Side note-on being an American

My EasyJet flight back to London from Lisbon was packed, so it took quite a while for the food cart to roll my way. The woman to my right ordered a hot chocolate. After she ordered, the female flight attendant asked, "Anything else Madame, other than the hot cocoa?" The  male flight attendant sneered and said, "hot COCOA, what are you, American?"

He then asked me if I wanted anything to eat or drink- "water and mixed nuts, thanks." As he filled my order the male attendant quietly said to his colleague, "I bet she wants hot cocoa."

"What, she wants cocoa?"

"No, she drinks hot cocoa, get it?"

"No."

Finally, I interject, "he's saying I'm American." It took quite a bit of strength on my part not to end the statement with "asshole."

Playing the tourist

My remaining day and night in Lisbon were filled with delicious food, inspired beauty, but mostly fun filled with my newly formed surf crew. 

We listened to Fado music, drank vino verde (see, I told you I'd get back to that) I had heard of green wine before, but had pretty low expectations. It was crisp and bright and dry and went down well with whatever I ate...the fado music however, was another story. It was well performed, but that's sadly all I can say about it. It was a beautiful downer.

My last day in Portugal began at midday because well, that's what happens when the verde flows til 4am. I saw castles and vistas and drank my fill of coffe and ate my fill of cake.

Before I knew it, it was time to say goodbye to Portugal and to my new travel mates...they all stayed behind for one more night of festivities- I admittedly wishes I had booked a later flight. But apparently we have plans to reunite in Stockholm for a summer crayfish party...

So off I went. I bought some verde and headed back to London.

Relying on the Kindness of Strangers

A few years ago, a friend of mind said to me that she could not understand why I speak to strangers. My reply was simple, and I still stand by it:

Strangers are just friends I haven't met yet.

I spent two days trapsing around Lisbon with relative strangers who became fast friends. We were a group of six, sometimes seven or eight (depending on if a local joined us). The group consisted of a British woman from London, three colleagues from Sweden, only one of whom was actually Swedish, one was American guy and the other Portuguese girl, an Albaninan architecture student living in Paris who was 8 years younger than the next youngest in the group, and myself. I really believe that my going to surf school in Milfontes is what made this motley crew of internationals possible- it's just such an out of the way place, that only locals or friends of locals end up there. 

So basically, we were quite the crew.

The Portuguese woman was our appointed leader, and though she was not from Lisbon, she consulted local friends and made sure we experienced Lisbon "the right way."

Our first stop was lunch at a hostel in Bairro Alto. That was not a typo. You read that correctly: Hostel.

I must have missed the memo on hostels in Lisbon, because this place was more like a chic hotel:

Frequented by locals as well as visitors, the Decadente is the bar/restaurant of the Independente Hostel.

As we sat together for cocktails and food (there's that daytime drinking again-God bless) we got a text from another surf school friend- the only Lisbon resident of the crew, I had messaged him earlier for recommendations. He replied with a detailed laundry list of suggestions- which of course included the Decadente.

After our meal, which of course included cod fish, we went to Belém.

Lisboa baby

Alentejo was great; it had beautiful beaches, kind people, and offered me a glimpse into small town living in Portugal. Lisbon, however was not great, it was phenomenal. I arrived on Friday morning via bus with my new British mate (see, I'm learning the lingo). We each checked into our respective hotels- she into her $20/day hostel, me into my not $20 apartment-hotel. Upon my arrival, I immediately wanted to move in:

Situated amongst the winding alleys in Bairro Alto (the East Village of Lisbon) I found myself in a cozy room, with a hell of a view, it came with AC, wifi, a local cell phone, kitchen, and marble bath room. I showered in luxury for the first time since arriving in Portugal (the shared showers at surf camp left something to be desired) and texted my new bevy of international surf camp mates who had all made their way to Lisbon in the preceding days.

"Come meet us in Chiado, we will get lunch." The message read. I walked the five minutes to Chiado, the high end square in the middle of town. Once in Chiado, I received another message that my friends were running behind (Portuguese time), which meant that I had time for a cafesihno. I walked towards the closest coffee shop- Cafe Brasileira-naturally the one that my father had recommended-what were the chances?

I sipped my coffee at the counter. I'm not going to bother describing the experience-I can't do it justice. The coffee in Lisbon is worth the flight ticket...as is the green wine...I will get back to that later.

After finishing my decadent coffee, I took this photo and texted the only Lisbon native I knew before my trip, Nuno.

He knew where I was instantly. He then directed me around the corner to get a "nata", the favored pastel (baked good) of Lisbon. Everyone I know who has been to Lisbon has told me that no trip would be complete without a nata. So off to Manteigueira bakery I went. They did not exaggerate-the magical pastry was ingested within ten seconds:

It may look humble, burnt even, but nata is glorious, nata is worth every damn calorie. I love good food, I'd even go so far as to call myself a foodie, but I'm not the kind of person who shares food photos on Instagram, but this is my blog, and if I want to extole the virtues of a custard pastry that people will wait in line for, that has kept a store in business since 1837, then I will.

Yes I did try nata in two different places within the span of three hours stop judging me thankyouverymuch.

Anyway, after my first nata, I met up with my new travel mates, and we headed to lunch.

Surf and Turf Alentejo

Surfing, off roading, hiking and befriending a bevy of Europeans. That's what occured. Of the three days I surfed, we had one bad day of waves, one mediocre, and one perfect day. I loved every second of it. I loved squeezing into a wetsuit-turns out Portuguese water isn't that warm-I loved the salty sandy mess that became of my hair, the freckles that popped up on my face, I even loved it when I surfed like shit.

Every evening the owner of the camp, Sergio, would tell us to be at breakfast by  9, because we'd hit the road by 10. And every day the group staying at the camp, which included a Brit, two Swedes, a few Portugese people, and Albanian and a Serbian would be ready by 10 and by 11:30, we'd be off. Ah Portugese time.

Time is fluid in Portugal. You eat late, you sleep late, coffee is slowly sipped, despite its diminutive size, and it's all good...somehow.

By the third day, our surfing group had shrunk to me and the Brit, we got "private" lessons, which meant we faffed about more and had a longer lunch. What made the entire experience memorable was that despite the fact that I came alone, I never felt lonely. The group I met was amazing. We were a random assortment, all got along, and all made plans to meet up in Lisbon.

Viagem Solo

I wanted somewhere new. I wanted an adventure. So I decided that for my first truly solo trip- on my own to somewhere entirely new- I'd go surfing in Portugal.

I decided on Antelejo because it's off the beaten path. The only tourists here are Portuguese...and the occasional Swede or Dutchman. Rolling into town you get that instant sleepy beach town vibe: shorts and flip flops clacking under sandy feet, wild salty curls, and white washed buildings under three stories that dapple the hills above the sea.

I had thought to go to Spain. But when I friend mentioned the great surfing in Portugal, I frantically looked for where to go. I have no idea if I've made the right call. But here's the thing- I kind of don't care. If I want to stay here longer, I can; if I want to head back to Lisbon sooner, I can. Isn't that something?

My first act as a solo traveler in town was to hit up the gelataria. You know a place is good if it's packed at 6pm. Pudim, or flan flavored gelato was something of a revelation. I finished it in 30 seconds. 

Upon my arrival at camp- a large villa built around a pool with lime and avocado trees decorating the perimeter- I met an Albanina girl, three Swedes, a British gilt and a few Portuguese. Within fifteen minutes I was invited to dinner where we ate fresh fish and this:

A giant f@cking shrimp- a camaron gigante- I was told to eat my face off in Portugal, so I'm up for it.

We are heading off for our morning surf now...I'll report back shortly.

Dolce Far Niente Fail

 I know I haven't written in a while. I was trying to do something- that is, nothing. The Italians call it Dolce Far Niente...ok I am clearly not Italian.

For the past few days, I've been sleeping in, having a leisurely breakfast, going to a yoga class, then a museum, taking a walk, then dinner or drinks with friends. Maybe I'm doing Niente wrong, but this just isn't working. I feel listless and useless. So I'm leaving London in a few days for something more adventurous. stay tuned...

London vs NYC: Parallels of two cities.

The day I arrived in London was the hottest of the year-95 degrees. And the subsequent days have been unusually warm as well. Typical for NYC in July, atypical for London. The tube was hot, the air stifling, being indoors offered no respite, as a working AC is a rarity. So I've learned a lot:

For one, since I've been staying in Highbury, I've learned that the overground rail (yeah, there's an above ground mode of transport other than the buses, who knew?) is air conditioned and rarely crowded. Take it. Though it offers no help in the way of smells- deodorant isn't a prerequisite to leaving the house, but being able to breathe while traveling is a nice alternative...even if it's not through your nose.

Another thing I've learned: underground workers are not happy and they can, and have, gone on strike. The difference here  is that it's for two days- apparently the workers aren't happy about the underground being turned into a late night transit option. So unlike the NYC transit strike that lasted weeks in mid-February of 2005, a closure of 24-48 hours seems quite managable for me...though not entirely convenient for the 3+ million people who are forced to figure out a new way to get home tonight.

Day drinking. Day drinking is not a weekend pastime here. It's a way of life, an art form even. Every bar is filled. If the weather is nice, which it has been, so people pour out onto the streets by their local pubs brews in hand, and practice their art. No hour is too early, though since the city practically shuts down at midnight, there is a finish line.

Laundry. Everyone has a washer/dryer, but these all in one machines don't really dry all that well. Where are the fluff and folds?!

Distances. You have my permission to hit the next person who complains about how far Brooklyn is from their Manhattan location. The distances in London, plus population concentration makes LA seem easy and NYC a joke. I'm switching residences this evening to Fulham- well within the city limits, and I will be lucky if the ride takes me less than 45 minutes by car. And yes I know I've just extolled the virtues of above ground transit- but I've got suitcases, so that's just not happening, AC or not.

Parallels. Finally, I've found my local parallel:

I found London's Love Lane!!

I was heading back from Barbican and stumbled upon it. It's surrounded by a lovely garden, though in no way is it residential. So it's quite different from my Love Lane:

That's all I've got for now. That, and the Sauviginon Blanc I have in hand at a local Highbury pub...don't judge...I'm trying to blend in.

Post 4th recovery

How does one recover from 13 or so hours of July 4th celebrating? You revel in nature in the middle of a city apparently. Jenn and I started the day by walking to the Columbia street flower market. Men and women of all sorts basically yell flower prices at passers by in hopes of attracting new clientele. Despite the yelling, it was stunningly beautiful and a well needed reprieve from the over-indulgence of the day before. We then headed to Spitalfields and my favorite restaurant- St John Bread & Wine. I probably should have been embarrassed  with all the audible moans I emitted, but I wasn't in the least. I happily ate my face off and walked back to Highbury.

The next step was a recovery ride. Jenn discovered Psycle recently- basically a Soul Cycle redux. Not my cup of tea but we sweated every ounce or Pimm's and rosé out. 

The day was completed with this stunning display:

A terrace in South Kennsington on a warm Monday night. I love how the Europeans do relaxation...though I still find myself less than relaxed. I think it will take me a bit longer to fully realize that I am not going back to the office next week. This isn't some quick jaunt to London. This is real. There's no normal routine.

July 4-UK style

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No words. Just emotions. And hours and hours of Pimms, Rosé, and champagne.

The writing on the wall

Today I woke up at 1:45pm. I did nothing but wander around Borough Market. If you've never grazed your way through an open air market while sipping prosecco spritzers, you're missing out. Seriously. Stop reading and go get lost among the food vendors.

I opted for raclette. Glorious raclette 

While walking through one of the market tunnels, I noted a chalkboard wall. It asked the passers by to write what they'd like to do before they die.

This caught my eye:

Someone wrote they'd like to travel all over the world.

It's a pretty astounding thing to live out a fantasy. I still can't believe I am doing this.

I ended the night at a rooftop bar/club. Fireworks went off promptly at midnight.

A girl could get used to this.

It's been an incredible day and night.

Goodnight.

Meandering

I woke up in London. Islington to be more specific. My first day brought me to Spitalfiels Market where I met young designers, who were all very disappointed that I couldn't hire them and bring them back to NYC with me.

I grabbed lunch with a friend, coffee with another, then walked back where I stumbled upon a river walk. It was marked by a tiny sign. The path paralleled another road. What I found was stunning:

Somehow this quietude is in the middle of London...it's also been hovering between 85 and 90 degrees here, so the shaded greenery offered some much needed respite from the heat.

Tonight brings dinner and drinks! So I'll leave you all here. Day 1 has not dissapointed.

K.

Torpedo Fired

I was on a boat coming back from a dive off the coast of Belize in December. All awash in a post-dive euphoria it occurred to me that I hadn't felt that elated in ages. The elation quickly waned as a sense of dread sunk in- I was going back to New York soon-back to noise and filth and crowded subway cars. This was a new sensation; I used to have that "oh crap, vacation is over type sadness" but not this heavy-hearted sensation. I used to love the feeling of coming home on the BQE, feeling home. Now coming home, I felt a gloom sinking in and it wouldn't go away.

So what did I do? The only sensible thing- I torpedoed the life I've had for 12 years. I quit my job, rented out my apartment, and bought some plane tickets. Do I have a grand plan...no. Am I usually a planner...yes. This is the first time in 17 years that I don't have a job. I'm scared and excited and open to figuring out how to get more out of life.

I will miss my apartment, my neighborhood and my friends. But I'm ready for the adventure that I'm about to embark upon. I'm truly hopeful for the first time in a long time.