Beauty and Decay in Brooklyn

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, 1991

My friend Brad knew two sisters in Brooklyn who were looking for a roommate. "They're English," he said. "A little odd..." he said, then added, "...you know, like you." They lived in a Civil War-era house in Williamsburg and the rent would be $300 a month for my own bedroom. It sounded too good to be true.

Out I went on the rumbling L train to Bedford Avenue. A short walk later, I reached 154 North 9th Street. In front of me stood an unprepossessing tenement building. The buzzers all indicated various apartments except for one that had a piece of paper taped above it that read "Rear House." I buzzed it and the door clicked open, revealing a long hall that completely bypassed the building and led out back to a small private yard.

What I saw took my breath away.

In front of me was an enchanting two-story Lilliputian carriage house that looked as if it had just escaped from the pages of "Alice in Wonderland." The small yard was hugged tightly on three sides by wooden trellises which were profuse with climbing roses. Wanton roses. Fearless roses. Roses that had refused to have their ambitions clipped by pollution or city stress. As for the house, it was covered in so much ivy that it was clearly in the midst of a grudge match with the flowers for "Best of Show."

Of course I moved in immediately.

(Front door of carriage house, Williamsburg, 1991-ish)

My two roommates, Jane and Mary, soon became my best friends and co-conspirators in style. Mary was a self-employed couturier and Jane was a music promoter/Jill of all trades. They were Pre-Raphaelite beauties with a thrilling ability to create glamour, drama and humor out of the most quotidien details. In our house, the heels were high, the lipstick was red and the books were Virago (the pre-Persephone Persephone). Oh, and every night we drank a tipple of amontillado sherry "purely for medicinal purposes."

I still dream about our kitchen table. The top was covered with two huge slate slabs that Mary had discovered in the earthen basement and then painted with coats of shiny shellac. It was rough and uneven and where the middles met, she planted a row of live moss from end to end. (Yes, we watered it.) You had to be slightly careful about where you set your coffee cup so it wouldn't tip over, but other than that, it was a eco-surrealist fantasy.

(Mary in the kitchen. Note the slate table.)

The house definitely had its quirks. When it rained, you needed to use an umbrella in the bathroom. In winter, the wind blew through the paper-thin walls with such ferocity that we would regularly wear winter coats inside. The floorboards sloped, the staircase was wonky and it was the most vocal house -- creaks, groans, moans, you name it -- I've ever lived in. But we loved it in spite of its weaknesses. It was blowsy with personality, that house. It was a Civil War dame who had long outlived all her contemporaries, but who was seeking with every nail and joist and length of timber in her body to remain upright for as long as she could.

In the upstairs salon, Mary and Jane had draped velvet remnants over the threadbare sofas for a bit of rough luxe glamour and stippled the walls a Venetian gold.

(Me in the upstairs salon. Note the nearby coat.)

Our dining room was painted many times, depending on our boredom level. In the incarnation below, it was "Oscar Wilde Green." On the right, you can see a mannequin draped with one of Mary's dress designs. She made me two neo-Edwardian fitted suits that I still own today. Both had accentuated shoulders, a nipped-in waist and a slight bustle effect in the back that made me feel like a post-punk Wharton heroine. I'm wearing one of them in the photo below.

(Me after a lengthy repast, circa 1991-ish.)

There was never a dull moment. One day I came home from work and discovered that Mary had planted more moss on the fireplace and was growing flowers out of it. You can see them on the left side of the mantel. She and Jane sewed damask slip covers for the wooden chairs they found on the street so we could "entertain properly."

(Dining room, circa 1991-ish)

Another time I walked in the door to find my roommates, in high heels and lipstick, sawing up one of our four salvaged dining chairs to use as kindling. There was a winter storm raging, the furnace was broken and the inside temperature had reached crisis levels. When you live in a homestead, sometimes you have to make tough choices.

(Upstairs fireplace, Christmas time, 1992-ish)

I wish I had a photo of my bedroom, but I don't. It faced a Polish sausage casing factory, not the most scenic of views, so I transformed it into a Moroccan fantasy with dark tangerine walls and a navy-blue ceiling that I swirled with celadon to conjure up an approaching storm. I hung a mosquito net over the bed and decorated the room with vintage fabrics and cushions. It was very "Sheltering Sky."

We had two blissful years together before love and career opportunities pulled us in separate directions. But our experiences together in that house, as well as our friendships, remain vivid to this day.

(Three thrill-seekers on a barnacle-laden barge on the Hudson River, 1992-ish)

From Mary and Jane, I learned first-hand that great personal style isn't about money, it's about attitude, wit and a dash of devil-may-care. Somehow on the tiniest of budgets we managed not only to live with elegance but also to entertain with flair. Countless friends from Manhattan trooped out to see us, the eccentric adventuresses living in a tumbledown house on the wrong side of the river and having the time of our lives.

We welcomed them with glasses of amontillado sherry, of course.

(Side note: One of my readers, Daniel Halifax with the compelling blog, has a scandalous story to tell regarding one of his ancestors and this very house. Perhaps he'll comment....)

Up next: Cool Britannia, 1996

Have Bag, Will Travel

Going somewhere? This wash bag makes a stylish companion, whether you're venturing across the ocean or just across town for a sexy sleepover.

Click HERE to read my latest column in W Magazine and find out what else I'm recommending to expand your horizons.

Bloomsbury Beginnings: New York City

Manhattan, 1989

My very first apartment was in a huge renovated warehouse on Horatio Street in the West Village. I had been offered a copywriting job at a big New York ad agency and given two weeks to relocate from Chicago. The rent for my studio was a stratospheric $1225/month, much more than I had any sense paying given my new salary, but I had promised my mother I would live in a doorman building and besides, everything else was right. The streets on that side of town were still paved with cobblestones, the historic meat market was across the street and I'd be able to see the sun sink over the Hudson River every night if I stuck my head really far out the window. What could be more perfect?

(My first New York apartment, 1989)

The only photo I still have shows a section of the wall that ran along one side of the apartment. Having zero decorating budget, I hung my mother's vintage zebra-print Abercrombie and Fitch raincoat on a hook -- instant art! -- and propped a print of the Mona Lisa on the ground (I taped some sunglasses to her eyes and felt awfully clever). The rest of the apartment hewed closely to "Bright Lights, Big City": a futon couch, a glass-topped trestle table, a Truffaut poster and two black steel-and-leather Wassily chairs that I had been coveting since high school. After paying the first month's rent, I was so low on funds that I survived on fried rice, frozen grapes and popcorn until my next paycheck, supplemented by nearby restaurants that offered free food during happy hour.

Although this apartment is not at all my aesthetic now, I still consider it an important marker in helping to shape my future personal style. For the first time ever, I was living completely on my own and had total rein to express myself. This space reflected exactly who I was at the time: a platinum-blonde with a closet full of black clothes and a passion for Andy Warhol, Edie Sedgwick, The The and everything Bauhaus.

I didn't live there long. A few months later, I met some friendly girls down the hall with a 2,000 square foot loft and an empty bedroom for $800/month. I moved in, loved the feeling of having spare change in my pocket and over the next three years embarked on four more moves, always on a quest to keep lowering my rent. Along the way, my style kept metamorphosing. It wasn't until I ventured across the East River that I found the most space for the least price and met two people who would awaken in me the first sparks of a Bloomsbury life.

Up next: Beauty and Decay in Brooklyn

Rabbit Food, Eccentrics and Sunshine

After sewing for six hours on Saturday, I woke up Sunday morning craving sunshine, fresh air and a focal point that wasn't six inches in front of my face. I needed a day of mental health.

I drove into Beverly Hills and visited my friend Amanda Eliasch at her Hal Levitt-designed aerie on the top of Mulholland. Photographer, author and fashion editor-at-large for Genlux magazine, she was in town from London for a few weeks to start work on a new play with her co-writer Lyall Watson and to take advantage of the California weather (although the recent deluge had her thinking she was still in England).

(Amanda in Hollywood, 2009)

Both clad in black, we lay on Balinese chaises overlooking a glistening view that stretched to the ocean and caught up on each other's lives. The Grammy Awards were that night, although neither of us were going this year. "Darling, you know pop music just isn't my raison d'etre," she said emphatically.

(Photo: Amanda Eliasch)

Bathed in sunny light, I closed my eyes and tried to soak up all the lovely energy that was surrounding me. I wanted to fully absorb the joy of just doing nothing. Around us, palm trees swayed, birds gossiped and every now and then a muffled reminder of civilization would waft lazily up to us from the distant canyons.

We spoke about writing (Amanda has a fascinating personal blog), travelling and at one point, tried in vain to remember an artist known for his wallpaper who was a contemporary of Eric Ravilious. It was too much effort to sift through our memory banks for his name, so we let it go and allowed our thoughts to drift, bob and meander at will.

For this trip to California, she had flown in a highly-touted chef from Brazil to put her and Lyall on a strict cleansing diet: no coffee, alcohol, starch, sugar, dairy or red meat. They were ten days into the thick -- err, thin -- of it and were looking chic and svelte, as was the chef, who was a virtual doppelganger of Penelope Cruz. I wanted in.

Lunch was equal parts intimidating and delicious.

(High-protein black rice with zucchini-squash rillettes;

photo courtesy of Amanda Eliasch)

Driving home down the winding roads, I felt emotionally refreshed, physically nourished and totally in command of my senses, proof of which was that the name of the artist I blanked on suddenly popped into my head: Edward Bawden. Love him. Another famed English eccentric, his graphic linocut designs feel just as fresh and modern today.

(Pigeon and Clocktower Wallpaper, 1927)

(Hare and Tortoise linocut, 1970)

(Design for wrapping paper, "Deer and Trees", 1960)

(Kew Gardens, 1936)

Wit, warmth and a recipe for weight loss...not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Jane Birkin, Meet Rupert Birkin

When is a classic white shirt more than a classic white shirt? When it dates from the 19th century, evokes the rustic/sexy sensibility of both D. H. Lawrence and a gap-toothed French style icon and promises to just keep getting better and better over time.

Click HERE to read my latest column in W and become a woman (or man) in love.

Armor Amour

(Mail byrnie, c. 12th century, Museum of Bayeux)

I have a long-standing fixation with medieval armor. Chain mail, to be specific. It's difficult to pinpoint the source of my fascination. Perhaps, in a previous life, I was a footsoldier in Boadicea's all-woman army.

Or perhaps my brain is still haunted by gripping visions of Dark Age tumult and turmoil from this much-loved book.

Or perhaps this by-now-iconic image of Alexander McQueen and the late, great Isabella Blow from a 1996 Vogue spread stoked my passion to uncontrollable heights.

(Photograph by David LaChapelle)

Yes, I realize there's no actual chain mail in the photo, but I suppose all the elements present cause my mind to make the connection anyway: "Castle + fire + damsel in distress + mayhem equals....ah, yes...chain mail."

Look at this ceremonial shirt from the 16th century. Over five hundred years old and it still feels modern. Even the decorative fastenings and jeweled brooches are in style. What would it feel like to wear? Heavy, certainly. But I can't help but think you would feel protected not only physically but emotionally.

(Image via wornthrough.com)

I can envision the product description: "Elegant, slim fit. Offers 100% impermeability in the battlefield (arrows, swords) and in court (betrayals, backstabbings, snarkiness). Dry clean only."

I've always thought of chain mail in terms of fashion, so I was rendered temporarily mute when I visited my friend Maria on Saturday and saw this stunning four-legged creature.

(Burlap and chain mail chair. Design by Maria Sarno.)

"Wha....?" I tried again. "Hwaaah...?" She took pity on me. "It's just a salvaged chair," she said. "I need to have it recovered. But do you like the chain mail I attached to the head rest?"

(Chain mail chair, detail)

Umm, yes. I love everything about it. I love the threadbare linen, the tattered seams and the way you've transformed it into the anthropomorphic embodiment of a medieval knight.

If fashion is considered the armor we clothe ourselves in, then surely we can upholster ourselves in it, too.

Pour Moi, Le Deluge

On Saturday, the torrential rains finally stopped...and I'm not altogether happy about it.

(Sunset over Hollywood, 1/22/10)

For six days, we had taken blissful refuge at home and reveled in the exotic weather.

Soups simmered.

Scones were baked.

Books were devoured.

Blazing fires went head-to-head with the fierce crescendo of midday thunderstorms.

Life became infinitely simple.

I knew at some point the sun would come out and we would all have to go outside and enjoy it, but until then, we remained happily indoors. Cooking was pure pleasure. During mealtimes, we lit candles and cranked open the kitchen windows to let the smell of fresh rain mix with the aromas being stirred to life on the Aga.

If there was a recurring theme to our meals, it was that they be largely composed of steaming liquids. One particular seafood stew called "Cioppino" made so many repeat appearances at our house this past week that I was almost afraid it would start asking for royalties. (This is Hollywood, after all). We served it at a dinner party last week, ate the leftovers the following day and I still can't get enough of it. Hearty, fresh and not heavy at all, it's my new favorite winter meal.*

Saturday night's rendition was ladled generously into big bowls, each serving plentiful with of chunks of fresh cod, mussels and scallops. For a grace note, we sprinkled it with fresh chopped parsley. Earth meets sea.

(Cioppino stew, Saturday, 1/23/10)

Sunday morning, Piero caught glimpse of the fresh snowy peaks of the San Gabriel Mountains and decided it was going to be a ski day. For breakfast, he added some linguini to the cioppino and transformed it into a stick-to-your-ribs mountaineering meal. Suitably fortified, he and Luca were out the door 25 minutes later.

(Cioppino and pasta, 1/24/10)

Now the house is quiet, the tea is brewing and I have time to write, sew and think. If it was just raining outside, it would be a perfect day.

P.S. My friend Maryam from "My Marrakech" is a finalist in the Bloggies for "Best African Blog." If you've ever been on her site, then you know how deserving she is of the award. Her stirring prose and soulful photos not only transport her readers to the furthest reaches of the globe, they are a poetic sanctuary from hectic times. Please click HERE to vote for her (and scroll to the right to see the categories). Thank you.

*Note: Unfortunately, I don't have a recipe for the cioppino because Piero is an improvisateur and never writes anything down. But I'll ask him again....

W Magazine, Revisited

To my great delight, I've been asked to do another guest stint for W Magazine. The first post is up today and subsequent ones will run every Friday (there will be five in all).

Today's topic deals with organization or, as it's usually referred to in my house, "turning shambolic into sexy."

Click HERE and find out why my pick below will save you on those mornings when not even your hair is on your side.

I Blame it on Bonhams

My name is Lisa and I think I'm an auctionaholic.

Stage One: Exposure

It began last October when I met my friends Sherri and Kathy at Bonhams and Butterfields auction house for a preview sale. Walking into the venerated Sunset Boulevard building was exciting, but being surrounded by such gorgeous paintings, rugs, furniture and decorative arts sent my heartrate into overdrive. My whole life I had assumed I shouldn't ever set foot in those places because the prices would be ruinous, but I was dead wrong.

I became so alarmed by my unmufflered giddiness that I consciously refrained from placing any bids. There will be other auctions, I told myself. This is just a "research trip." (What, what, what was I thinking?)

This lovely Old Master-ish portrait called "Lady in Blue" would have looked wonderful in my foyer. Her serene gaze would have calmed me on crazy carpool mornings, I just know it.

(English school, 18th century, oil on canvas.

Sold for $610 inclusive of buyer's premium, 10/25/09.)

This full-lipped fellow would have added some fiery intensity to the upstairs hall. I'm a sucker for disheveled glamour, especially at that price.

(English school, 19th century, oil on canvas.

Sold for $366 inclusive of buyer's premium, 10/25/09.)

On my way out, I spotted this Napoleonic chaise from Hollywood at Home. I had been salivating over it for months in the shop. Why I didn't bid on it will haunt me to my dying day, considering it sold for a fraction of the retail cost.

(French campaign folding chaise lounge.

Sold for $793 inclusive of buyer's premium, 10/25/09)

Stage Two: Intoxication

This past weekend, there was another sale. This time, I went to the auction determined not to repeat my previous mistakes.

After receiving my paddle, I took a seat in the main gallery. The auctioneer took charge like a nobleman in combat, controlling the audience with a fierce elegance. Some items provoked intense paddle battles and sold for large sums, but other hammer prices were insanely -- and reassuringly -- low.

My friend Sherri had fallen in love with this Kathryn Ireland-ish set of antique chairs for her "imaginary house in Santa Barbara." I should have bought them for her as the price was imaginary as well.

(Four painted wood and rush armchairs.

Sold for $122 inclusive of buyer's premium, 1/17/10.)

This stunning 19th century trunk went for a steal...

(English mahogany brass bound campaign trunk.

Sold for $122 inclusive of buyers premium, 1/17/10.)

...as did this tole chandelier with a fabled Hollywood history -- it used to hang at Falconcrest, home of Rudolph Valentino.

(Large Rococo style painted tole chandelier.

Sold for $122 inclusive of buyer's premium, 1/17/10.)

These incredible bargains were killing me, but I whispered to myself, "Save your money for what you're here for."

At long last, my tall, curvy George IV style wingback chair on wheels came up for bid.

With a pre-sale estimate of $250-$350, I hoped it wouldn't go for too much more.

Auctioneer:

We've received a few telephone bids on this item, so we're starting the bidding at $350. Do I have $350?

Up went my lone paddle.

Auctioneer (glancing at me):

I have $350.

My Inner Voice:

This chair is so mine.

Auctioneer:

Do I have $400?

There was a pause and then -- I swear to you -- every paddle in the room shot up. Within moments, the bids were flying north of $600, $700, $800 and climbing. It was bedlam. I think my mouth must have fallen open. The hammer finally slammed down at $1600 ($1952 with the buyer's premium).

So here's why I think I'm addicted...

Because not winning the chair didn't even matter.

Just sitting there in the midst of all that auction action was crazy exciting. I loved knowing that at any moment I could thrust my paddle into the air and "be in the game." I knew there would be another chaise, another Old Master painting, another campaign chest. And I knew that victory would be all the sweeter if the price was right for my budget. So I would do my research, I would keep coming back and one day, I would win.

Stage Three: Obsession

There's an auction in San Francisco this weekend and I've done a little poring through the online catalog...

(Atttributed to John Greenhill, 1644-1676, London,

A portrait of a lady, oil on canvas, 36x28 in)

(Attributed to Henry Harlow, London 1787-1819,

oil on canvas, 30 x 25 in.)

(After Sir Thomas Lawrence, A Portrait of George IV,

oil on canvas laid down on board, 36 x 28in.)

And so it grows....

A Marriage Toast

The divine Emily Evans Eerdmans has gotten hitched and a chorus of best wishes is resounding through the blogosphere. Just look at this photo...could they be any cuter? I think not.

(Emily Evans Eerdmans and Andrew McKeon)

Were I asked to wax poetic, I would borrow the words of George Eliot who wrote so beautifully about marriage in "Words on Feeling Safe":

Oh the comfort of feeling safe

with a person;

having neither to weigh thoughts,

nor measure words,

but to pour them all out

just as they are,

chaff and grain together,

certain that a faithful hand

will take and sift them,

keeping what is worth keeping

and with a breath of kindness,

blow the rest away.

Otherwise, I would quote Rita Rudner:

I love being married. It's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life.

Congratulations, Emily and Andrew!

The London/Marrakech Express, Part Seven

For five days, the mountains had been beckoning. With infinite patience, they waited for the travellers to arrive. There was no hurry. Sooner or later, the travellers always came.

(Daybreak in Marrakech, 12/31/2009)

We headed east on the empty highway. The hot sun rose over the jagged peaks, sucking the color out of the landscape and transforming it into a black and white photograph.

We drove on. As we approached the foothills, we could make out the thread of a narrow road tracing a route back and forth across the slopes.

(Atlas Mountains)

Higher and higher we climbed. Our driver raced enthusiastically around the hairpin turns, dodging donkey carts and schoolchildren with the zeal of a man who has made peace with his life.

A road marker announced we were entering the land of the Berbers.

Imlil was our destination, a tiny village tucked into a small cleavage of bedrock in the High Atlas mountains.

We left the driver to smoke cheroots at a roadside café and set out to explore on foot.

All the long red carpets everywhere reminded me of Hollywood, except that here, instead of being stepped upon by stars, they pointed the way up toward them.

A fruit stand displayed a vintage set of scales and weights. As life has been, so it continues to be.

So many fossils, so little time.

Everywhere, one is confronted by a brutal beauty which at first shocks and then settles into a deep understanding.

Eight year old boys have no such adjustment issues.

As Piero and Luca wandered ahead...

...I spotted something that made me stop in my tracks: a horse wearing a Technicolor dreamcoat. I needed an immediate communion with that saddle.

A closer look revealed the remnants of brightly colored rugs, tassels and worn yellow leather fashioned into a patchwork masterpiece. It was equestrian couture, a la Dries Van Noten.

Unfortunately, the saddle was not for sale, but this traditional Berber-style necklace was. An assemblage of glass and ceramic beads, old coins and shells, I loved it at first sight.

On the way down the mountain, we realized we were hungry. Piero remembered seeing a pink wall with an especially ornate set of wooden doors set into it. As we rounded a bend, we saw it and gestured our driver to stop.

The doors were open now...

...and up a cobblestoned drive, we spied a pink castle. Was it a private home? A hotel? Would we be allowed in?

Piero saw the brass plaque first. He grabbed my elbow and pointed to it. "You're not going to believe this."

We walked up the main path, through a cool dark entrance hall...

...into a courtyard, through another archway...

...and came face-to-face with this view.

In true Bransonian fashion, Sir Richard purchased the property in 1998 when he spotted it during one of his famous balloon expeditions.

The handsome waiter (all the staff are hired from local villages) recommended an Atlas Breeze -- mint tea, juice, herbs, sugar. All I can say is Berber knows best.

It would have been nice if my son could have put down the menu for a moment, but even in Paradise, you can't have everything.

Unwilling to think about the fact that in twenty-four hours we would be going home, we deemed the subject verboten and discussed how delicious our tagines and cheeseburger (you-know-who) were instead.

Morning of departure

Rain dotted the cobblestones for the first time since our arrival. Luca didn't want to leave and tried to persuade us that he'd be fine on his own by giving us his best street-savvy look.

Like all great journeys, it ended too quickly.

But inshallah ("God willing"), we'll be back.

Hotel Details:

La Sultana Hotel, Marrakech

Rue de la Kasbah,

Marrakech 40000, Morocco

Tel: 024 38 80 08

La Mamounia Hotel, Marrakech

Avenue Bab Jdid, Marrakech

Tel: 024 38 86 43

Kasbah Tamadot, Asni, Atlas Mountains

Tel: 024 36 82 00

The London/Marrakech Express, Part Six

It was late morning. We sat in the horned chairs outside our room and pondered our plan for the day.

Luca wanted to explore the hotel again, so while Piero made some calls, we crept through the exquisitely detailed hallways and corridors and courtyards (all five of them).

One...

...two...

...three...

...four...

...and five.

After peering into every nook and cranny, Piero reappeared and we headed for a repeat visit to the souk. We tried to assume the insouciance of locals, but our efforts proved hopeless as everything was so enchanting it required a second glance...

...and sometimes a third.

Caution: Becoming oblivious to your surroundings may result in a real-life game of Donkey Kong.

After my harsh jolt back to reality, we repaired to the safety of a cafe where Luca ordered his favorite new elixir: sparkling water and mint syrup. It tasted exactly like fizzy mouthwash, but Piero and I kept that to ourselves.

Lastly, there was a freshly-drawn henna scorpion to make the outing truly indelible.

Back at La Sultana, Luca discovered the pool had a secret viewing window...

...which could be seen from the underground "Jules Verne" bar.

The waiter said we were the only ones to want to take a photo like this.

But why not?

The afternoon was spent at Les Jardins de Majorelle, the resting place for Yves Saint Laurent.

Formerly owned by French artist Jacques Majorelle (1886-1962), it was purchased by Yves Saint Laurent and his partner Pierre Bergé in 1980. The main residence, designed to emulate a Moroccan palace, sits in the midst of a paradise of lush vegetation.

The palette of red, blue, yellow and green is based on Majorelle's fascination with Fauvism.

When Saint Laurent died, he requested that his ashes be buried here.

Sssshh.

Later that night, we prepared for our stealth mission.

(Note: For very important reasons which I will explain later, there are no photos in this section.)

The Plan:

Famed blogger Maryam of My Marrakesh had invited us over for dinner. When I spoke to her that afternoon, she gently nixed our plans to take a cab to her house because, in her words, "we live in a very remote village. Even the taxi drivers can't find it."

The Pick-Up:

At 8pm we had our driver deposit us in front of a giant supermarket about twenty kilometers outside of Marrakech. Imagine Costco meets Home Depot with djellabas, dust and donkeys and you're halfway there. A few minutes later, a black car glided into the parking lot and the window rolled down a crack.

"Are you Lisa?" asked a deep voice.

I nodded.

"Maryam has sent me. Please to get in."

Inside the car, we found the delightful Jaime and David, two honeymooning New Yorkers who had also been invited to dinner and who also had not yet met Maryam. It was turning into a Graham Greene novel. We bounced on unpaved roads deeper and deeper into darkness, through teeny villages (that I swear are not on any Google map) and finally up to an immense gate. In the distance, through a grove of olive trees, a white pavilion beckoned. As we drove up the long drive, we saw two elegant figures standing in the doorway, silhouetted by soft golden light. This was our first glimpse of Maryam and Chris, her husband. It only got better from then on.

The Night:

My memories, in no particular order:

1. Children playing hide-and-seek in a magical outdoor grotto.

2. Plates piled high with Moroccan delicacies.

3. Touring the jaw-dropping, not-to-be-believed main house and grounds.

4. Being serenaded with an impromptu violin concert by two little girls.

5. Laughter. Lots of it.

6. Luca inside a huge Berber tent whispering with four new confidantes.

7. Moroccan wine (surprisingly good).

8. Discussing embroidery with Maryam, a fellow textile obsessive.

9. Spiky, the huge spiked pet lizard, running down an endless hallway.

10. Saying our goodbyes and hearing, "We met with a handshake. We leave with a hug."

The reason I can't show you any of my photos of the night is for a very exciting reason: Maryam is writing a book about her life in Morocco, due out next year on Artisan Books. Well-known editor Ingrid Abramovitch (author of the just-published "Restoring a House in the City") is helming the project, so it's bound to be fabulous...and of course, mum's the word until then.

I did get clearance on this one, however.

(LBG with Maryam of My Marrakesh. Photograph by Anna Wong)

The London/Marrakech Express, Part Five

It's dawn in Marrakech. Thanks to jetlag, I awaken early and creep up to the hotel roof to see the sun make its first appearance over the ancient medina.

(Marrakech and Atlas Mountains)

Breakfast is a quick affair as we have hired a car and driver for the day to take us on a Moroccan road trip to Essaouira, a coastal town three hours west of Marrakech.

Within minutes, we are out of the city...

...and speeding headlong into the sheltering sky.

We're in the middle of nowhere and our senses thrill to it. After 36 hours of exotic chaos, the stillness is both deafening and strangely intimate. We stare out the window at the unfamiliar landscape and even Luca is silent for once.

Then suddenly I spot something that makes me blink once, then twice. Have we stumbled into a Dr. Seuss book?

A goat in a tree?

How can that be?

In fact, there are three of them, perched on the highest branches of a scraggy-looking tree. Our driver explains the goats have climbed it to eat the argan berries, which are similar to olives.

After eating them, they excrete the nuts inside which are then collected and ground up to make the region's argan oil, famed for its culinary uses and anti-aging properties.

When we pass a cooperative selling argan products a little while later, I tell Piero we have to stop.

Him: Really? You want to stop again?

Me: Yes! How many times are we going to get the chance to buy something excreted from a goat? I'll use it on my skin and you can use it in all the tagines you're going to make.

Luca: That's disgusting. I am not eating it.

Inside, local women sit on the floor shelling, cracking and grinding the nuts into a fine paste.

It does not look like an easy job.

Piero purchases a bottle of the nutty-tasting oil and I buy some skin elixir from this lovely woman. She swears it will make my skin "go backwards in time." (Should this happen, I promise to let you know.)

By now, we are getting so close to Essaouira that we can smell the sea air.

The charming white-washed buildings are a stark difference from the rose-colored walls of Marrakech and there is a palpable hippie vibe here. We walk through the main square...

...past the 18th century fortifications...

...and down to the harbour. The day's catch has just come in.

It is all I can do to drag Piero away from these freshly-caught sardines slathered in rock salt.

I think this fisherman is very "Sartorialist."

We head into the walled medina and wander through the narrow streets. We move slowly in the hot sun past unblinking cats and dusty wares and faded doors that hint at a colorful past...

...past children playing soccer with a dented basketball...

...past regal towers of cumin, coriander, ginger and turmeric...

...past meat and toys, hanging from shared hooks.

We look. We listen. We take it all in.

We don't shop. We watch others shop.

For lunch, we choose one of the countless fish stalls that line the harbor.

After reverent deliberation, Piero makes his selection and within minutes...

...it's returned to us. We try to sear the memory of every delicious bite into our consciousness for retrieval at a later date.

By now, it's late afternoon. We take a walk up to the old fortress...

...and embrace the stillness one last time. The sun is sinking in the sky and it's time to drive back to Marrakech.

As I gaze out at across the endless Atlantic, I try to remember a famous passage from "The Sheltering Sky" but only succeed in summoning the emotion of it, not the words.

Later, back at the hotel, I find the book in the upstairs library.

"Because we don't know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless."

-- Paul Bowles, "The Sheltering Sky"

The London/Marrakech Express, Part Four

Was it all a dream?

I open my eyes and stare at the incredible hand-painted dome directly above my bed.

No. This is definitely not London.

We head downstairs for breakfast. La Sultana is composed of five exquisitely restored old riads (houses with interior gardens) that offer guests an Aladdin-esque journey of exploration. Each luxurious courtyard offers a passageway to another one equally magical.

(Looking into the dining courtyard, La Sultana)

Little birds chirp and flit between the date palms as we feast on sweet tangerines, Berber pancakes and copious cups of mint tea.

Exiting our hotel, we realize that it lies just 200 feet from the vibrant thoroughfare of the kasbah, but is so hidden in its diminutive alley that it's practically invisible.

(La Sultana Hotel)

Mere steps away are the Saadian Tombs which date back to the 16th century.

(Saadian Tombs)

The mosaic work, nearly 500 years old, still reverberates with color and energy.

(Mosaic detail, Saadian Tombs)

We pass through one of the nineteen gates that lead into the medina...

...and are greeted by the sight of Marrakech's most prominent Islamic landmark, the Koutoubia Mosque.

As luck has it, we are still in the shadow of the tower when one of the five daily calls to prayer rings out. The very ground seems to shake as a rising chorus of voices joins in from every direction. (To hear what a call to prayer sounds like, click HERE.)

A few more minutes walk and suddenly, the immense Djemaa el Fna is before us. This is the main square of Marrakech, and I've been filling Luca's head for months with visions of snake charmers, musicians, acrobats and more.

Before I can even blink, they arrive. Luca takes it in gamely.

On the far side of the square lies the entrance to the famed souk. As we weave our way in and out of the countless food stalls heaving with delicacies...

...an inner battle wages:

My left brain:

Remember, when bargaining, you have to play it cool. Just. Be. Cool.

My right brain:

But I'm hyperventilating! Look at all this amazing stuff!

My left brain:

Act like that and you'll pay double.

My right brain:

Ugh. You are so controlling.

The Divine Italian has no such issues.

The stalls are teeny-tiny and crammed with gorgeous wares.

Fancy a pair of handcrafted babouches?

Or perhaps a scarf for your shoulders, ladies? Gents, a foulard?

The vast amount of stalls is dizzying. Each is only a few yards wide and there are thousands of them.

An excellent reason to do more sit-ups. Or maybe not.

We lose all track of time and wander through the endless maze of alleys and residential back corridors. We are lost in the most delightful way.

At one point, I find myself being taught how to weave a rug.

At another, we find ourselves in the dyers' souk. Freshly-soaked skeins of wool hang in the sun to dry.

Bowls of powdered indigo, saffron and vermilion patiently await their turn in the vats. Matthew Williamson would be beside himself.

Out of the blue, a young man appears from inside a dyer's hut and expertly winds a scarf around and around Luca's head.

Centuries roll backward as he metamorphoses from a Hollywood kid...

...into Luca of Arabia.

Later, I miraculously locate the fossil stall where I bought a treasured ammonite bowl two years ago. The owner pretends to remember me and his genial flattery temporarily suspends my bargaining prowess.

I buy another bowl -- bigger and heavier than the previous one...

...and pretend not to hear Piero when he reminds me that my suitcase is already stuffed with purchases from London and am I expecting him to carry it? After some pestering, I indignantly answer, "Of course not!" (but secretly plan to plead my case the morning of departure).

Back at the hotel, we have an hour of "Each To His Own" time: Piero soaks in the hotel's hammam, I read my book and Luca is allowed some precious minutes on his Nintendo DS.

After dinner, we hop a cab to the legendary Mamounia Hotel. My parents stayed there in the 1960's and I've been aching to visit it my whole life -- I tried to book a room months ago, but December was completely sold out. Recently reopened after a lengthy 3-year renovation, I'm curious to see how Jacques Garcia has reinterpreted this classic grande dame and whether it has retained its essential "Mamounia-ness."

It's absolutely gorgeous and combines the sleek lines of French Art Deco with traditional Moroccan design and craftmanship.

I could do without the Gucci, Prada and Fendi boutiques in the lobby, though.

Unfortunately, my long-held plans to have a glass of champagne in the Churchill Bar are dashed when we are informed it has a no-child policy.

No matter. As we pad noiselessly over miles of sound-absorbing carpet...

...and wander through courtyards of sybaritic luxury...

...we realize we are more seekers than sitters anyway.

The London/Marrakech Express, Part Three

(Highgate, London, 2009)

December 24th

London. Morning. Cold everywhere. Cold up on Hampstead Heath, where it settles on the cheeks of children sledding on Parliament Hill. Cold in the noses of salesgirls arriving for their morning shift at Top Shop. Cold creeping into the collars of City businessmen; cold savagely freezing the fingers and toes of tourists standing in line for Madame Tussaud's. Cold all round, whirling and swirling into every crevice and corner of the frozen metropolis.

Inside The Gore Hotel, however, it is blissfully warm. Piero and Luca have ventured out on various errands and I am alone. I glance down at the pile of books I have accumulated so far and my signed copy (thank you, Hatchard's) of interior decorator/society fixture Nicholas Haslam's new memoir stares beseechingly up at me.

All right, Nicky. It's your turn today.

I decide to read it downstairs in the hotel's fabled Bar 190, which is to me one of London's best-kept secrets. In 1968, the Rolling Stones filmed "Beggar's Banquet" there and it still has the feeling of a decadent private members club, complete with Gothic details and worn-to-a-high-sheen leather furniture. (They even offer a "Rock 'n Roll Tea" with star-shaped cookies and Jack Daniel muffins.) I repair downstairs and find it for once gloriously empty.

As I settle myself into the lounging area in the rear known as "Cinderella's Carriage"...

...I spot the massive framed photographs of the Rolling Stones taken in this very room during the "Beggars Banquet" party...

...and wonder if the energy of Mr. Haslam himself has led me here. In 1964, he threw the band a legendary soirée and has been close friends with them ever since. I leaf through the book's index and sure enough, there are multiple entries for the Rolling Stones. Synchronicity is in the house.

December 25th

Christmas lunch was at Baglioni's (opposite Hyde Park and just around the corner from our hotel).

(photo via Baglioni's website)

It was a wonderful meal, made even better by the fact that we celebrated with good friends.

(Belinda and me)

(Piero and Belinda's husband, Morgan)

After gorging ourselves on turkey and stuffing and bread and soup and salad and pudding and espresso (everyone) and pasta with butter and cheese (Luca), we all surreptitiously undo the top buttons of our respective trousers/skirts and stagger back to our respective abodes.

That evening, la famiglia Giramonti, still in the depths of a carbohydrate haze, collapses into bed early. Predictably, at some point during the wee hours, a mass fidgeting of legs underneath our respective bedclothes makes it apparent that we are all wide awake. Luca comes up with a brilliant remedy for our sleeplessness: a game of midnight Scrabble.

Outside, the city is completely silent. The only sound for miles, it seems to us, are our whispers ("That's not a word"; "Yes, it IS") and the sound of tiles clacking onto the game board.

December 26th

Boxing Day. Our flight to Marrakech leaves at 3pm. I leave Piero and Luca asleep in bed and take a taxi to meet Belinda for an early morning walk along the Thames. The light is just coming up and the streets are empty. The slow cadence of our footsteps feels like physical meditation.

I find myself wishing that I had made it to St. Paul's Cathedral when all of a sudden, there it is, visible through a gap in two buildings. I gasp. It's too strange.

The light is so mystical and otherworldly that I almost feel like crying. We walk in silence.

On the flight to Marrakech, we block out the turbulence and the cramped seats by retreating into private dominions. We are in a netherworld at 32,000 feet.

Setting foot on the tarmac (and a new continent), however, reenergizes us immediately. Our North African adventure has officially begun.

After clearing customs, we are met by a tall elegant Moroccan named Hamza who chauffeurs us into the city proper. We drive under a walled archway that marks passage into the ancient medina and through the maze-like alleys (too narrow to be called streets) to our hotel, La Sultana. Once inside, we are led down hallways that redefine my definition of the word "exquisite."

After being ushered into a gorgeous courtyard, we are feted with glasses of mint tea and a tiered stand of sweet delicacies which Luca promptly devours. Apparently, the task of checking-in is deemed too taxing a duty for arriving guests. All paperwork is performed off-stage and when our glasses are drained, our room key is presented.

If this is a sign of the level of service here, I think to myself, I may never want to leave.

Our room is on the second floor overlooking the interior of one of the five courtyards in the hotel. It's called "Crocodile" (and Luca counts twenty-four of them) but it is the wooden dome over our bed that I can't stop looking at.

The bathroom is another revelation, resplendent with marble and Moroccan plasterwork, carved alcoves and towels strewn with rose petals.

We take the elevator to the roof garden and peer over the edge. Below us, a thrilling cacophony of sounds and shouts floats up to us. French and Arabic voices mingle with the thrum of mopeds, the clop of horse-drawn carriages and the intermittent screech of wheels.

We are here.

The London/Marrakech Express, Part Two

December 21st

The plan was to meet up with Belinda and make a pilgrimage to the famed Highgate Cemetery. The weather in town was cold but not overly worrying so our dress code was "Warm Stylish." Belinda wore a Dries Van Noten cape and Ann Demeulemeester boots. (The boots would prove challenging.)

When we arrived in Highgate, the weather was completely different. There was snow everywhere; apparently, what melts in town sticks in the village. Pavement walking was tricky at best, but once inside the cemetery, it was a virtual slipfest.

Thank goodness my boots had a faint tread on them; Belinda's had none. We clutched each other like two little old ladies. All I could think was, "Great, she's going to break an ankle and be forced to drop out of the show."

When we weren't falling on our bums, we noticed that the combination of snow with overgrown greenery looked like something out of a Peter Jackson movie.

A rare shot of Belinda standing.

Thanks to our trusty map, we were able to locate two special gravestones that I wanted to see. Finding George Eliot's was quite exciting.

I read Middlemarch about ten years ago and, like a character out of "Fahrenheit 451", I still carry around the last sentence of the book in my head:

"(T)he growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs."

That George, she gets it so right. In this age of all-consuming celebrity and me-ism, we owe so much to the vast invisible majority who quietly do the right thing, live the invisible life, and never seek recognition, acclaim, or a YouTube video.

Finally, there was the gravestone that, for me, represented the birth of Bloomsbury: the marker for Leslie and Julia Stephens, parents of Vanessa Bell and Virginia Woolf.

Next, we hopped a cab to much-less-snowy Hampstead and paid a visit to my favorite second-hand bookstore, Keith Fawkes (on Flask Walk, just around the corner from the tube station). Nearly all of my vintage orange Penguins were purchased here.

I'm happy to report there's still quite a selection (and still quite inexpensive).

I've been coming here since the mid-nineties so I was thrilled to still see Jerry, the kindly manager, behind the counter. He shyly told me the press had recently described him as being "alarmingly knowledgeable." I told him that's because he is.

From there, it was a quick jaunt to Well Walk, one of the most charming streets in Hampstead.

A few more twists and turns and there was Belinda's old house, the one she was living in when I met her in 1996.

The gate was slightly ajar, so we poked our heads in. Gorgeous as ever. I used to sleep in that tippy-top tower when I spent the night.

After dropping her off at the theater, I whizzed over to Liberty. It never disappoints.

I always like to see what's new and exciting in the chair department. They seem to have cornered the market on tradition with a twist.

I love the raw selvedge on this otherwise tailored chair. It gives it a slight punk edge which I find especially pleasing.

And look at these Gallic armchairs upholstered in Liberty's famous peacock print. So gamine, so dainty, so "French Women Don't Get Fat."

After picking up a few presents, it was off to Wandsworth to have dinner with Tony and Helen, two of Piero's old colleagues from his days at EMI Records. The house was uber-chic, not surprising considering Helen is an interior designer. I especially liked the Victorian floor tiles (which were a lovely foreshadowing of what I would soon see in Morocco).

Helen is a divine cook and we feasted on a soul-nourishing winter stew that would have Nigel Slater begging for the recipe, followed by a scrumptious Eton Mess.

It's impossible not to be witty in this room. It seeps into you by proxy.

A bit of whimsy is always to be appreciated.

December 23rd

Today was Luca's turn to be expedition leader, so after a quick breakfast in the hotel...

...which really didn't have to be so quick, because I could have stayed there all day, sipping creamy capuccinos...

...we followed Luca's directive and examined Big Ben from below...

...and then above, via the London Eye.

It was our maiden voyage and it was really quite breathtaking.

To make the ride even more fun, some adorable Japanese boys asked if they could pose with Luca because, in their words, "he have good style." For a mother who often despairs at the outfits her son chooses in the morning ("Must your t-shirt reach your knees?"), I found myself silently hoping this might be a sartorial watershed for him.

After retracing our steps through Trafalgar Square, Luca headed toward Waterstone's. A little voice inside me said, "Yes." I make my fair share of parenting mistakes, but one thing I do take pride in is his love for bookstores.

Yes.

I picked out this book for him, written by comedian David Walliams and illustrated by Quentin Blake. It was a no-brainer. "Yes!"

Luca, however, was having none of it. The voices in my head went something like this:

Bad Mother:

What do you mean you don't want "Mr. Stink"? David Walliams is soo cool. He's on this show "Little Britain" that Daddy and I love. And Quentin Blake did the illustrations. This is a very hip book.

Good Mother:

If you want him to love reading as much as you do, you need to let him choose his own books.

Luca:

Mom, can I get it?

Me:

Yes.

From there, it was a short walk to another favorite haunt, The Covent Garden Hotel, to fulfill Luca's request for hot chocolate (and pay a visit to my future dining room chairs).

I love this hotel so much. It's an irreverent mix of traditional and sexy, with dark glossy woodwork and a brilliant mix of fabrics and one-off pieces.

I have always assumed these porte-cochere curtains were printed, but I touched them this time and realized they are completely needlepointed. Fabulous.

The sun was just setting (at 4:15 pm) and the dining room was making that delicious transition from day to night, transforming itself from a shady lookout onto the world into a glowing, cozy refuge.

There were my chairs, looking as covetable as ever. They're the perfect size for a not overly-large dining room (like mine) and offer enough cozy support for all shapes and sizes.

After that, it was a brief stop at the Seven Dials (infamous haunt of Jack the Ripper)...

...a peek into The Lamb and Flag, the ancient tavern that's wet the lips of everyone from Charles Dickens to "the wits and gallants of the Restoration"....

...and a quick Guy Ritchie-inspired photo session.

And so to bed.

The London/Marrakech Express, Part One

It took seventeen hours and a plane, a train, and two automobiles, but Luca and I finally arrived in London late on the 18th of December. As our black cab whizzed us through the snowy streets, I tried to shake off the weariness from the flight. The city was in full pre-Christmas swing: shops were festively decorated, pubs and restaurants were filled with jolly revelers and well-dressed cosmopolites bustled along the pavement, arms laden with beribboned packages.

Upon arriving at The Gore Hotel, I was informed that The Divine Italian (who had arrived five days previously) had foregone our usual room for the Tudor Suite. My heart quickened -- I liked the sound of it and wondered if it would live up to its name.

Follow me and decide for yourself.

We climbed the first flight of stairs to a private staircase...

...which led to a private Hobbit-sized door...

...which led to a private foyer...

...which led to this.

(The Tudor Suite)

Piero, bless him, had made sure our entrance would be dramatic -- a fire was crackling in the huge stone fireplace, the candelabras were blazing and a bottle of champagne was chilling. For Luca, there was a basket of milk-chocolate Hobnobs, crisps and Ribena. We almost swooned with happiness.

The room was beyond all telling. I felt like I was at Sissinghurst or some medieval English estate instead of smack dab in the middle of South Kensington. In addition to the beamed ceiling and four-poster bed...

...there was an antique two-story minstrels gallery which housed the closets and bathroom (you can see the door leading to it on the left side of the photo).

Even the loo was no slouch in the style department. Just look at this gorgeous copper-clad shower.

After a celebratory toast, we all settled in on the massive Knole sofa and caught the last half of Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's (love him) "River Cottage" special. (Note: Cooking shows have an amazingly soporific effect on children.) At long last, I could finally feel my body uncramping from the confines of seat 44J.

Saturday, December 19th

As the late morning light crept in through the leaded windows, I reluctantly opened my jetlagged eyes and could swear this gilt-bewigged gentleman on the ceiling winked at me.

Turning to the window, I noticed the gorgeous stained glass designs depicting Queen Elizabeth I and the warships that Sir Francis Drake circumnavigated the globe in 1577. History was everywhere in this room.

But there was no time to rhapsodize. Over on the other side of the room, a creature was stirring.

And hell hath no whine like an eight year old with an empty stomach.

We performed our ablutions and quickly hailed a cab to Maiden Lane in Covent Garden where we had a reservation waiting for us at Rules, one of my favorite restaurants.

Open since 1798, it serves traditional English cookery and classic game dishes. Over the years, its tables have been crowded with luminaries like Charles Dickens, W. M. Thackaray and H.G. Wells and it has been featured in the novels of Evelyn Waugh, Graham Greene, Rosamond Lehmann and many more.

What keeps me coming back even more than this is that I just think there's no more beautiful place to be over Christmas.

I felt like I needed something hearty. The fish stew didn't disappoint.

Luca had been looking forward to this visit for months, ever since I started telling him about their World-Famous Sticky Toffee Pudding With a Side of Hot Custard, "the best dessert in the world, one that makes grown men cry and grown women go off their diets immediately."

When it arrived, it looked even more delicious than I remembered it. I felt a growing urge to devour it myself. Just one bite.

The dialogue in my head went something like this:

My Dark Side:

Must have the Precious. We wants it. We needs it. Myyy precioussss.

My Good Side:

No! Not this time. For heaven's sake, control yourself. This time it's for HIM.

How I didn't take a bite of it, I'll never know.

Then it was off to see an afternoon matinee of "Hairspray," starring my friend Belindawho is playing the part of Velma Von Tussle.

Of course, she was amazing and gave a sultry rockstar edge to the role of villainous Velma. Afterwards, we went backstage to congratulate her and say hello.

She had already whisked off her dress by the time we went in, so sorry, no photos. But here are her costumes for posterity.

Tidbit: this one weighs nearly twenty pounds. Who would have thought?

Happy. Holly. Daze.

(The Kenmore Arms, 2009)

I'd like to send a personal thank you to each and every one of my readers for an incredible year. It's been such a rewarding ride, this blogging business, and I feel so privileged to have met so many kindred souls. You are all witty, erudite, and fascinating and I look forward every day to reading your quips, comments and recommendations. Your unbounded generosity has helped "A Bloomsbury Life" sprout buds and tendrils that reach to every end of the globe; as of today, we're nearing 200,000 unique hits for 2009 and count readers in such farflung places as Jaipur, Lisbon, Ile-de-France, Rekyjavik, Istanbul and Hemel Hempstead.

"A Bloomsbury Life" is about many things, but if I had to distill it into a bouillon cube, I'd say it's about living surrounded by what you love. About creating a well-seasoned life for yourself. It's about passionate curiosity. The charms of disorder. Embracing eccentricity and imperfection. And finding enchantment in the everyday. We're here for the merest blink of an eye on this swiftly-moving planet; let's make the journey a fabulous one.

See you in 2010.

xxoo

Why Pack When You Can Procrastinate?

Oh, the best-laid plans.

I deliberately set aside today to figure out what Luca and I were going to pack for London and Marrakech. (Piero's already in Europe waiting for us.) Two radically different destinations, two distinct climates, two completely unrelated wardrobes.

(London, March 2009)

(Marrakech, April 2007)

No biggie. It was 9am. I had all day to figure it out. How long could it take?

(Note to the Judge: Let me state for the record, Your Honor, that everything started out according to schedule.)

The first few items flew into the suitcase with the rapidity of a meteor shower.

Plug adaptors, check.

Toiletries, check.

Reading material, check.

But then the territory became murkier.

Pink kurta and felted Edelweiss jacket?

Tartan skirt and vintage kaftan?

Down jacket and gold gladiator stilettos?

Wellies and sunscreen?

My head was beginning to hurt.

Wintry London and sultry Morocco?

What were we thinking?

I decided to take a break and focus on something of equal import, like the fact that my desk was in the midst of a massive styling crisis. I slid the bronze Thai hand slightly to the right and moved my new One Kings Lane candle on top of the Paul Smith notebook. Much better.

After that important decision, I set about making sure everything on my inspiration board was securely attached. Whew.

I had just begun to arrange the pens in my desk drawer by color and size (so vital!) when my elbow knocked this book onto the floor.

Leafing through it, I came to a full stop at the painting Duncan Grant did of James Strachey in 1910. The patterned rug, the low reading chair, the Japanese screen in the background and of course James himself sitting there looking like a young Colin Firth -- it felt so immediate.

I looked over at my iPhone. It was only 11am. Plenty of time to pack later. What I obviously needed to do right this minute was to challenge myself to create a modern interpretation of the painting.

I moved the little French chair into the office, dragged the rug over and grabbed a stack of books to fan out on the floor. Yes, this is clearly what I should be doing.

I sat there for a bit, legs lazily crossed, imagining myself in a Marlene Dietrich-inspired suit and crisp white shirt. I picked up the book on the little stool that just arrived yesterday via Amazon. "Bright Young People" by D.J. Taylor.

A few moments may have passed.

Suddenly, I realized I was hungry and that it was almost 1pm. I could hardly pack my suitcase on an empty stomach, could I? Plainly, the sensible thing to do would be to make myself a quick lunch.

The teapot looked so pretty that I couldn't not photograph it.

And then I felt obliged to take a picture of the woodpecker teapot too so he wouldn't feel slighted.

I knew things were getting slightly out of hand, but I couldn't help myself. I just kept taking pictures.

After the kitchen, I moved into the dining room...

...and the hall...

...and made my way through the rest of the house, recording more and more vignettes for posterity. At one point, I realized it was nearly 4:30, time to pick up Luca from school and buy fresh flowers for the couple who is housesitting for us.

Suffice it to say, it's now 11:47pm (past that, actually) and I'm writing this post and I'm still not packed.

But as soon as I finish writing this, I will. (Although I could just set the alarm and get up really early.)

Note To Self: Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

Have you ever had "one of those days" that turns into a week of those days? You know what I'm talking about; the kind where you're so crazy-crazed that you dash from one project/appointment/task to the next with barely a breath in between, losing valuable bits of brainpower at each stop and winding up at the end of the day so depleted that you can barely manage to prop your head upright? And then like a scene from "Groundhog Day", you keep waking up to the same thing over and over again?

(Pen ink and watercolor by Thomas Rowlandson, 1757-1827)

Please tell me I'm not alone...even if it's just to make me feel better.

Is it just me or does everything seem to accelerate come December? After Thanksgiving, the days seem to race full-tilt ahead toward their fin d'année conclusion, the minutes speeding by faster and faster, gathering relentless speed until December 31st, at which point one either drinks a glass of champagne from the comfort of one's bed at 10pm and calls it a year, or behaves like a party-loving Bright Young Thing and goes clickety-clacking off into the glittering night.

('The Bright Young Things' at Wilsford:

Cecil Beaton, Hon. Stephen Tennant, Rex Whistler and others, 1927.

Photo by Cecil Beaton, available HERE, for £1400.)

I suppose the lesson amidst all the mayhem is to slow down, embrace the chaos and greet unanticipated events with style and humor.

(Photo by Tim Walker)

After all, I did manage to get one thing done last week.

Editor's Note: To those of you who commiserated so kindly on My Computer Saga, Carlos, the data recovery genius at Melrose Mac, managed to save most of my photos. The only ones I'm still missing are a trip to India in 2007 and one year of Luca's childhood (he will now magically morph from one to three in his albums, skipping the terrible twos entirely. Perhaps not a bad thing). The files may well be lie somewhere in the murky depths of countless bits and bytes, but it will necessitate another lengthy and expensive search and I'm not up for it at the moment. As for all my bookmarks, alas, they have proven unlocatable, so your wondrous lists will be a source of inspiration for 2010.