We made it to London

We powered through our 24-hour delay in leaving for London and got to the airport all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Having been upgraded to first class because of the insane air traffic control outage messing everything up, we checked in and went to the fancy, preboard lounge for snacks. 

The boys were besotted by the Shirley Temples and general fanciness of it all, and we then eagerly boarded the plane to New York. Row 1. Wow.

And then we waited. And waited. And the auxiliary power control broke. And the heat crept up to 88 degrees F in the cabin. And not one person was offered a snack. An hour or two in, the coach customers got a beverage. Nearly three hours after boarding, and after listening to the flight attendants talk rudely about the passengers (oh what you can hear in Row 1) and basically ignore us all, we took off.

I love taking photos from airplane windows.

So many people on our flight missed their connections, a number of which were to locales abroad. As it was 9:30pm when we finally deplaned at JFK, I'm sure lots of folks had to wait until the next day to get another flight. Fortunately, we made our connection to London, but I think it goes without saying that that first leg really sucked. I'd have been furious if I'd paid for those first class seats. Damn! Air travel has sure become largely un-fun.

That said, international first class is off-the-hook fabulous. We each had a large, comfortable, massaging seat that reclined fully into a bed. We got pajamas, the option of food at any time, individual TVs/movies/video games/noise-canceling headphones, and two bathrooms for just seven passengers. It's absurdly lovely. The kids were beside themselves. Ol and T fell asleep almost immediately; I wasn't long to follow. J stayed up videogaming with manic glee. 

seriously??

First class is definitely the way to most enjoy long-haul flights. I told the boys to savor every bit because they will likely never fly this way again. And did I mention that as compensation for the original canceled flights which took a day from our vacation, we got to extend our trip and fly back business class? Mahgah!

Once in London, we moved in to our B&B, part of a gorgeous home in Kensington, and immediately went out to foil jet lag by keeping ourselves occupied. We walked along the Thames, through Belgravia and then to Kensington Park before succumbing to exhaustion and returning home by way of La Cave au Fromage and a separate, non-cheese but very lovely market for other goodies.

albert, in kensington park

I was asleep by 7p, the boys and Tom by eight; Jack and Ol slept for 13 hours, as did I with the kindly assistance of a midnight Ambien. Jet leg is such a bitchy side effect of the otherwise fabulous fortune that is international travel.

Today we met an old friend at the British Museum and roamed its endless galleries: the Rosetta Stone! the Elgin Marbles! an Easter Island bust! elephantine Assyrian gates! Sutton Hoo riches! It's so nice that museum admission here is free of charge; it's especially liberating when traveling with kids because you can come and go as you need to or please. I will say, however, that the BM's complete lack of garbage cans is vexing and odd.

The boys spent a long time wandering the gift shop, deducing how best to spend the first of their saved money. Oliver ultimately decided on a working catapult pencil sharpener, and Jack chose the same sharpener, two small Egyptian scarabs (I love scarabs) and a quill-and-ink set. He feels one step closer to Hogwarts.

Tomorrow: the Warner Brothers studios for a tour of the original Harry Potter sets.

#BlogHer15 recap

Three years ago, on a whim two weeks before the opening keynote, I registered for the BlogHer '13 conference and bought a ticket to Chicago. I'd never heard of BlogHer before but needed to learn more about blogging and take a step toward something bigger. So I went west and my world grew bigger.

This weekend was my third BlogHer conference, and on the train home today, I thought a lot about all I've learned from and the evolution of how I experience each.

Random introductions have turned into friendships, and meeting in real life women I've gotten to know online never gets old. We recognize each other from profile pics and Facebook feeds and hug immediately as if the geographic distance that's prevented us from actually meeting never much mattered in the first place. Community has taken on an entirely new, infinitely more expansive meaning.

In this huge, diverse, pulsating scene, domain names and handles become pals. People I've respected from afar come to life. Learning is still critically important but this year took a bit of a backseat to spending time with people I really like and want to know better.

The kick-ass Amy Byrnes, of A My Name is Amy, and I sat next to each other in a session at BlogHer Chicago two years ago, and though I hadn't seen her since, when we laid eyes on each other last Thursday, it was seamless.

Through her, I reconnected with the wonderful Brooke Lefferts of Carpool Candy, who I'd also met in Chicago but lost touch with. On Friday, they introduced me to the very fabulous Jesse Torrey of Smiles and Duct Tape and the lovely, we've-lived-in-so-many-of-the-same-places Christine Carlisle of Chew, Nibble, Nosh. The five of us laughed uproariously at a memorable dinner last night where Christine and I nearly cried over this perfect burrata. In all sincerity, I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be.  

Christine, Amy, Jesse, me

Likewise, the no-adjective-is-quite-enough Jenny Kanevsky and I met in person as above -recognize, hug, gut-buster laugh- and later sat next to and took much comfort in each other during a powerful, important session on Storytelling and Mental Health.

I was able to tell Susan Maccarelli, of Beyond Your Blog, in person that I simply don't know how she manages two blogs, two kids and being a font of submission-oriented information every single day. And Kristi Rieger Campbell, of Finding Ninee, and I got to meet and take a selfie even though we live not 20 miles from each other but have never crossed paths here. I got to tell A'driane Nieves how much I admire her.

It's funny how many hours over just a couple days can forge lasting connection. How truly fond of someone you can become after jumping in, shaking hands, sharing a meal and conversation and laughter. I mean, two days ago, Jesse and I were total strangers and last night I introduced her to facial-oil blotting papers as we shared a cab to dinner. It's really something to go from a basic handshake to comparing the aftermath of a long day as shown on a Clean & Clear blotting sheet in just 24 hours.

One thing I think the BlogHer conferences do so well is offer bloggers an empowering environment in which we can push ourselves out of comfort zones, shove fears aside and be ballsy without apology.

As you might remember, I was hellbent on meeting the tremendous Elan Morgan of Schumtzie last year and so swallowed my nerves and walked right up to her. Then I asked if she'd do my website redesign, and this year I hoped to get to know her better, did so and and am deeply happy about it. 

It's all too easy when you really admire, are intimidated by or in awe of someone, to shy away. To think, "She wouldn't want to talk to me. He is so successful." The cool kid thing. And you know what, not everyone does want to talk, some do think they're better. But more often than not, others are also nervous, and a friendly face or a word of gratitude or even a bit of fan-love breaks the ice like nobody's business.

BlogHer reminds attendees of that constantly: to stretch, ask, reach, grab. To make opportunity happen when the door opens, even if it's scary. 

Love Letter to New York

Clip clop, flip flop, patter, patter, pat.

My sandals smack the city streets as I walk long blocks across and up, across and up. With every step, I soak in New York's pulsing dynamism, as if my feet are sponges with direct links to the city's life source.

I had a date with Shawn, one of my favorite people, oldest friends and the one who inspired me to start this blog.

We met at the 92nd St Y to hear a former colleague of his present her new book, How to Raise an Adult. Afterwards, starving, we raced down Lexington and across 21st, heading west to Shawn's new home and new puppy. 

Booker came to dinner with us, because in New York, dogs are quasi-people. We sat outside at Pastai, at a sidewalk table, ordered a glass of cold Grillo (me) and a beer (Shawn), and watched as people ogled the wriggling pup- goofy, beaming smiles on their faces. Neighborhood friends, memories and laughter floated around us; surely that's what pushed the humidity and heat away because there was no trace of either. 

After cupcakes at Billy's Bakery, it was finally time to part ways. Two good hugs before Shawn turned left and I right. As I looked down the glowing avenue, my ambivalence about catching a cab joined hands with the total inability to spot an empty one. Lucky me, I took off walking.

I love the women in skintight jeans and baggy shirts, draped over electric meters and taking long, deep drags on their cigs. This is the only place that still seems remotely chic.

...the men in impossibly tiny booths guarding lots and listening to tunes from foreign homelands.

...the bow-tied doormen who nod politely, the brassy front doors behind them gleaming without a fingerprint to be seen.

...the ambient smell of dog piss, delivery men on bikes, steaming plates of late-night fare slid atop shimmed-even outdoor tables, lights, drips, languages, horns. 

...mountains of trash tied neatly in bags and packed neatly in boxes lined the sidewalks, turning them into trenches. 

Finally, more out of acquiescence to the later hour than anything else, I hailed a cab. Immediately I remembered why I both love NY taxi rides and feel as if my life is in vague danger when in them. 

My driver, a handsome Sikh, is as familiar with the streets as he must be with his own hands. He winds in and around, through and across, threading needles that seem actually to have closed up; like neglected pierced ears. 

His window remains open, and periodically, he calls out to other drivers. At Tesla square, we come within an angel's breath of crashing. I thrill in it all.

I beg him to let me out early, for there is more to see before I leave these streets. I pass babies being strolled despite the darkness of the night. I wince at the homeless man sleeping on the sidewalk. I wonder at a man making music out of nothing and everything. It's past 11 and no one is sleeping while back home, everyone is.

The diamond district lights are bright: faceted gems atop columns glowing like beacons. Anywhere else those would look so hokey, but not here. I see Radio City, Rock Center, men with walkers, women with canes, hot dog and pretzel vendors, seemingly sourceless clouds of smoke. 

It takes me ages to get to sleep because I'm so wired, but I convince myself into slumber with the promise of "more tomorrow."

Fast forward 19 hours, and I'm nearly catatonic from enthusiastically BlogHer'ing all day long. I get in bed but then remember just where the hell I am. New York as a motivation unlike any other. I slither into jeans and sandals and head out into another night, north this time, up to Columbus Circle, along the perimeter of Central Park and up Broadway.

I pass a man kneeling with sincere concern next to a homeless woman wearing little more than an old sheet. I have seen her before. I know I have. I stop to see if I can help. "No, no, she is fine," the kindly man says.

New York gets a bad rap for being cold, but I see humanity everywhere. 

A barefoot chap is trying to entice everyone to blow bubbles, giant ones, using ropes and poles. "It's free, man. Bubbles!"

I eat outside again, this time at Boulud Sud, and revel in every bite of crispy artichokes and an heirloom tomato panzanella salad. A baby, maybe two months, squeaks in his mother's arms at the next table. Two elderly women walk by, clutching each others arms fondly.

Sated, I head towards the Park and am unable to resist the siren song of a public drum and dance show taking place near a fountain. I find a spot on the marble base and sink down happily. The music is electric, the dancers in complete sync. Their bodies seem hinged, multifaceted, powered by an engine. I cannot stop watching them and it takes everything I have not to jump up and join in.

A police cruiser pulls up and drops two people off. The woman is crying. You don't often see the police serving as carpool. No one notices or cares. The cop drives off, the woman wipes her eyes. The barefoot bubble guy is still walking around talking about bubbles. The drummers are keeping our heartbeats for us.

An extremely drunk woman with a fifth of vodka and a shirt just a bit too small, is overly invested in securing tips for the drummers. She takes their "tips here" drum and pressures viewers. The "manager" of the group politely asks her to put the damn drum down. She does but then tries to tuck dollar bills in each drummer's shirt. While they're drumming. As if they're providing musical lap dances. 

Again, she is encouraged to back off. "Is she with you all?" the manager asks Barefoot Bubble. "I'm not with anyone!" drunk woman replies. But she slinks away and sits quietly. Until I see her arms rise and start waving dollar bills in the air. 

The concert ends, and I realize the time. I must go get some sleep. But this city. Will it?