[I’m skipping ahead a couple of days, because my friends want to read this story…and I’ve already written it…so here ya go, ladies.  I’ll return to the previous days soon.]

As I sit in some random suite in Xaluca Dades in Boumalene, I keep thinking about the most magical night I have ever had in my life. But before I tell you the details of one of the most romantic nights I’ve ever had in my life, I have to tell you about the day.

Driss, my driver, took me to a castle that was only 300 years old. It was the first castle built for the current Moroccan dynasty. The entire place is under renovation. It’s basically a ruin. The only thing left in good form is the harem. Nowhere else in the castle has anything survived the test of time. Only the harem still has its original mosaics in perfect form. Everywhere else in the castle…it’s completely ruined by time.

Afterwards, we headed to the local market in the next town. He showed me the vegetable, dates, animal and regular wares stalls. It’s just one large market that sells everything you could possibly need.

Since I’m still sick, Driss stopped in front of an herb shop and pointed out a bag of herbs. He told me that there were so many different types of flowers and plants in this mixture that it could heal almost everything when you drink it in tea form. Considering my throat has been very scratchy the past few days, he recommended that I buy this tea and drink it to help relieve my throat.

He then took me to the market where the donkeys were kept. I stopped and petted one of them ad then went around to take a few photos. We then headed over to see the different sheep and the cows.

A few minutes after we had finished looking at the sheep, a donkey came running right up to me with a kid on it. As soon as it got to me, it stopped right in front of me. It was that same donkey I petted 15-20 minutes earlier. It was like he had a smile on his face. The kid re-directed the donkey away from me and we went on our separate ways. I couldn’t help but feel amazed that the one act of kindness I showed that donkey earlier had him find me in the market again…as if to say hello again. You can’t tell me that animals are not smart.

Driss had also stopped at a fossil factory so that I could learn all about how the Moroccan desert was filled with fossils over 2 million years old. In Morocco they mine the fossils from the ground. They then polish it and turn the fossils into furniture or marble floors (depending on what formation it fossilized into…like marble or limestone). They even create sculptures and everyday household items. It’s rather beautiful.

In the afternoon, we stopped to eat at a cafe. We had a chicken tagine that was so tasty and spicy. It hit the spot.

While we sat drinking tea infused with mint, we awaited my next driver who would drive me in a 4×4 to the sand dunes of the Sahara. When Josef arrived, I was surprised by how beautiful and handsome he was. But then again, this is Morocco. Many of the men here are just beautiful.

Josef drove me across the Sahara where there are no roads. The car swerved from one side to the other, almost as if we were on an amusement park ride.

We talked about his life as a nomad and how he loved the desert. The desert was his home. He had traveled to Majorca, Spain a few years prior to stay for a month, just to see if he would like someplace else besides the desert. But after spending some time away from his homeland, he realized that he missed the desert, so he went back because the desert was where he belonged.

When we arrived at the Berber tents, Josef escorted me in to meet my guide for the night who would end up staying with me the entire night in the desert. His name was Hamid.

I drank a cup of mint tea as we chatted. He gave me the lowdown on what to expect for the evening.

After finishing my tea, we headed to the camel, Jimi Hendrix, who would take me to the top of the dunes to watch the sunset over the Sahara. I was petrified of Jimi. The camel driver and Hamid tried to encourage me to get onto the camel with little instruction on how one mounts a camel.

After they poked a little fun and I had finally swung my short leg over Jimi’s hump, he stood up and let’s just say it was a WHOA moment. It took about five minutes before I could adjust to riding a camel. It was like riding a horse…except for the whole camel standing up or laying down bit. You just pray it doesn’t throw you across the desert when he gets up or sits down.

When we finally reached a good spot, Jimi sat down and I tried to climb off of him without falling face first into the sand. Luckily, I was able to succeed without embarrassing the hell out of myself. The camel driver then helped me get to the top of the sand dune and we sat down and watched the sunset together. We talked about his life as a nomad, and I told him about the life of New York City.

After the sunset, I got back on Jimi and we headed down to my tent. I was the only tourist staying the night in the Berber tents. It was fully deluxe all the way down to the running bathroom and shower in my room.

I had a porter, a cook and Hamid for the evening. We started off the evening sitting around a small fire as the stars began to light up the sky. I learned a little Berber and Arabic sitting around the fire, awaiting the cook to arrive. Hamid told me that he was going to give me a new nickname. He said that my desert name was now Fatima. I asked him what it meant and he said, “It’s like a person who has big dreams and makes them come true.”

It was a sweet desert name he had given to me.

When the cook finally arrived we sat around the fire a little longer before I decided I was ready to eat. I sat down at the dinner table and they served a tagine with beef and prunes, another tagine with lamb chops, and couscous with chicken and vegetables. It was a lot of food. A LOT! After dinner, they brought out a plate of fruit with the biggest red grapes I’ve ever seen.

While the staff ate their dinner in the kitchen and cleaned up my plates, I went and laid down on the divan and stared up at the stars. Hamid came out and suggested that we go out into the dunes and watch the stars.

After the rest of the staff left and headed home, Hamid grabbed a blanket and we headed out to the dunes. He helped me up to the top of the dunes, because it’s not so easy when your feet sinks into the sand the closer you get to the top of the ridge.

We walked into the desert for a little bit before he found a spot at the top of a dune and laid out the blanket. I took off my shoes and sat down on the blanket. We then spent the next few hours watching the stars and talking.

As the wind started to pick up and it got to be a little colder, we headed down into the bottom of the dune.

As we sat there, I realized…this is one of the most romantic moments I’ve ever had in my life. I’m in the middle of the Sahara desert, sitting on a blanket, watching the stars, seeing comets in the distance and shooting stars quickly lighting up the sky. There’s a beautiful man next to me that is just as spiritual as I am, the same age as me, and just so in tune to the peace around us and the beauty of the moment.

I almost reached over and kissed him…this nomad…a man of the desert. But the modesty in me (as well as reminding myself that I am in a country where modesty is important) stopped myself from doing something that could be seen as inappropriate…a woman reaching out to a Muslim Arabic man and kissing him under the stars in the middle of the Sahara desert. Could I stop at just one kiss? I didn’t think I would.

I asked Hamid what time he thought it was. He told me that it was maybe 1AM. We had to be awake at 5AM for the sunrise, so I suggested we head back to the berber tent to sleep. He gathered up the blanket and we started heading towards the tents.

He took my hand and helped me up to the crest of the dune, but didn’t let go of my hand as we walked down into the next dune. As we got closer to the bottom, I started to pick up speed and then realized that we were all of a sudden running through the Sahara holding hands, smiling and laughing with the brilliant moon lighting our way and the stars twinkling above our heads. Could this moment be any more magical?

I headed into my tent to sleep the few hours before sunrise, while Hamid slept outside my room on the divan.

He woke me a few hours later as the sun started to peak through the sky. I cleaned up a little and we headed back to the sand dunes to await the sunrise.

This is Hamid’s life. Every morning he watches the sunrise. Every evening he watches the sunset. At night he watches the stars changing color before his very eyes. This is how he has spent every day of his life…surrounded by the Sahara desert.

After the sun rose, he gathered up the blanket again and said, “Let’s go back down into the dunes.” He took me back down into the dune so that I could see the sunrise twice that morning. First, from the distance and then again over the top of the crest.

After the second sunrise, it was still 5 in the morning. We had nothing else better to do than to head back to the tent.

The night before, he had told me that he was a Berber medicine man. He had told me all about nomad medicine. Basically, nomads rarely if ever get sick. They don’t even know what cancer is. No one has ever had it. Sometimes people get a little sick, but they know what plants to use for medicine. He is also well versed in accu-pressure.

He told me how many people with rheumatism and arthritis come to the Sahara to lay down in the sand, fully covered in it. The hot sand has healing properties. After they lay in the sand for a few hours for 3-6 days, they leave completely healed. That is the mystery of the healing properties of the Sahara.

Since I was still coughing from the cigarette smoke from Paris, Hamid wanted to treat it with some of his Berber medicine knowledge. He took out some olive oil with Argan oil and massaged it into my neck. He massaged my entire neck. When he reached the back of my neck he told me that I was running a fever.

He continued to massage the oil in and then after he was done, he took my scarf and made a turban with it and wrapped it around my neck so it could keep my neck warm.

As we awaited the cook and porter to come in to make breakfast for me, Hamid took my foot and started to massage it, applying accu-pressure to all of the points on both of my feet. Then it progressed on to a full body massage.

I realized as he touched the bare skin on my arms that this was his way of touching me (something that would be considered forbidden)…and I was letting him. I laid there thinking…I think I could live in the desert. I then realized with every touch, I was falling in love with this man.

He didn’t push himself onto me. He was very respectful of that. But as a Muslim Arab, for him to be seen touching me like he was…he would have been in a lot of trouble. What was happening was very private and moving into a direction that could lead to more. I was leaving the camp in a few hours and part of me thought…if you let this happen, you could walk away with a baby. Isn’t that what you want?

I laid there thinking about it as he reached out and ran his fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp. But as Allah would have it, the porter arrived and we had to stop.

Later, as I sat there eating my breakfast, I watched Hamid. I could see him getting sad, because the second I finished eating, Josef would take me back into town to meet Driss and we would head on to our next destination. I then realized that I wasn’t the only person feeling something…he had fallen in love too and these were our last moments together.

The porter asked me when I would come back to see them again. Hamid had told me that I should come back again and he would take me into the desert for six days. In all honesty, I’ve been seriously thinking about it. I’ve also been seriously thinking about going back to the desert and never going back home.

It’s funny what the Sahara can do to you. It can bring two very different people together…an American city girl and a Muslim Arab nomad…and give them a few hours together and have them fall in love.

I told Driss about this. He had asked me a few days ago if I would consider marrying an Arab/Moroccan. After my night in the desert, I think I would. When I told Driss I think I may have fallen in love, he got a huge smile on his face because one night in the desert was all God needed for this moment.

While Driss drove me to the mountains, I kept thinking about how just last night, I was running through the sand dunes with the moon shining above, the stars winking down upon the desert, holding the hand of a nomad.

It’s the stuff that would throw Casablanca (the movie) out of the water. It’s that book that waits to be written…it’s that moment I was looking for when I booked my trip to Morocco back in January. I knew something would happen that would change everything.

Looking at you has been paradise to my eyes today. ~ Hassan (tour guide at Volubilis)

As I write this, I begin Day 5 of my trek around this beautiful desert country called Morocco. While I go back to talk about the places I’ve seen and people I’ve met, I’ll show you the world that the Moroccans have shown to me.

This day begins in Casablanca.

For those who have romantic notions of the city of Casablanca because of the movie starring Humphrey Bogart…wipe this clean of your memories. That is not Casablanca anymore.

Instead Casablanca has turned into a more commercial district. Companies like Samsung, LG, and Citi have popped up with skyscrapers across the desert landscape. The port city has become a booming city filled with so many people that you start to feel like you’re in a third world Times Square on its busiest day of the year. Except…these aren’t tourists. These are the people of Morocco running to and fro with little to no concept of street boundaries.

People walk or bike along the main roadways (think major metropolitan freeways) along with motorcyclists, taxis and cars. There are no lanes…just a bunch of cars all heading in one direction or another…all stacked bumper to bumper. If you survive this shock factor of how you haven’t gotten in an accident just getting from the airport to the hotel, then you’re doing okay…FOR NOW.

The hotel, Royal Mansour (a Le Meridien hotel), is a hotel you may remember from the movie Sex & The City 2. The lounge was featured in the movie.

Sitting in this beautiful lounge filled with Moroccan and international businessmen gives you a sense of importance. You are in a beautiful, very rich place.

While Royal Mansour may not like what I have to say about my accommodations, next time around they’ll get a real review since I will be staying there again in a week. The room I stayed in at the time had a mildew smell to it and the hot water was turned off for some reason (i.e. you turn the hot water nozzle and no water…just the cold side came out with water). I didn’t report it at first because I thought this was Morocco…maybe they didn’t do hot showers. My driver, Driss, told me I should have called the reception to report it because I should have hot water in all of my hotel rooms…so now I know.

The next morning we headed to the Hassan II Mosque. It is the third largest mosque in the world. It is so elaborate. It was designed by craftsman and artisans by hand. In Morocco, you will not find their world designed, decorated and made by machines. They take pride in their skills. Every single thing is made by hand…including the inside and outside of the most elaborate buildings you have ever laid eyes upon…and it is all perfect in every single way.

The one photo I captured at the mosque that I’m very proud of was the moment I captured a Muslim woman in pink walking across the courtyard. I’m not supposed to photograph women in an Arabic country, especially a Muslim woman…that is…unless she’s a widow and has given me permission or her face is completely covered.

In this case, right as I snapped the photo, the wind had picked up from the Atlantic Ocean and her pink shawl fell across her face. It was a brief second and I caught it, making this photo completely acceptable to share with the world.

After we left Casablanca, we headed to Meknes where we stopped to visit a couple of mausoleums and a kasbah. We had stopped to see the Royal Palace in Rabat, but there was something going on at the palace. The guard told me in broken FrEnglish (French/English) that they had reached their limit for the day. I couldn’t visit the royal palace. My driver remarked that the city seemed to have increased security everywhere we went so something must have been going on.

In the late afternoon we headed to Volubilis, the ancient ruins of the Romans. This is where I met Hassan. He’s a tall, older man with a blackened smile. His passion all lie in the ruins of a great Roman city in Morocco. His energy and excitement as he explained his everyday paradise was incredible. He knew every spot where you could take an amazing photo.

As the sun set to the West of the ruins, I was able to catch the first sunset of many in Morocco. You can’t help but look in awe at the sunsets in Morocco. Even watching Driss watch the sunsets…you know you can’t get enough of the splendor and beauty of every Moroccan sunset.

It was Hassan who told me at the end of the tour that he wanted to show me my house. I said, “What house?” He showed me the House of Venus. It was so called that because of the mosaics of Venus found there centuries later.

As Hassan led me to the gates of Volubilis to meet back up with Driss, he said to me that every day he gets to look at this paradise that is Volubilis. It is his paradise, but today, he said “Looking at you has been paradise to my eyes today.”

To this day…that is one of the most beautiful things any man has ever said to me. I would find that most of the men I would encounter on this trip have just as many poetic words. In a way, for me, it makes me feel like I’m falling in love with the country of Morocco.

More on this on Day 32 when I tell you about the carpet seller who invited me into his home to talk to me about spiritual things, love and berber carpets. I’ll also tell you about my tour guide through the medina of Fes.

I will only say that if I came to Morocco to find a husband, I’d have my pick of the lot. There are so many beautiful men here, with such passion in their hearts. They look at the beauty of the soul within, the smile across the face and the passion within a woman’s heart. The eyes are the gateway to the soul, and here…the Arabic men have told me some of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard uttered in my ear.

They actually make me feel more beautiful than I’ve ever felt in my entire life. I’ll explain more when I tell you about Day 32 as I go through the Arabic medina…which ironically is not in the tour guide books as recommended for tourists. But if you have a native Moroccan man escorting you throughout the medina, you’re fine. I’ll tell you how the Muslim/Arabic men responded to me being within the walls of their medina.

And what I tell you about how I’ve spent my entire time with men and not women…this one will shock you.

I will also say that I’ve had so many conversations about the way of the Muslim/Arabic people and I have to say that there is so much spirituality, love and kindness in their hearts that they are some of the kindest people I’ve ever met. For the loyal readers here, a lot of you know how I freak out when a man makes his intentions known to me…you should be asking why I’m not getting freaked out here with so many men approaching me that the guides have to shew them away. Why am I not scared? Why do I feel completely safe?

That will be for the Day 32 story.

This day is all about the beautiful church that is the Sacre Coeur.

I checked out of my hotel early to head the few blocks to the most beautiful church in Paris. The odd thing was that since I was heading to Morocco in the afternoon, I went ahead and slipped on the wedding bands onto my ring finger. I walked out and headed to Sacre Coeur, only to find that my entire walk there was WEDDING CENTRAL.

Universe, are you trying to tell me something? [For those reading the European adventures…follow the universe’s breadcrumbs.]

The entire walk up to the Sacred Heart (what Sacre Coeur is in English) was filled with wedding shop after wedding shop. From the wedding gowns to the bridesmaid dresses to the groom’s tuxedo to the flowers, cakes, shoes, lingerie and wedding gifts…it’s all there. You are bound to find what you’re looking for in this 1/2 mile of RUE de LA MARIAGE!

That’s not the name, but it should be.

It kind of freaked me out in a weird way, because I’m supposed to pretend like I’m married to someone back in the States while I’m in Morocco. I slip the rings on and instantly, you see a change in the attitude of French men. You see the, “Oh, Bon…” and then they’re like ooppsss…didn’t realize you were married. LOL.

It was rather funny to say the least, but at the same time, I kind of missed all of these beautiful French men approaching me just to say “Bon Jour, Madame,” in that sexy tone. Trust me, it’s very flattering.

When I finally reached the Sacre Coeur, I was accosted by some men trying to put a bracelet on my wrist. They practically block your way up the walkway to the Sacre Coeur just to tie one on. I almost punched one of them for trying to touch me.

They’ll even try to chase you up the steps, just to get one of these bracelets on you. I assume it’s their way of making you pay for something you didn’t want to begin with.

Right after I passed them, an artist came up to me and asked me if he could draw me. I said, “No.” He then started begging which meant I turned a deaf ear on him. He’s no different than those bracelet guys.

After getting through that labyrinth of petty peddlers, I saw her in her absolute majesty. She was so beautiful.

I tried to find a way to go up the steps without being accosted by more of these scam artists and found the more scenic route. This route allowed me to photograph the beautiful gardens to the left of the climb. It was free of most tourists (who try to take the direct path up…which is actually the bigger workout).

I found that in Paris, I manage to always pick up a few stray tourists wanting to be better photographers. A couple saw me photographing Sacre Coeur with the flowers in front of it and then realized that they wanted similar photos.

I don’t mind picking up stray tourists that want photos like this. It actually makes me happy that they are seeing the world through my eyes…finding the beauty in the moment. Trust me, if I find more experienced photographers, I like to hang around, shoot photos, and listen to them, especially when they talk about lighting. Lighting is very important.

Then again, I almost want to tell them, eh…if the photo doesn’t work out you can use a program to fix the photo. If it wasn’t for photo editing…I’d have so much extra crap in photos that I don’t want. All I want is the moment I saw in that photo, not the stuff surrounding it.

As I made my way up to the top of the hill, I came across a harpist that was playing a lot of oldies I grew up with…I’m talking childhood songs that I used to sing that came from my favorite black and white movies. It was nice to sit down and photograph him with the city of Paris behind him. It reminded me a lot of the little trio I saw outside of Prague Castle a few years ago.

Afterwards, I headed on up to the church to photograph the architecture outside. To this day, I still have not gone into the church. I don’t know. Me and churches don’t always get along too well…unless it’s in Prague. I can feel God there. But in other places, I’m not amazed.

In order for Sacre Coeur to remain sacred in my heart, I like to see her from the outside. That’s where her beauty is. I’m afraid to go in and see that she’s not as beautiful inside as she is on the outside. Based on how quickly tourists file in and out of her…kind of tells me there’s not much to see on the inside.

As I headed back out of the church yard, I heard a violinst playing “My Heart Will Go On.”  Now, I never cry to that song.  But for some reason, the way the violinist was playing it, I got really choked up and started to cry.  It reminded me of Kevin and one of those “God, I wish he was here” moments.

I pulled myself together and started to make my way to the stairs when that artist from earlier saw me again and begged me to let him draw me.  I realized he was just looking for a test subject, not money.  He had seen that I was fighting back the tears and commented about how beautiful my eyes were.  Would I let him draw me?

Yeah…no time…gotta get to Morocco!

Oh, and I should mention that suitcase #2 that I bought in Courbevoise…broke down. Or shall I say…it came apart. I’m not kidding! It didn’t survive the cobblestones in Paris!

It is now staying together thanks to my ONE rubber band. I knew I should have packed two of them!

When I say it’s broken down, it means that the wheels are broken or coming off. When I bought this one, it came with nine wheels. I am using only four now. I have a total of six wheels left, because I lost 3 somewhere between Gare de l’Est and the hotel. When I get back to the States, the hunt is on for a qualitative suitcase where the wheels can withstand the terrors of my travels.

Since I’m still on Day 30, and I actually arrived in Morocco on Day 30, I will only share this…

First night was in Casablanca. Guess what hotel I stayed in? The Royal Mansour Le Meridien. It won’t sound familiar to you, but the lobby was featured in Sex and the City 2. It’s where they try the tea when they first arrive, and the football players come parading through. That lobby is in this hotel.

I was quite surprised when I was sitting there. I felt like I was in the movie, when my driver informed me that this was in SATC2. Sweet, right?

I’ll tell you more on Day 31, because that’s when the Moroccan adventure truly begins. 😉

　

If you really want to know what I did on Day 26 and be honest about it…I was in Paris. Actually, I was in a town right outside of Paris (i.e. just over the bridge) called Courbevoise. It’s a nice little place filled with a lot of families.

The diabolical mess of flying in right as all of the trains and buses were ending from Charles De Gaulle airport meant I had to find alternative means to get to Courbevoise…like take 3 buses to get there from CDG.

I got into Paris around 11PM, I got to the hotel around 4AM. No joke.

I started to follow the lead of the Parisians out on a Friday night…don’t pay to use the bus. They snuck me onto the back of the night bus, helped me get my suitcases on and away we went. I got to see Moulin Rouge and L’Arche de Triomphe at night. Very pretty, but no photos because…ahem…too tired and the camera was packed away…and I was on a bus.

I slept in until 11AM after I crashed in the hotel. But when I awoke, I realized that the cigarette smoke had finally gotten to me and I was sick.

My suitcase did not survive Paris the second time around, so I pulled myself out of bed to buy a new one and find a local grocery store. The hotel I was staying in was apartment style, so I had my own kitchen.

I ended up staying in the entire day, nursing myself back to health.

It wasn’t until I headed to Zurich/Zug the next day that my respiratory system started to heal up (I think I can attribute this to the nice mountain air).

I checked into my closet size room (which, by the way, was the most expensive hotel I had to book in my European vacation tour of duty…and it was the smallest room of them all). I got in around 3PM and ended up staying in bed the rest of the day, just to get over the stupid smoke in my lungs. Did I mention I was allergic to cigarettes? Merci, Paris.

The next day, I found my way to Bossard Arena, home of EV Zug. The Rangers skate was canceled (little did I know), so I ended up watching Zug practice that morning.

Here, I learned a little lesson thanks to Coach DeBoer. Never watch the other team’s pre-game skate/practice. You think you’re going to get a good idea of what you’re about to face…and then the game comes and they serve your derrieres right up to you by kicking your ass all over the ice.

Well, that’s exactly what EV Zug did to the New York Rangers. 8-4 was the score, kiddies. Zug scored seven goals on Martin Biron, the eighth was an empty-netter. The atmosphere of the fans at Bossard Arena was AMAZING! It was like nothing I had ever experienced before.

If Canadian fans think there is nothing like being in a Canadian arena to watch a hockey game…go see some Swiss hockey. The Swiss have the Canadians beat. Even the Rangers were talking about never seeing anything like it back in North America. It is that intense.

Trust me, oh Canadians, the Swiss really have you beat.

If you’ve ever been to a football (European soccer) game with flags flying, fans chanting, drums beating, etc. Then you know how European fans are supporting their home team. Put those football fans into a SOLD OUT hockey arena…and there you go. It would be almost similar to the Nordiques Nation invading your arena x3.

It’s that intense.

All I can say is that I’m now a fan of EV Zug after that amazing display. They are fierce out there on the ice. They are really that good.

If you want my opinion of Zug…you’re not really going to get it. I feel duped because I never found those places from the pictures they sent to me. Nothing looked like the photos.

I was also very confused with the whole North/South thing in Zug. They would show me on the map where I was, ok…we were to the north. But then if I wanted to see anything, I had to go south, according to the map. But when you take the train…it goes north to that exact spot.

Trust me, I felt like everything got flipped around. It was so backward and I was confused. I had ZERO sense of direction in Zug. They really confused me with their map.

The only thing I can say if you are visiting Switzerland…make sure you have plenty of money. That place is uber expensive. Take the exorbitant prices of Times Square and multiply it by 2-3 times more. You’ve got Switzerland.

A plain cheeseburger at McDonalds cost 2.50 CHF = $2.88. In the US…a plain cheeseburger costs $1. If you want a SMALL meal (not large or super sized), that will cost you 15 CHF = $17.25. Wow, right? I’m afraid to know what a large or super sized meal would cost.

I will say that the one thing I really loved about Switzerland…everyone walks or bikes. Zug is such a small town that many people walk or bike around. There are ample sidewalks and bike paths on streets that allow people to use these two modes of transportation.

Everywhere you go there are bikes upon bikes upon bikes. They’re practically stacked on top of each other at the train station.

I guess that’s why the air is so much cleaner there…low car emissions.

Throughout most of Switzerland you’ll find a lot of farming communities and then a lot of industry going up left and right. It’s a rather strange thing to see, especially for city folk. Farmland is usually out in the middle of nowhere…not close to the cities. What’s interesting about Switzerland is that they are practically built into each other. Industry and farming co-habitate harmoniously throughout the country. It’s just a very odd sight to see, but it works.

Up next…Paris again. This time, I get to spend some time with an old favorite.

So Tuesday I headed down to Paris from England.  First issue?  While the Brits have stamped my passport as leaving their country…where’s my damn France stamp?  [It’s Thursday as I write this…and all the US government knows is I apparently boarded a plane to the Czech Republic without my passport going through the readers in either France or the Czech Republic…I am currently flying under the radar in both countries.  Not my intent at all because I wanted my France and Czech Republic stamps.  I almost sought out customs to ask them to just run my passport through so US government had a tracker on me and so I could get my stamp!]

At any rate, I was so happy to finally leave London and go to Paris.  The city was so much better the second time around.  The last time I had been to La cite de l’amour was back when I was 16 years old…almost 20 years ago.  A trip to France was long overdue.  I’m so glad I booked my trip to Paris.

I ended up staying in the Latin Quarter.  I wanted to do a few Hemingway stops (because I just finished “The Paris Wife” which is a fictional story about Hemingway and his first wife) and photograph La Notre Dame. 

When I arrived at my hotel, I dropped off my bags because it was way too early to check-in.  The guy at reception was practically falling all over me.  I must be releasing some male magnet hormone or something that I’m ready to get married… [Trust me, I’ve had more men falling over me since yesterday than I’ve had in the last 10 years.]

I decided to visit Le Pantheon first which was several blocks from the hotel.  I stumbled upon this little square a block away just filled with Parisiens, cafes and restaurants.  I saw a sign for a Creperie…and guess where I had my first meal in Paris? 

It was HEAVENLY.  It was sooo good.  After five bites, that was it.  Tummy was completely satisfied with the crepes and the coffee.  So happy…

It was a blessing to have such amazing food after trying not to vomit up everything since Saturday!  I should have really starved myself instead of forcing myself to eat.  The body would have been so much happier. 

After brunch I headed out with my camera, travel guide and map of Paris. 

I saw churches galore.  I saw the Pantheon…and then I headed down Rue de Ste. Michel and voila…hello Latin Quarter bookstores.  I found a copy of “The Little Prince” in French (“Le Petit Prince”) and another young adult book to read in French.

The next bookstore was selling Moliere books for 20 Euro cents.  That’s what?  50 cents in American money?  I was so all over that.  I think I bought 2 copies of Moliere’s works. 

I tried to find postcards that captured Paris in a way that I wanted to see Paris hanging in my kitchen.  No luck whatsoever.

So I ended up heading directly to the Notre Dame Cathedral. 

I sat down and watched all of the tourists.  I kept thinking about the photo I had of my grandfather in my kitchen.  He’s standing in front of the Notre Dame in his beret.  It’s one of my favorite photos of him.  In a way, I could still feel him there.  (God, how I miss him.)

I sat there for about an hour just taking random photos of the cathedral and the gargoyles, waiting to check into my hotel.  It took me a while to realize that my BlackBerry was on London time and not Paris time.  Oops…could have checked in an hour before!

I headed back to the Hotel St. Christophe.  I’m only mentioning them here because they were a friggin godsend after that horrible London hotel. 

The reception decided to give me a room on the ground floor (the only one).  It was so nice because that meant I didn’t have to drag my extremely heavy suitcases anymore. 

The first thing I checked to see…if the outlets worked, because I was highly pissed that the last hotel’s outlets did not work in any of the rooms…only in the lobby bar area (and there were only 3). 

At any rate, after I sat down and ate some of the lunch I had bought at one of the supermarches in the square (heavenly, by the way), I stayed at the hotel until it got close to sunset because I wanted to photograph the Ste. Chapelle at sunset.  They say that’s the best time.

Well, they closed early or something…I don’t know, but I didn’t get that photo.  Security at the government building let me take photos from their parking lot. 

I went back to the Notre Dame to take photos of the Rose windows and…that didn’t happen.  Apparently they were doing some kind of religious ritual ceremony thingy…I don’t know…it’s a functioning church still.  I’d sit down and watch but I didn’t feel God there, so there was no point.  [Yes, I’m brutally honest like that.]

So I headed out to take pictures of the archways (inside the gates).  Security was standing there with me watching me take photos, shewing away other tourists.  I turned around and realized they were closing up the church, so I snapped a few more and then they let me out.  One of the guards remarked that they didn’t want to bother me because they could see what the photos looked like on my screen.  It was like I was entranced in what I was doing and doing something beautiful.  They didn’t want to interrupt me.

Leave it to the French to understand beauty, right?

I took a few more shots around the cathedral and then went to seek out Shakespeare & Co.  It’s a famous bookstore that was frequented by Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce and many other famous writers.  Hemingway was the most popular of the customers.

It took me a while to find the bookstore.  When I finally did, I fell in love with it…but hated the prices.  Talk about the Saks Fifth Avenue of bookstores.  It was extreme markup city.  It would have been nice to pick up a Hemingway book…but not for 16-20 Euros.  You’ve got to be joking!

I finally found their clearance rack and took away a Charles Dickens book for 6 Euros.  I got it because the inscription on the front page told the reader to go to page 272 to remember a special moment in their lives together…it was about kite flying.  How charming is that?

The thing that I loved most about the bookstore?  When you first walk in they have personal photos of Hemingway up on the wall at the entrance.  I especially loved the ones with his first son when he was still a toddler (they nicknamed him Bumby). 

Hemingway committed suicide a good 35 years later.  But those beginning years of his brilliance as a writer…they all took place there in Paris in the Latin Quarter.

As I was leaving the bookstore, I heard the owner calling for someone. I didn’t realize who they were calling for until I saw a black dog come flying out of the park across the way.  She had three pearl necklaces around her neck.  She came running past me in a hurry because she knew she was being called.  Trust me, I was amazed. 

I headed to the park the dog had just came out of to find three British boys no older than 5 years old, running around this central area surrounding a very strange statue.  I took some photos of the statue.  A couple of photographers actually followed me around while I was snapping photos, because they noticed that I was noticing something about the sculpture…I was noticing two people in an embrace and I was taking photos of each of them.  They just followed me around, taking the same exact photo.

After I finished, I went and sat down to rest and just watched the 3 British boys running themselves ragged around the statue…up and down the steps.

The youngest (who was probably 2) decided to sit down in the patch of yellow flowers next to me.  I swear to God it was the sweetest moment ever.  His parents were nearby and it would have been rude of me to snap a photo of their son like that.  You never know with people…but his mom saw the photographic moment and got her camera at the ready and started taking shots.

Next thing you see, the other two boys wanted the same attention so they sat down in the flowers too.

Want to know what I said to myself in that moment?  This is why this season is your final season covering hockey.  You want to be that mom snapping that photo of your boys.  Yeah, the secret is kind of out.  That’s the reason why this is my final season.  I’m 35 and I have to focus on getting married and having a family.  I can’t do that covering hockey, especially if I get pregnant in the next year or two.  My body has a hard enough time already.  Throw in a pregnancy and I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t be bedridden (after all, this 3 week vacation is killing my body already…I’m trying not to take pain killers). 

At any rate, the guard came over a few minutes later to announce they were closing the park.  It wasn’t dark enough to take the photo I was waiting to take, so I headed out to the Seine and sat along the Seine, watching the sunset in Paris.  Yeah…it was beautiful.

As it got darker, the lights to the cathedral turned on and I got to take a photo of the cathedral in green lights and then in white lights.  After I got the desired effect, I got up and made the walk back to the hotel and just crashed on the bed.

I stayed up until midnight trying to find a new hotel in Zug.  No luck whatsoever.  Guess we’ll work on that one later on…

I also spent the evening watching French television.  I am kind of in the middle of speaking FrEnglish right now.  Half French/Half English.  Why?  Because that’s how the French were talking to me!

I have to say I love the French people soooo much.  They’re all so kind.  If they know you’re American, they immediately stop speaking French, even if they know you can.  I think it may be because I’m out of practice and I don’t have the accent down.  I’m probably butchering the language.  Who knows?  LOL.

While I was in Paris for the first of four stops, I kept thinking that I really could spend the rest of my life in this city.  There’s so much to do, so many things to try and experience.  So many things to taste.  It’s just an amazing, free-spirited and peaceful atmosphere. 

For some strange reason, Paris gets me.

At any rate…Day 23…Prague bound to meet up with the New York Rangers.

I’ve been getting a lot of emails from the States from everyone that read or heard about the racist crap I had to go through in London. For the record, it didn’t happen in just Bath.

One thing that I have a hard time tolerating are people that are intolerant of others just because they are from a different race or culture…or they’re not 100% white.

Right after I had posted up the last entry, a couple of women sat down at the table next to me. One of the hotel staff workers came to their table to ask if they wanted anything to drink. The ladies had this horrified look on their face and said, “No, we’re just waiting for the manager so that we can book our Christmas dinners.”

He then left and went back into the next room. Then I heard it. The two old bats decided to talk about his race and how disgusted they were that he even came over to their table (they sat down in a bar…someone came over to serve them…I don’t understand how it was inappropriate). The one woman facing me was doing all of the talking. I kept looking at her in complete disgust rolling my eyes, getting ready to yell at her, “He’s feckin human you stupid twats.”

I have to say that the ONLY people that were nice to me in London were the ones that were not BRITISH…or were of a different race, color or culture. There was not one single white British person that was kind to me. So I will say this…London is filled with a bunch of racist assholes.

I’m so glad I never moved to London.

In all honesty, what I really would have told those two ladies…it is highly inappropriate to talk like that. The fact that a young woman half their age would have to tell them that they were being highly inappropriate is no different than me telling a guy how inappropriate it is for him to follow me a block at 11:45PM to talk to me. He’s two seconds away from being maced.

Extremes of each other? Yes, but the fact remains…someone is about to be (or was) victimized because how you look is being pointed out just to target you.

Now, if you’re still confused about the guy at 11:45PM, I’ll fill in the rest of the details…I live in a rather upscale community. I was walking the two blocks from the train station to my apartment. This guy was across the street, on his phone, walking in the opposite direction. Next thing I know, he’s following me and then comes right up next to me and puts his umbrella over my head (mind you, I have my own umbrella in my hand).

He then started talking about, ‘oh, you’re such a pretty lady….blah blah blah.’ I just looked at him in complete shock and disgust. Seriously…it’s 11:45PM and you are trying to get fresh with a woman in an upscale neighborhood? I stepped away from him and told him how highly inappropriate his conduct was. His response, “I don’t understand.”

If you’re that stupid…will you still be stupid after I mace you?

Every man in the universe knows not to approach a woman like that unless you plan on harming her. Don’t be shocked if she a) maces you or b) (in my case) beat the living shit out of you to the point she breaks your bones. Blame college for all of those rape aggression defense courses they made me take after I was sexually assaulted. Never mess with a woman who would rather kill you than allow you to victimize her. Seriously.

Now that I’ve scared off every guy I know…

Back to London. After the two twats realized they were annoying the hell out of me with their racist talk, they stopped and went back to planning their Christmas dinners.

I decided to make best of what was left of the day and take those London photos I needed to take along the River Thames.

I tuned out the Brits and just enjoyed the day along the Thames.

When I came out of the Westminster underground station, I came out and saw the great London Eye. It was so big and majestic! I was taking photos when an Indian man stopped me and asked me if I would take a picture of him with the London Eye in the background. I said sure.

He explained he was traveling by himself and just needed someone to help him with the picture. I understand…that’s why Henrik the Duck and Marty the Duck travel with me around the world. I take the photos of them since it’s hard to take the photo of myself with monuments in the background. I could ask someone to take the photo of me, but as my friend says…I’m a bit of a snob when it comes to this stuff. I want my photo to look a certain way, with certain moments captured. As she says, I only know what moment I’m looking for through the lens. A stranger wouldn’t understand what I’m trying to capture if I handed them my camera and asked them to take the photo of me.

I took the photo of the guy and handed his camera back to him. He looked at the photo and all he could say was “Wow.” It was apparently a great photo. He thanked me and I turned around to witness Big Ben in his magnificence.

All I can say is Big Ben is one of the most beautiful monuments in London. He’s so majestic and beautiful. There’s so much amazing detail that makes Big Ben one of the most famous clocks in the world.

I walked over onto the bridge so I could capture Westminster and Big Ben in one shot. That’s when the Indian guy found me again and asked if I would take a picture of him in front of Westminster. I said sure. He then asked me if I was an art student. I said no, I wasn’t. He was shocked at this. He then said, “I’m sorry. I thought you were, because the photo was so good.”

I should be flattered he thought me so young, right?

I took the photo of him with Westminster and Big Ben. He protested that there’s no way I could get Big Ben in. I told him I could. When I handed him back his camera, he just looked at the photo in shock saying, “These are so good. These are the best photos of my trip so far.”

I decided to do that man a favor. I took the photo exactly the way I would want my memory of being in a foreign country to last…with the actual monument in the photo behind me just as clear as I am in the photo…and not cut off.

From 2PM until 6PM, I walked from Westminster all the way down to Tower Bridge. I stopped at the Tower of London to eat fish and chips. I sat out on the big pedestrian block, with the Tower of London in front of me. I ended up feeding my dinner to the pigeons. It reminded me a little of Mary Poppins. Remember how he would pay to feed the birds? I felt like I needed to have that exact experience in London too…so I fed my chips to the pigeons.

Afterwards, I finished my walk towards Tower Bridge, snapping photos all along the way. Although, I forgot my memory card in my laptop.  I was completely limited in what I could take. I made sure whatever I caught…it was good enough to keep and not sift through later.

After Tower Bridge, I headed over to my Jack the Ripper Tour. I knew much of the story, but to see the sites as told by a guy that is considered a professional, has done many a documentary on the subject matter, even has a book out there…it was fascinating…and then one of the guys fainted and had a mini-seizure.

The murder photo we had just looked at before he had the spell? The worst and legendary killing by the Ripper. You may have seen the photo…the one where the body could only be identified by the hair and eyes? Actually, I bet if you Google it…that photo will come up.

The tour guide told us…don’t look at the photo unless you can stomach it. Well, apparently he couldn’t and it took him a few minutes and then that great 6’4″ guy came tumbling down face first into the pavement.

I was on the other side of the group. I saw his leg start to twitch and you know what I’m thinking? Why does feckin hockey have to be a pre-cursor to my entire trip? [Note: Wayne Simmonds banana incident=racism bit; Mike Danton saving player who went into seizure on the ice by keeping him from swallowing his own tongue=guy on Ripper tour.]

Now I’m waiting for a homosexual comment or something to be said in my presence…

I will mention that I was the only American on this tour. The only people that were nice to me were the two French women. The rest were all Brits…and I swear that most of those girls were complete bitches to me. Why? I minded myself. The tour guide only pointed me out a few times because he needed to talk about serial killers in the States.

I have no idea why the Brit girls were such bitches. The guys were okay. They kind of took on the more protective role with the ladies since we were all on a scary tour. But the chicks…not sure if it’s an American thing or because I’m the only non-white in the group (as the Brits have pointed out to me so many times).

All I’m going to say was that the tour itself was very informative and interesting. It only cost 12 pounds. So not a bad tour to take for a low price. They even take you down Brick Lane where there’s one curry place after another. I wish I could have found my way back there for some curry…but an American woman on her own through these neighborhoods at night…not smart, so I headed back to the hotel.

So that concludes London. I have had so many people apologize to me for the behavior shown to me during my time in England. Considering it’s home of the 2012 Olympics…yeah…this does not shed England in a positive light. I have friends back in the States now asking me, “You’re not white?”

Apparently I’m not according to the white Brits. Compounded by the American factor…yeah, I totally hate London. I have to go back there on 10/15 for my flight on 10/16. That will be the last time I am ever in England. Although, my brother and I have been talking about heading to Scotland to visit our ancestral roots, I’m reminded of the stories my grandfather used to tell me about why our family headed to America…it was because we would have been wiped out. In order for the royal lineage to continue, they changed their names and moved to America.

The name changed all the way in London before they even boarded that ship to America. They had been hunted down through Europe for many years before they made the trip to America and everything changed. Now the stories are only passed down to the children.

I am the first person to return to the United Kingdom since my ancestors were ousted out of Scotland…all because they were kings.

All I can think about is that we are still persecuted even to this day…and they don’t even know who I am. Instead, they point out that I’m not white. My face may look white, but it’s apparent I’m not white. That’s the new oppression of England.

I do want to apologize to some of my followers from the UK. Not everyone is like this, I know. I’ve had many of my followers apologize that their fellow countrymen have treated me so poorly. Thank you. It is much appreciated. Like I said, not everyone is like that. But it is a problem when every white British person I encountered treated me like shit. I can count only two people that were nice to me. Only two. That should say something about your fellow countrymen. They’re worse than New Yorkers.

Next stop…PARIS.

Odd how this whole trip to England has been. First, the fog and rain meant that almost all of the trains were either delayed or canceled going to Newark Airport. When I finally got to Newark, the Air Train wasn’t working and I had to carry my suitcases down a stairwell to catch a bus to the terminal. Thank God one of the workers found me dragging my 36 pound suitcase down the stairwell.

Everything just wasn’t starting off well at all.  [And yes, I had a feeling the universe was trying to tell me something about London.]

It took two hours to get from the airport to the hotel. It took me forever to drag my suitcases from the train station to the hotel. I was so tired by the time I got to the hotel.

I tried to check-in early so I could refresh a little before heading out to see a show. Answer to that was NO. So I left for the show without even brushing my teeth!

I popped in some gum and asked the usher if I could sit in a row away from everyone else. He said it was fine since it wasn’t a sold out show.

What did I see? I saw “We Will Rock You.” It’s a musical of Queen songs written by Brian May (of Queen) and Ben Elton.

I don’t know if it was the lack of sleep or what, but I started bawling when they did “We Will Rock You.” And then I cried again during “We are the Champions.” And then I really bawled like crazy during “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

I could blame it on the lack of sleep or how I’m 35 years old and my hormones are now starting to go uber weird on me or it’s because I kept thinking of Freddie Mercury and how he should have been here to see this musical. I think it may have been the latter more than anything else.

Freddie Mercury died of bronchopneumonia (from AIDS) just one day after he announced that he had the disease.

Man…rockstars just get to me. I don’t know what it is about them that really make me start crying. I don’t know…I don’t know.

At any rate…that’s all I did on Saturday. I won’t even go into the fiasco of this hotel. I’ll leave that with Hotels.com. I have to charge my laptop and Blackberry in the lounge. The question would be WHY CAN’T I DO IT IN MY ROOM? Well, I would if the damn electrical outlets worked. Don’t even get me started on the…I had to take a bath in a hotel bathtub. To me, that is the grossest thing EVER.

So can’t wait to go to France now.

On Sunday, I headed to Stonehenge and Bath. Stonehenge was interesting and boring all at the same time. The only thing that caught my attention were the flocks of black birds that hang around the Stonehenge. They fly around in huge flocks around the entire Stonehenge area. I’ve only seen that happen when graveyards and death were around. Oh wait, apparently that’s what the Stonehenge is. Well, according to the latest research, that’s what it is. It’s involved in death rites.

I found it interesting that Druids do practice there (which I don’t know how they can if they can’t get anywhere close to the Stonehenge), but the Druids building the Stonehenge…that’s a MYTH. Learn something new every day.

After Stonehenge, we headed to Bath. I’m really glad I booked this tour because London is boring. You see one city, you’ve seen them all. In Bath, home of the Roman Baths in England, we got to see some incredible Georgian architecture. It was very pretty, but too much shopping. In other words, when I see Banana Republic and Gap…you know I’m not interested in shopping.

I did buy a leather journal where the guy embossed my name on it for me. While he was embossing my name, we got to talking. Ends up, he played hockey when he was a kid. He told me how much crap he used to get when he played, because everyone is so into football in England (that’s soccer in American). So he ended up quitting, but he loved the fact that there was a bona fide hockey columnist buying one of his leather journals.

Odd in the universe’s way.

Now, I’ve been tweeting about what happened at the famous Pump Room Restaurant in Bath today. I was eating my potato and leek soup, sandwich and chips (chips=french fries; crisps=potato chips in the English language). I was enjoying the fact that my stomach wasn’t protesting the food…that is, until two large groups of women were seated in the sections around me.

They kept looking at me and I couldn’t figure out why. I was just enjoying myself in this lovely restaurant, listening to the man playing the piano. Even the mineral water that has ‘healing properties’ was really good (when spiked with strawberries). Then I heard it.

I heard a woman at the next table talking about how my face looked white but it’s apparent that I’m not white. I turned around in mid-meal and asked for the check. I had lost all appetite.

The waitress thought I didn’t like the food. I told her the food was fine. She gave me my check and I gave her 20 pounds. I gathered my things because I decided I wasn’t going to wait for my change. I got up and as I was walking towards the door, I heard her talking to the maitre’d about my strange reaction. She had this odd look on her face like she didn’t understand what had just happened. I walked by and she tried to give me back my change. I said, “No, keep it.”

Both she and the maitre’d were like, “Wow, that’s so nice of you.”

I just wanted to get the hell out of there. It was after that woman pointed out I wasn’t white that I looked around me and noticed that I was the only non-white person in that entire restaurant. It wasn’t the staff that was the problem…it was the customers.

Really? I don’t think about skin color, so to hear a person talking about race and how I’m not WHITE in a restaurant that apparently has NO ONE OF COLOR or of a different race in that establishment…I am not waiting another second to be belittled by an asshole that ended up sitting down next to me.

All I was doing was enjoying my lunch in solitude. Why both tables had to raise the topic of my skin color…or why I was even discussed is beyond me. I wasn’t bothering them. In all honesty, they were bothering me…staring and talking about me.

I was there before they were. I was enjoying my meal quietly. They came and sat down around me and then kept staring at me…even turning around to look at me. I have never met any group of people that were so rude.

I grew up in a town where racism was a part of every day life. The one black kid that showed up during my sophomore year was chased out of town. While most kids in my class and at school didn’t care about my skin, I went away to college, came back and I’m practically being chased down the street with a pitchfork in hand with some old guy screaming, “We don’t want your kind in this town.”

I had to run into the library to seek sanctuary. I literally locked the door behind me. The librarians took one look at me and remembered me from all of the years I spent studying everything I could that I couldn’t get in school. They provided me with sanctuary. The eldest of the librarians went to the door to make the old man leave. She wouldn’t even unlock the door.

I couldn’t understand, because I grew up in that town. My brother was still going to school there. Why would anyone act that way?

I never went back to my hometown again. Even when we have our high school reunion, I don’t go. That’s a world I could leave behind.

Even recently, with my brother and I talking about our family, we’re the outcasts. It’s come down to race. Our family doesn’t want us around because we’re not white. Well, I should say that the matriarch has decided this for the family.

I never thought about skin color or race…not even to this day. But I know when someone with hate in their hearts is aiming it at me, I shouldn’t stick around any longer. You can’t change someone’s mind that there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re a normal human being. All they see is that you’re not white.

I never answer questions about my race because it’s so personal and not for a complete stranger to know. If I know the person, then I’m okay telling them. I don’t tell strangers because I believe you must have racist blood in you if you have to ask what makes me different from you. My answer is usually, “I’m human and that’s all you need to know.”

I’ve been saying that since I was in the 7th grade when asked what my race was on one of those standardized tests. I always marked OTHER and wrote in “HUMAN.” It’s something I still live by to this day. I look at people through their humanity, not through their race or skin color.

On Sunday, when Georges sent me the link to the Colored Hockey League, I thought…YES…why are we not all human, yet? Why is an entire hockey league regarded as non-existent in the hockey history books? Why are they excluded? Why have we not moved on to be human beings?

Ah…see there was a reason why I posted up those two videos yesterday.

Some races or skin colors get prejudices worse than others. I usually brush off most “CHINK” comments or someone pointing out my skin color, but I’ll tell you something…I will not entertain idle talk about how I’m not white. Yeah…I’m human and proud of it. If you have a problem with me excluding myself from the white race, even though I have royal Scottish blood pulsing through these veins, then FUCK OFF.

If the British hadn’t invaded Scotland, those racist bitches would be kissing my royal ass for the opportunity to sit in the same restaurant as me.

And another thing…I’m a writer and the way I’ve immortalized them in my universe is by calling them a bunch of classless racist ignorant bitches…not to mention 100% rude.

The waitress and maitre’d though…they knew something had happened when I practically jetted out of there. I didn’t have the patience to explain to them that they had sat a bunch of racist bitches around me. It’s not their fault because they had no idea. Ignorance can be hidden until someone opens their mouth and lets it be known.

Getting back to that guy that played hockey as a kid…there’s a universal irony here that years later, he ended up meeting a hockey writer from NYC (he said he was there just recently…during Hurricane Irene). He told me about the prejudices he had endured as a child just to play the game of hockey…right after I had experienced that racial crap at The Pump Room restaurant just an hour before.

You know what I’m thinking, right? England is not my kind of place.

In London alone, there is a strange vibration here in the city that makes all of the electronic devices I’m carrying around me shake. For me, in my condition, it wears down the body at a much faster pace. I’m sleeping more because my body is saying that there is something wrong.

It’s coupled by the fact that my stomach really hates London. I mean I try to eat and then it just decides…nope…hate it. Stop trying to put it down. It sucks…won’t allow it down.

Also, what is their fascination with chips (i.e. French Fries in American)? Or shall we say…ANYTHING POTATO. Every meal, a plate of ‘chips’ comes with it. I hate telling the waitress…ummmm my stomach doesn’t like ‘chips.’ It abhors it.

But for the sake of being in England, I’ve been attempting to eat chips sans ketchup and with vinegar. I said I’ve been attempting the British tradition. My stomach still doesn’t like it.

They also have too much cold food. Hot food is so bland my stomach is ready just to protest it all and say…we’ll eat when we get to France. The only thing I’ve liked since I got here is the potato and leek soup from The Pump Room. At least I got that down before the bitches sat down next to me.

I’ve also tried their cheese sandwiches, because I heard a little girl going on and on about how she couldn’t wait to have a cheese sandwich. Not grilled cheese, mind you. I’m talking two slices of bread with some kind of non-American cheese in the middle.

I found Camden Food Co. on Sunday…an organic market. But they only sell take away food, so it’s only sandwiches and pastries. I’m not a big fan of cold food, but it’s either this or give in and starve until Paris.

Trust me, that fear of food has really set in. Fear to not find suitable means, and fear that the body will not allow it in. I’ve had more instances of needing to throw up then I’ve had in the last year. It’s just a sign that English food is not good for you at all.

So back to Bath. I enjoyed watching the street performers. I saw a tightrope walker that played the violin. I saw a guy on a unicycle juggling torches. Bath is a very beautiful village. I picked up 3 classic books and that leather-bound journal. At Stonehenge, I bought a jar of lemon cured butter and a gooseberry chutney. Guess we’ll see if it’s any good when I get back to the States.

It’s probably bland. But at home, I can make it taste better.

I captured a lot of pictures of Bath while I was there. Maybe not as much as I usually would, but it’s enough. There’s just something about England that I’m not seeing the beautiful moments. It’s a place that still talks about the war (I’m talking about World War II, the Battle for Waterloo…you get my point).

On the way to Bath, the tour guide pointed out a village the Military of Defense took over back in World War II. They said they needed it for state reasons. Everyone was supposed to get their homes back after the war, but no one did. The village is a complete ghost town…and by village, I’m talking about a good 30,000 residents there. Imagine a whole town completely left to fall to ruins. No one is allowed to live there or go within a mile of it. It’s called the Lost Village of Imber.

Bath was spared the German bombers because it was too far out of reach for them back then. In a way, it was a good thing. There’s a lot of history there dating back to the Romans in 5 B.C.

Bath is a beautiful place. If you’re ever in England, make the Stonehenge/Bath tour part of your trip. It’s pretty, but don’t let the yahoos get to you.

Back in London today (Monday). I’m supposed to tour around London today, but I may just go and lay back down in bed for the next few hours. I had to take an allergy pill today and my body is still feeling that strange vibrating pull.

I’m glad I never moved to London. I’m glad I moved to NYC instead. I think I would have hated London. As the Bath hockey player said, “Every city starts to look the same.” That is the truth. Everywhere I go, I think…I’ve seen that in NYC. There are stores like that back in NYC. In other words, if I can find it back home, I’m not visiting it or shopping there.

Even the style of clothes…not so different than casual stuff back in the States. Rather bland, I might say.

I guess you can say that the thrill and excitement of London…it’s quite boring.

So much of it sucks. The hotel I’m in…I have to sit in the lounge in order to charge my laptop and Blackberry. Going green for this hotel meant non-working outlets in each of the rooms…and no real showers. Just so gross sitting in a hotel bathtub to clean yourself. So gross.

At any rate…I so need to lay down. My body is begging to leave London now rather than tomorrow morning.

Maybe after I rest again I can find something about London that I’ll love. I’m keeping the opportunity to be amazed open to possibilities.

So today’s not really hockey related…or maybe it is…but R.E.M. broke up today. 

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_eyFiClAzq8]

When I Google R.E.M. I get Michael Stipe’s penis.  WHY?!?!

Very frightening image…and I didn’t even see the actual photo.  Just disturbing. Very disturbing.  *Washing my brain out with soap*

This is what happens when Twitter breaks the news BEFORE the rest of the media world can write the friggin story!  Michael Stipe’s 51 year old penis is the headline first.  Why post it up on Tumblr, Michael?  WHY?!?!?

The only good thing I can think of that could flush out the hairy penis from Google is a R.E.M. breakup.  So with that…thank you R.E.M. for breaking up today.

*shudders*

Just gross.

In other news, Mike Modano made the announcement on Facebook that he is retiring.  Press conference will come later this week (he said Friday?).  Interesting to see he used social media to break the news rather than have the NHLPA or the Dallas Stars release the presser. 

***

So besides preparing the office and the apartment for my vacation away for the next 3 weeks, I’ve been doing some London research.  I just booked my hotel today in London.  Always interesting to see the rates drop as the weekend approaches.  So far, this trip is costing me $7,000+.  That’s more than I spend in 5 months.  $7,000 for just 3 weeks.  Trying not to soak that number in and hate myself for spending $7,000+ on a vacation.

I’ve been researching Stonehenge/Bath tours today.  One company had me cracking up.  Excluded from the tour was the return portion of the trip back to London.  Really?   What’s the point then?  LOL.

Along with Stonehenge, I’m also researching the Jack the Ripper tour.  Being as Halloween is not too far around the corner and it’s fall…I thought it would be a nice, fun thing to do while I’m in London.

The main reason for going to London?  To see Christopher Marlowe’s “Faust” at the Shakespeare Globe.  I actually own a copy of “Faust.”  Like…the really old copy that’s a few centuries old.  When I saw that Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre would be doing a performance of it, I booked my vacation around that show.  That will be one of the highlights of my trip.

I’m keeping this one short and sweet because I’m on London time and I’ve got lots to do before I leave on Friday…like pack.  Happy Hump Day, folks!

 

 

Today is filled with a lot of mixed things going on.  The big event today is Kristin Chenoweth at the Russian Tea Room.  I’m so excited that I’m going to be able to photograph her today. 

The news for today…

1. The hockey wives have decided to develop a fund to help the wives of the Lokomotiv club.  You can donate here.  So far, I see that Eric Nystrom, Zach Parise, Travis Zajac and Fedor Tyutin have donated to the fund.  Tamara Ribeiro (Mike Ribeiro’s wife) even posted that the Dallas Stars wives are going to try to sell bracelets at American Airlines Center.

For those who are not Facebook donation savvy…there’s a link to the left that says DONATE.  Follow the directions after clicking on that link. 

2.  Sean Avery threatens to punch out NY Post reporter.   Alright, it made me laugh.  Seriously…it made me laugh, especially after reading the NY Post news on the Devils yesterday.  That NY Post…they just keep on making enemies instead of friends.

3. If anything, last week’s hockey devastation has shown that when it comes to hockey, there are no barriers when an entire team is lost.  There’s no KHL or NHL…there’s just a hockey community.  We felt the loss as if it were one of our own teams…not just the KHL’s team.  Because of that, KHL president Medvedev said that the tragedy made him rethink his relationship with the NHL. “Need to meet with Bettman, take steps forward.” 

There is always a silver lining in even the worst of situations.  Even good can come from the most horrific moments in history.

4.  HBO has started filming 24/7 today with the New York Rangers.  That reminded me that I had to decide whether to request (before the season has even started) if I can cover the Winter Classic (even if as a photographer)…or put down a couple thousands of dollars for ONE ticket to the game.  We’ll see what ends up happening.  I’m thinking…I may end up buying a ticket to the game…unless some New York Ranger or Philadelphia Flyer takes pity on me and scores me a ticket.  [Hint, Hint.]

5.  NHL All-Stars.  Looks like I may be in Canada a lot in January.  The All-Stars game takes place on January 29th in Ottawa. 

6. Devils Golf Tournament.  The 2012 NJ Devils golf tournament takes place tomorrow at the Upper Montclair Country Club in Clifton, NJ.  I’ll be running around the golf course all day taking photographs.  If you’re not following on Twitter, I suggest you do so for photos during the day and random discussions.  @MichelleKenneth

7. Wade Belak & Depression.  There is a reason why I decided not to do a special piece on Wade Belak after he committed suicide a few weeks ago.  I think the last entry at Losing 100 Pounds of Unhappiness should explain it all.  If I know someone has committed suicide and has left behind loved ones like a wife and children, I do pass judgment.  When you’ve been that wife or that lover or that girlfriend…there are some things that are very hard to discuss.  Anger is usually the first thing that comes to mind.  Forgiveness comes later.  This article written by Michael Landsberg is probably the only thing you should ever read about Wade Belak and depression.

It’s written by a person who lives with depression.  There was one point he makes in his article that I’ve thought about a lot since Wade died, “Suicide is what happens when the angel of death and the angel of mercy start working together.” 

The last person to commit suicide in my life was my boss a year or two ago.  He had just started working at the company.  He talked about his kids like they were the world to him. 

But a week before he killed himself, we started to notice that something was off in the universe, especially when he was around.  We’re talking weird stuff…like little imps messing with you and the people around you. 

Something weird had happened right after he passed my desk.  I turned to my co-worker and said, “Did you feel that?”  She said, “Yes.  That is so weird.”  Then I heard that laugh…that impish laugh that accompanies death. 

That weekend, he killed himself. 

On Monday, his real first official day after spending 2 weeks in training, he didn’t show up to work.  I thought it was strange. 

That night, during meditation, you know that time that’s supposed to be all peaceful and carefree…your one on one time with God…God decided to show me something else.  He said, “You can’t save him.  It’s already too late.”  He showed me my boss…dead.

The next day, my boss didn’t show up to work again.  I called human resources and said something’s wrong.  I called him.  He never returned my calls.  I emailed him, text messaged him and nothing. I asked them if they would please call someone to find out if he’s returning to work. 

That night, his mother called the office and spoke to the Human Resources Director and said that he had committed suicide.  The worst of it…she asked the Director to tell me thank you for letting them know, because it was my worry that alerted them that something was wrong.  If it wasn’t for me, they wouldn’t have found him.

Personally, they could have left out that last part.  I’m too fragile when it comes to that stuff.  I was afraid to meditate after that.  I actually had to get counseling from the sisters at the meditation center.  I was afraid that God would show me something like that again. 

After some time, I was able to meditate again, but it just wasn’t the same. 

Knowing the details of Belak’s death…I’m just too fragile to talk about it.  But I’m glad that Landsberg did.  Truth be known, no one knows what was going through Wade’s mind when he decided to leave this world.  But I do know one thing is for sure, when those little imps start whispering in your ear…if you can’t find the light to get out of that darkness, they will tell you things so horrific about yourself that you feel like ending it all. 

I know, because I’ve been to that point.  But if it wasn’t for meditation, I never would have sensed that evil was following me.  I never would have known how to banish it from my mind.  It’s like a switch.  You can flip on the light, or keep walking in the darkness. 

I recognize that impish laugh.  It surrounds death.  I say their impish, because they like to do very mischevious things to the living.  It’s all in an effort to destroy that person.

Landsberg’s discussion on Belak and depression is probably one of the best stories I’ve ever read about depression and suicide.  It’s one of those…don’t try to understand what was going on through his mind when he left behind his wife and two kids.  Just don’t try to understand.

****

In the other world…I’ve been reading “The Paris Wife.”  It’s a story about Ernest Hemingway and his first wife.  So far it’s been a great backdrop to the places I’ll be visiting while I’m in Paris.  I can’t wait to sit in the same cafes that Hemingway, Ezra Pound and James Joyce frequented.  Who knows…after this trip, I may not want to come back to the States.

What I find interesting is that while Hemingway was trying to get his book off the ground and get someone interested in publishing his work, he lived in Paris with his newlywed wife, living off of freelance work for the Toronto Star and International News Service.  His heart was never in being a reporter.  He went from one rejection letter to the next.  Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein both tried to help Hemingway find his way to getting published.

Despite the rejections in his career, he still carried on.  He knew he would be published someday.  He kept chasing that dream, no matter what the cost. 

You know, I admire that about Hemingway.  He reminds me of myself, as well as how pursuing a dream is all the same routine.  You have to keep going at it again and again and again until one day you reach your brilliance and someone out there understands it enough to publish your stories.  But the point of it all…you have to start from somewhere.  I believe the old adage is true that the more hours you clock in to achieve your dream…the more likely your dream will come true.  10,000 hours is all it takes according to Malcolm Gladwell (“The Outliers”).

Ten years ago today was a day that none of us would ever forget.  I still remember at 7am that morning on the way into work in Tysons Corner, Virginia, that I told myself, “This will be a day you will never forget.”  Ironically, a decade later “Never Forget” is still the slogan for 9/11. 

A month after 9/11, I moved out of Washington, DC and into Northern Virginia.  Not even a year had passed that I decided to change my life.  I realized on 9/11 that I had dreams…dreams that needed to happen.  If I had died that day, what in the world would go on my epitaph?  What have I accomplished?  What have I done?

That day set the change in my life to do something with it.

A decade later, I’m living in New York City.  I can only remember dreaming with my roommate about living in the Big Apple.  Carrie Bradshaw made us dream and dream big about living in the big city, wearing designer clothing…and LIVING each and every single day to its fullest.

It’s funny that these days, in my group of friends, I’m the Carrie Bradshaw…the writer of the group…I just write about hockey most of the time.

There are always some sort of silver lining in the most horrific of events.  We grow to love the ones we’ve taken for granted like our local police departments and firemen.  I’m reminded every day as I walk by the fire department on 48th and 8th Avenue, just how many men lost their lives on 9/11. 

The guys that work there now have become a tourist attraction.  I’ll admit…like in Sex and the City…every woman in New York City is looking out the side of their sunglasses as they see a fire truck driving by.  After all, some of the sexiest bachelors in New York City ride around on that big red fire engine. 

9/11 taught us to stop taking things for granted in life.  Tell the people you love that you love them, just in case you never get to.  Live every moment as if it is your last.  Live like there’s no tomorrow.  Cherish freedom.

I can imagine back during the emancipation of the United States from England, what it must have been like when America became free.  Today, we fight to protect that right…a right many of us took for granted until 9/11/01.

As I move into the new chapter of my life, I’ve started to fall into the things in life that I love.  Music is one of them.

When I first got my hockey column, my editor told me that I needed to start taking photographs.  Of course, I thought she had to be insane.  Me, take photographs?  Oh, was she in for some bad photography.

It took one step at a time.  One camera at a time.  One passion to take over in order for me to realize…you could find love behind the lens of a camera.

Friday night’s photography experiment has actually been much better than I thought it would be.  Would you believe that photographing some rockstar would net me more unique hits to this site than I’ve had since I began covering hockey?  The number of hits have gone up 6x the normal hit count for the busiest traffic day to this site.

Constantine Maroulis is actually using one of my photos as his avatar on his Facebook fan page.  Surprised?  Yes, I am surprised.

As I go through each photo that I plan to hang in my home and in my office during the makeover that will happen when I return from my three week vacation, I realize…hmm…I could make a living off of this. 

There really is no money in hockey unless you play for a team.  I’ve been forbidden from selling my work (because we get into that royalty thing because of the emblems and the logos).  Even if I were to turn it into artwork and claim First Amendment rights as an artist, would it be worth the pain of going to court over it?  No, not really.

There are countless photos from the hockey realm that never get published.  NEVER.  Because I don’t write that much.  I have thousands to choose from.

But take a little thing like a rockstar…fans want what you can offer to them.  I mean think about it…Constantine Maroulis is 6x more popular than hockey.  Do the math.

I’ve been talking to my friends about photographing more and selling the work.  Their response is to go for it.  They all say I’m talented enough and take great pictures.  My friend that asked me to photograph her wedding…you want to know what she was more excited about?  The fact that she knew that I would turn her wedding pictures into artwork.  I wouldn’t be handing her a bunch of photos…I would be designing artwork with it too.

I think the reason for the excitement lies in the fact that I love to do it.  I learned from the model Marti Vodrazkova that there’s no such thing as a bad photograph.  You can always change any photograph into something better.  You can edit it…just like you can edit a story.

After all, every magazine in the world edits their photographs, right?

I’ve been looking at various sites to sell my work.  I think back during my rookie year when Zach Parise told me I shouldn’t be giving these photos/artwork away, I should be selling them…and I remember telling him, “Not now…maybe later.”  Well, it’s later and I’m ready. 

I’ve noticed that several record labels have been checking out the photos from Friday night.  Could it mean more work in the future?  Guess we’ll see, because I’m scheduled to photograph two talented ladies this week.  We’ll see what I see on the other side of that lens.

There are books I’ve been contemplating putting together from my vacations.  I feel like it’s time.  I usually stand in Barnes & Noble looking at photography books of places I’ve been…and all of the photos look exactly like mine.  I’m standing there thinking, “I could do this.”

My friend laughed at me when she went through my Prague guide book and noticed some of the photos in the book.  She told me that it looked like I took every single picture in the book, but the ones I took were better, because I followed Czechs around and took photos of them…lovers, children with their parents, guys sleeping on a park bench, the beggars, fishermen…I took pictures of life in Prague…and everything else in the guidebook (but better, as she says).

I used to be a horrible photographer.  I mean HORRIBLE.  But now…I’m okay.  As an editor…well, I’m better than okay.

You see, when I go through photos I’m looking for a moment.  I’m trying to capture a moment in life.  It may mean nothing to the person at the time, but actually I’m looking for the beauty in that moment.

I’ll never forget following a mother and her daughter for a couple blocks in Prague, just trying to photograph the innocence of the moment.  When I found two middle aged people making out on the castle wall in Vysehrad, all I wanted to do was sneak a couple of photos of them…because it was beautiful.  They were so passionate!

There was one guy begging for money outside of St. Nicholas’ church…I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had seen in Prague. 

There are things in life we take for granted.  Sometimes just taking a moment and capturing the things that are beautiful in some strange way…that is what fills us with love, joy and happiness.  At least for a photographer it does.

When I picture myself, I picture myself selling my photos and being really good at it.  That is the way I envisioned myself at the start of my ‘hockey writing career.’  Crazy, right?  No, I’m not switching to being a photographer photographing the Devils.  I’m just expanding my work into a new realm.

Going back to the Constantine is 6x more popular than the NHL work…just imagine if it were a more popular celebrity.  Maybe, just maybe my return to music will be about photographing those rockstars.  Guess we’ll see where this all leads.  All I can say now is that I’m going to be selling my work. 

Like I said…the NHL work is not for sale.  But the other stuff I’ve photographed…get your credit cards and checkbooks ready.  I feel like stretching out on canvas.

Honestly, I thought I was done.  I finished up the Jonathan Toews and Steven Stamkos photos and then saw a bunch of dark photos.  Oh, what’s that?  It’s the Constantine pics I was really looking for to make the Rockstar artwork. 

This is actually what I was looking for at the concert when I wanted to create a Rockstar series.  It may not be to everyone’s taste, but when I think of what I would want to decorate my home in…this is the type of artwork I’m looking for.

It’s a hit or miss with most.  No one will know this is actually Constantine Maroulis…unless I tell you it’s him. 😉

And of the photos taken…this one is defintely going up in my office.

This one reminds me of Bono and the Edge for some strange reason.  I think Anton Corbijn may have taken a similar photo.

And this one…just looks like an album cover to me. 

Guess I have plenty of new ‘rock and roll’ artwork to go up.

As I was going through the Jonathan Toews and Steven Stamkos photos from yesterday, I found a few more Constantine pictures. I have no idea how they got mixed up in there!  The Toews and Stamkos pics will be up a little later today, but here are the rest of the Constantine photos from last night.  [And girls, be patient…Toews did a wonderful job looking into the camera, so I’ll have some gems for you.  Yes, Winter Adams…I know you hate me. 😉 ]

Oh, and according to my schedule, not only will I be taking photos at the New Jersey Devils golf tournament next week, but it looks like I’ve got Kristin Chenoweth and Suzanne Vega on the sched next week, too!  “My name is Luka…”

Without ado…here’s the last of the Constantine pics from last night.

 

And the fave of the bunch is this one.  It’s so peaceful.

Also, after listening to the album (third time since last night)…I’m only going to say this…the songs that really stick out to me happen to be the ones written by Constantine. There’s a different feel to them, a different meaning. 

I was reading the lyrics to “So Long” and saw myself back in 2004 leaving the man I loved (the rockstar that will remain nameless) and heading to New York City.  He thought I was moving to Los Angeles.  He found out two weeks later, after I moved to NYC, that I didn’t move to LA like we planned.

“So Long” is like that song that summed up exactly why I left for NYC.  You’re always scared that you made a mistake, because you know this person was something very special to you.  I mean…it was like God was winking at the two of us.  But the fact remained…he had broken my heart. 

I needed to be lost in a sea of eight million people where he wouldn’t find me so that I could heal what was left of me.  I left before he could completely destroy me like Dorian Gray did to Basel.  Yeah…that rockstar…he’s my Dorian Gray.

Last night, maybe in a drunken haste, listening to that other guy who watched me and the rockstar fall in love, I wondered if I made a mistake in not staying with that guy.  He stood at the back of the club that one night because he had to see it for himself.  He had to see if some other rockstar had stolen my heart…and he saw it was true.  He saw the way we looked at each other.  He saw the way that other rockstar would look at me when I wasn’t looking, and he knew he had lost me to someone else.

I broke that rocker’s  heart and he headed to the studio a couple of months later and worked out that broken heart in the studio…and made something incredible.  It came from his heart. 

That’s what I love about the songs written by Constantine.  It comes from the heart.  He sings the song differently.  You can feel the song much differently than when he sings someone else’s song.

Ironically, the songs he writes…I can relate the story to some page in my life…when rock and roll was actually part of my life.

This was supposed to go up yesterday, but because of the tragic event that occurred, it just made sense that it wait a day.

Today’s picture is actually a photo that my grandfather took of me when I was 8 or 9 years old down in Morganton, Georgia (in the Blue Ridge Mountains).

When my grandfather passed away, I saw this photo up in his home.  It was always one of his favorite photos (when he used to be the photographer, just like his brother). 

There were a lot of things happening on this day that would end up shaping and changing my future for the better and create a stronger bond between me and my grandfather.  One thing’s for sure…this day gave me someone that let me know I wasn’t alone.  I had somebody. 

Miss you, grandpa.

2.  I Love You, Goodbye (Celine Dion).  If you read the latest entry over at “Losing 100 Pounds of Unhappiness,” you’ll understand why this song is listed here today.

1.  Running to Stand Still (U2).  I think we’re all running to stand still.  Just a profound song.

I think this one is going to be a difficult one…

1. Dune.  This was my favorite movie when I was a kid.  Yes, a little grown up for me, but I was just so fascinated with the story.  I had every word memorized.  I was in love with Kyle MacLachlan.  When Patrick Stewart went on to captain Star Trek: The Next Generation…who was a fan…ME! 

I don’t know…Dune was just so magical to me.  I think it helped create my imagination for me.  It opened my mind to storytelling.  It allowed me to create stories in my mind.  Even to this day, I think about the next book I’ll write…and I have the movie Dune to thank for helping me develop this story in my mind.

2.  Beauty and the Beast.  I never really liked Disney movies.  I thought it was too frou frou for my standards.  After all, DUNE shaped my mind and my imagination.  [Could explain why I choose to be more like Paul…a hero archetype.]  Anyway, I remember the first time I saw this movie in the theaters.  I was in high school and a bunch of my friends went to Linton Cinemas (Indiana) to see this film.

I was thinking…great…some stupid Disney flick. 

I sat there and watched and became completely mesmerized starting at the very beginning of the story when they showed the windows.  THE WINDOWS WON ME OVER!

I was so enchanted by this film that I memorized every song.  I used to sit outside and sing the entire soundtrack to the animals on our farm.  No joke…all of them came out to sit next to me as I sang to them.  All of the cats wanted to sit on my lap.  I managed to get six of them on my lap at one time.  We had 18 cats (we lived on a farm, so this is natural).  I had to take turns rotating them around as I sang our way through Beauty and the Beast.

In a way, I think Belle was a lot like me and that’s why I loved the film so much.  She loved books.  People thought she was crazy because she had a mind of her own.  A lot like me.  The kids in my town thought I was crazy for wanting to see the world beyond our own little world.  Or falling in love with someone because of the person you see inside of them and not what you see on the outside.

Beauty and the Beast was the Disney film that defined me.

3.  The Seventh Sign.  I’m not even going to explain why I love this film, because if you’ve seen it, you’re going to think…this chick is insane.  It’s an apocalyptic religious film about the end of days. 

I am actually a huge fan of those end of days kind of films, because I like seeing how someone sees how the world will end.  I like watching how there’s a struggle between good and evil.  I like seeing man trying to fight evil to save the world from the end.

I just like movies about the whole man versus the devil…and trying to stop the inevitable…the end of the world as we know it.

I am fascinated by the way people see how this world ends…and they all portray it as something that will be happening soon…not 50 years from now.  Or in Supernatural terms…the shit’s going down right now.  I think that’s why I love that show so much.

I’m not going to explain why all of this fascinates me because it’s a secret.  Only one person knows that secret…and he’s my blood.

Just 4 books?  Sheesh…well, #1 is easy.

1.  The Picture of Dorian Gray.  This book is oddly enough my lifesaver in understanding the pits of darkness that one can fall into.  It has made me understand things to the nth degree, and has helped me make decisions that were once difficult to make because I was drowing in my own sadness and misery.  It has helped me immortalize the beauty in the men I’ve loved, but also see how they can be so destructing to those who love them.  It’s made me understand my pain and work through it.  After all, I would not be in New York City right now if it wasn’t for that book.  No matter what phase of life I’m in, I always come back to this book because for some enlightened reason, it helps me to understand the loves of my life…and move on.

2. Eat, Pray, Love.  There are so many reasons why I love this book.  In a way, it’s like the story of the lives many of us live…that’s why the book and movie have been so popular.  We’re just trying to find a way out of our own darkness.  Whether it’s through food or meditation or just…love…we can find ourselves and learn to trust ourselves and to love again.  In a way, this book is like knowing that we’re not alone and all seeking our own truths to happiness in our lives…especially with just being happy being who we are…and loving every bit of it. 

3.  Love in the Time of Cholera.  I love the book and the movie.  Ironically, the actor who is in this movie, also starred in Eat, Pray, Love.  Such a passionate actor.  At any rate, what I love about this book is that it shows the passion of love…that undying love that will wait forever if it has to…just to be reunited with that one person they have loved since the beginning.  I think in a way, it reminds me of that feeling I have for my first love.  You are madly and passionately in love with them when you are young, you spend the rest of your life without them, and then at the end, you are reunited with them once again.  If you read today’s entry over at “Losing 100 Pounds of Unhappiness” called “In the Beginning…”  you would understand why I would be passionate about that story.  Some loves just never die…

4.  Shadows of the Wind.  All I can say is…this book is all about the love of books.  Throw in an insane mystery and I’m in love.  This book just filled the passion for books in me.  I love reading books about the love for books.  This book tops them all.  It’s the start of a series written by Carlos Ruiz Zafon.  It’s probably one of the greatest book recommendations anyone has ever given to me.

Picking 5 foods is a challenge, because of my sensitive stomach.  So here are the food items I love…that I can actually eat (or at least I force my body to like).

5.  Noodle Soups.  Ok…so I love Ramen noodle soups.  I could live on the various kinds from the cheapo ones at the grocery store to the rice vermicelli and rice noodle soups from the Chinese grocers.  I had to re-train my body to eat noodle soups.  It took close to three years before my body would play nice to my favorite instant meal.  Sure, people bitch about the sodium content, but it’s my way of getting the soup my Mom used to make at home.  Just add veggies and meat to the noodle soup and I’ve got a full course meal. 

I also love Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup…not the grown up version…the 50 cent can version.  Just add lemon juice and I’m a happy camper.  Cures what ails.

4.  Vietnamese, Thai & Indian Food.  I grew up with all three of these cuisines.  My mom was Thai, so I got authentic Thai food all of the time (trust me, not a fan of those American food nights).  When we lived in Chicago, our family was good friends with an Indian family, so I became a fan of a lot of different kinds of Indian food.  From 6th grade and on up, I fell in love with Vietnamese food, especially Pho. 

3. Curry.  I’m a big curry fan.  I prefer Thai curry, but I also love Indian curries.  I try not to eat the Thai version too much because the coconut milk is so fattening.  I love curry so much that I’ll eat it like soup…so long as it’s doused down with lemon juice.  Mmm…I think I’m going to go make a pot of curry after this challenge. 

2. Pad Kee Mao.  This Thai dish is the only dish that really hits the spot every single time.  I discovered that my stomach doesn’t like the consistency of thin noodles.  It’s so difficult to eat and not vomit up.  But Pad Kee Mao is a large flat noodle…but it’s the Thai basil that makes me sing with happiness.  Pad Kee Mao is also called drunken noodles.  It’s soo good.  It makes my mouth sing with happiness, especially when I douse it down with garlic chili sauce and vinegar.  Makes my tummy sing, “Yummy Yummy Yummy I’ve got food in my tummy.”  Trust me…it only sings this when I have Pad Kee Mao…no other dish.  {Note: food in my tummy without struggle…trust me…it sends pleasure signals all throughout my body because it’s so happy I could finally eat something.}

1.  Green Beans.  I have a very odd obsession with green beans.  I’m an addict.  I love green beans sauteed in garlic, olive oil and sea salt.  I even like the cheap version out of the can where it’s loaded down with salt and bacon fat.  Add green beans to any Asian dish…best part of the dish!  Yes, I love me some green beans.

My Inside Hockey correspondent and partner-in-crime, Winter Adams, came down to New York City a few weekends ago to do nothing more than sort through vintage and thrift store finds and eat cupcakes.  No really…she was eating cupcakes (not me). 

Lucky for me, Winter is absolutely beautiful (and a model), so I was able to do something fun for once…try my hand in taking more interesting ‘modelesque’ photos.  Of course, Winter was more than happy to oblige my photographing curiousity…and have fun with the photos.  Here’s some pics we took down in the Village.

{If slideshow does not start, click on the photo above and it will start the slideshow in a new window.}

6.  HOME.  Home is where the heart is.  I’ve spent so much time putting my home together, designing it, then re-designing it…that I can’t help but feel HOME when I am HOME.  When I first started off in my current apartment, I had NO FURNITURE, except for my mattresses, a couple of storage cabinets, some Ikea furniture, and a dresser.  I didn’t even have a TV.

My aunt and uncle gave me their old sofa and some folding chairs to sit on…then my brother dropped off an old TV since he was upgrading to flat screen.  Then over the course of the next few years, I started to add my own pieces of furniture, like the Exotic collection from Target.  Very sleek, looks expensive, but it’s very affordable. 

I bought my bed from Neiman Marcus’ furniture site, Horchow.  I bought my kitchen table and chairs from Target.com (cost me a pretty penny for it…$800 for the table, $400 for the chairs).  I even picked up the cutest desk from Target.com. 

Decorating it…I invested in artwork.  Lina Kasparaityte (Darius Kasparaitis’ sister) sold me a couple of her paintings before she left NYC to go back home.  I even pick up some items to go in the house every single time I travel.  It makes the apartment seem worldly.

There’s always something I’d like to upgrade or re-do, because as I accumulate more things, I need a new way to store them (like updating my office to turn it into a library, too). 

One thing is for sure, I do love the way my home has come along.  I’m always looking for a new way to update it so I don’t get bored or hate it.  I also make sure to fill it up with good energy so that I can feel relaxed, safe and happy when I’m at home.

5.  Paris, France.  The first time I ever went to Paris, I felt like I belonged in the city.  It was like I had lived there in a past lifetime and was re-visiting it after being away for so long. 

I love everything Paris has to offer…from French food, to the beautiful sites, to the beautiful, very chic Parisians, to the art, to the culture…I could just go on and on. 

{I so can’t wait to be back in Paris at the end of the month!}

4.  Prague, Czech Republic.  No doubt, I love Praha.  It is one of the most beautiful places in the world.  This is my home away from home.  I could go on forever about how much I love Prague…but you probably know that already.

3.  Santorini, Greece.  One of the most beautiful places in the world is Santorini, Greece.  This island is overrun by dogs.  I’m not kidding…there are dogs everywhere.  One of the best memories of being in Santorini was how this dog came up to me in Santorini, and licked my hand while I was looking at one of the churches.  I turned around and realized he could smell my dinner in my bag (leftover sausages).  That dog became our tour guide and showed us around all of the places in Oia, Santorini.  After our tour, I rewarded him with some of the sausages I had in my bag. 

Afterwards, he would take me to a certain point in Oia, where another dog picked us up, walked us to the next point, then another dog picked us up and took us back to the hotel.  The next morning, while tourists were playing with the dog that dropped us off at the hotel, he was actually waiting for us…and then it took us to our next stop, until they reached the end of their territorial ground…and then the next dog picked us up.

The german shepherd, I called him La Polizia…because we caught him going into the police station with two other dogs, maintained the entire region as the police dog…he was the Alpha-Dog. 

Sounds insane, right?  My friend said she would not have believed this story if it hadn’t happened to both of us.

 Believe it or not, they were acting as my guard/guide dogs.  One evening, while we were stopped outside of a store, this guy my friend had met earlier that evening (during dinner) came down the road.  The dog that was with me started growling.  I took a step back.  He then went running down the road toward the guy, sniffing and growling at him.  As the guy got closer to me, the dog ran back over to me and started putting himself between me and the guy, pushing me back towards the wall.  Four other dogs appeared out of nowhere and started growling and barking at the guy. 

All I got out of it was that the dogs were all saying he was bad news.  When my friend came out of the store to say hello to the guy, the dogs kept on growling at him.  I told my friend that maybe we should go.  So she said goodbye and went with me down the road.  I told her that I think that guy is bad news.  I told her what the dogs had done when he came down the road. That, if anything, was a huge sign the guy was bad news. 

If anything, Santorini is the island of the dogs…and they are all so cool.  I didn’t know until I saw the first dog that gave us a tour helping another man that was ill that the dogs only help people that are ill.  I have a feeling they smelled the cancer on me and that was why I got the royal treatment by all of these dogs.  They don’t care for tourists.  They keep out of their way.  But if the person is ill…they take care of them.  I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

Besides the amazing sunsets and the beautiful shops…the dogs made this island one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been to in my life.

2. Rutherford, NJ.  I really love Rutherford.  It’s one of those nice, very quaint towns just 20 minutes from Midtown, Manhattan.  With cinemas that are $5 on the weekends (first showing) to 5 star restaurants up and down the main strip to a library that has seasonal book sales to the annual Labor Day Street Fair (filled with antiques, etc.), Rutherford is just one of those beautiful towns in the suburbs of New York City that make you say, “I LOVE THIS TOWN!”

1.  New York C ity.  You could live in NYC your entire life and still not be able to do everything that this town offers.  There’s always something new that pops up left and right.  How to spend your time?  If anything, I’ve had a great time in this city over the last 7 years.