I may never part with my Bric's, before a recent trip I realized I needed to have even lighter weight luggage. While planning a five country, plane, train and walking trip through Europe, I went on the hunt for sturdy, fashionable, nylon luggage and fell in love with the Briggs & Reily BRX line. For those on the go, the 22' carry-on is a must have.
While considered carry-on for US and European flights, keep in mind, overhead compartments on European inter-continental flights tend to be a tich smaller, which can make it a minor art form trying to stow overhead. I chose to check my bag so I could cruise around the terminal unencumbered. The 22' for train travel, just as perfect. Easy to board with and once inside the compartment, it wasn't hard to find someone willing to stow it for me during the ride. My only lament is that they don't make a bag similar to Bric's Pilot Case for all my gear. But I keep checking back!
Lastly, what did I do with my camera gear? Well, I'll tell you. In my next blog I'll give you tips on how to carry your camera gear without being a target and looking too much like a tourist. Although the last part's a little unavoidable when you have your camera glued to your face most of the time. But at least you'll do it fashionably!
Dream, Travel, Explore
Note: Sadly, since publication the BRX line from Briggs + Riley has been discontinued. You may still grab pieces from their site at a discounted rate.
It often seems easier to sit in fear than to take the bull so to speak and get out of our own way. We have been conditioned from early on that going solo makes us an odd creature. How many times have you sat in a restaurant noticing the person sitting alone and feeling sorry for them? Yet we have no idea why this person is alone. Perhaps they are taking a breather from a chaotic houseful of kids and simply want to a little time to enjoy themselves!
Years ago I took a respite to Cozumel. Whilst there people told me they had been sitting around discussing the possibilities of why I was alone. They settled on the idea I was recently divorced. In reality, I had just lost my mother and then my beloved pup. And for the first time in my life I had no one to answer to or take care of. I hadn't felt that unencumbered since the days when everything I owned could fit in the back of my Honda Civic.
Until we stop caring about what other people think we will stay stuck in the stigma attached to going it alone. We know why we are alone, so does it really matter what anyone else thinks or surmises? Going it alone takes guts, planning but most of all it takes respecting ourselves to fulfill our own dreams and not be dependent on others.
Once when I was afraid to spend money during a tenuous financial time, a friend said to me, "Go! If you end up being homeless you'll be the best dressed bum out there". I went and I didn't end up on the streets because of it. A little faith and a lot less fear can change your life!
