Anyway, I’ve decided to put together a few (brief) compilations of my findings.

Apparently I Have A Fondness For… taking pictures of trees. If you couldn’t tell from this picture of me standing in the middle of the Scottish countryside while rain poured all around me, I enjoy nature.

So here goes– some of the trees I enjoy:

The trees of Sugar Pine where I grew up…

Great tree in Central Park snow…

Trees growing on Thimble Islands off the coast of Connecticut…

Tree covered entrance on the Isle of Skye…

Leaning palm tree in West Palm Beach storm…Crooked tree and crooked lamp-post in Central Park…

Odd tree roots along Lewis Creek (that I’m convinced the fairy folk live in)…

And last but not least, (my mom and stepdad walking amongst) the trees and leaves of autumn in Central Park…

As many of you know, I have a tendency to do relatively crazy things like move across the country (several times), find myself in adventurous scenarios that leave friends and family (and me) wondering how the heck I got there, and to live in cities where I don’t know many people (if anyone). So to the latter point, as I’ve mentioned before, I recently moved to San Francisco knowing only one (fabulous) friend and her (fabulous) husband.

So, on Friday evening when I experienced my first SF earthquake, I quickly turned on the news to see where it measured on the richter scale (having nothing to compare it to), and to see what others were saying/experiencing. And what they were saying was…nothing. Apparently, this lag-time that it takes for stories to hit the news has become unacceptable in the digital universe that I have become accustomed to, so there was only one logical (in my Friday-after-a-long-week state of mind) thing to do…

Go to Twitter.

There I found a whole slew of people buzzing about the earthquake within seconds of it happening, asking if others have felt it, predicting the size (3.5? 4.0?), and complaining about missing it.

Twitter-earthquake

Now, I do have to say that I “know” some of my Twitter peeps, but a lot of them I don’t. And strangely, when something (like an earthquake) happens, it feels good to know that, while I may not have people I can dial-up and discuss city-specific happenings with, there is a community of people experiencing and expressing how they feel about that very same thing.

So, thanks, Twitterville. Thanks for helping me feel a bit more at home in this new city full of strangers.

So when I moved out of their cozy, calm corner of the seaside town of Tiburon and into my new snazzy apartment in the city, they gave me a house-warming gift (as if providing love, scotch, and a pit-stop place to live wasn’t enough) and I have to say, this gift is…fantastic.

It’s a Frother.

Now, I know, I know… it’s a frivolous bit of gadgetry, but I do have to say that while living with my saintly (and sometimes sinister but that’s another story) friends, Erica and Jim, I got a wee bit spoiled using a Frother to foam up my warm and delicious morning coffee.

And now, thanks to my Friends Who Froth… I, too, have become a Frivolous Frother.

Thanks “Party Cats!”

The Frother

I miss the smell of New York. Today my senses searched for the familiar scent of the city and when it wasn’t found I felt loss. Like it wasn’t there when I needed it. That smell of old and new that collides creating a feeling both familiar and newly discovered. Old world and new life. It’s an ever-changing yet, paradoxically, ever-present smell that seeps into you and becomes part of your being in ways unexpected and somehow not at all surprising. Like an old friend you’ve just met.

I miss seeing the layers that make up the city, and make it something great—everyone co-existing at such speed and stamina that the hum can be heard if you listen beyond the horns and the sirens and the voices. If you just listen, it has something to say. And part of the beauty is that it says something different to each and every person. It gives to you what you give to it. Some days it’s the sound of a grand and golden symphony and some days it’s a lone and smokey song being played in a piano’s minor key.

And I miss the way Manhattan vibrates. It has a pulse belonging to the dreamers that left lands and arrived there to begin anew. Arrived perhaps missing the familiarity of what they called home, hoping to make a new home for themselves, for their families. Some arrived with little, some arrived with a lot, some stayed, some kept on…

But for what it’s worth, I left what I knew and arrived in New York to build new experiences, to ride an adventure, to live, to dream. And I left there feeling like I was leaving a home. However possible it is to feel at home in more than one place, I feel now.

I miss New York. I miss the smell, the heartbeat, the (4am) pizza. But for all the ways I miss New York, I miss the New Yorkers I know even more. A new city I can live in and new people I will meet—but there will never be anyone like the friends I’ve come to know and love there. No experiences will ever replace…

In a way, I feel like it’s my own inner New York to which nothing will be compared.

As I found myself in need of serious distraction from the abundance of boxes that fill my apartment, I headed through the sticky Manhattan heat to the calm and cool Mandarin Oriental Hotel Spa for a few hours of indulgence (thanks to Dad and Lisa for the gift!!). Slightly skeptical at the prospect of a $145 pedicure (no, I’m not kidding), I am happy to report that the legs and feet are ridiculously smooth, massaged into a nice cozy comfort, and the toes are painted a shiny black-cherry color called “Toast of Life” (which seemed appropriate after the past couple of days that I’ve had).

A pampered me departed the soothing spa haven with a chilled bottle of water and a snazzy pair of “complimentary” bamboo flip-flops and was greeted into reality with a massive down-pouring of flash floods, booming sky, and spears of lightening cracking over the city. Drenched people everywhere were running for cover– some screeching, some falling, and some laughing.

So after watching one person get toted off in an ambulance, one soaked (and slightly unhappy) wedding party’s arrival at the Mandarin, listening to a security guard say he saw a squirrel go flying through the air in a gust of wind (apparently I missed that one), and joining a gathering line of soggy people in need of taxis, me and my happy feet were escorted under an awning of an umbrella to a waiting hotel-owned Bentley where I was whisked home. (Not entirely sure how that happened but I credit the snappy red toenails.) Back in the world of tranquil, spa-like serenity…

Until of course, I entered my “dorm room” apartment to find empty boxes waiting to be filled in preparation for the move. But it was good while it lasted– thanks again, Pops and Lisa! You thought you were giving me a gift card for a pedicure but really you gave me the gift of a frivolous experience (and distraction from the impending good-byes that will take place this week). Cheers!

Happy Memorial Day to everyone. May we always remember our friends and loved ones.

The Dinner Game

“The objection to conforming to usages that have become dead to you is that it scatters your force. It looses your time and blurs the impression of your character.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

Here’s to non-conformity! Grrr!

So I started out completely in awe of this video, then, perhaps this is a bit of a cynical (or maybe just compassionate) perspective, I started wondering about the treatment of the elephant. Is this purely for performance sake, to entertain the deep-pocketed tourist? Or is it a fascinating brush (pardon the pun) with what could be the beginning of mainstream humans glimpsing man-made art being… well… elephant-made? And what are the implications of this? Does the elephant feel any sense of joy? And more importantly, does the 4-legged artist get extra peanuts at snack break? Or maybe additional romp time with its pals? Or is it just the gorgeous, long-lashed, long-legged, very gifted and talented ones that get all the play?

I started searching around online and per National Geographic: “About half of the money from sales of elephant art at Novica will go directly to elephant sanctuaries in Southeast Asia.

“Only in America,” said Komar, “could some crazy, idealistic idea become pragmatic charity.”