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rome after dark

When I travel, I become someone else. Perhaps it’s closer to who I really am. Who I strive to be at home. Regardless, I feel freer. I do things I may not do at home. I pack my life with as many moments as possible. Each one escalated. Playing in HD. Essentially, I live on more whims.

I went to Italy in October. Pasta, sun, history, wine and men. Inevitably men. I don’t know why more single women don’t flock to Italy for a burst of attention. While I was in Italy on my first mother-daughter trip, I knew there would be distractions of testosterone. Around every brick corner, under each archway, and on a variety of bar stools. The Italian stallion is no myth. Read more

infatuation strikes

Last month during the film festival hoopla in Toronto, I sat on bar stools. In actual fact it was here that I felt more comfortable, more at ease, than at the parties and festival events. The bar stool was mine. A safe haven. A portion of the bar to claim as my own. It’s easier to be alone when in an environment more acceptable to ride the solo highway. Read more

hollywood’s seedy and golden ages

I appreciate a dive bar. You know the kind (I hope you know the kind). Glassware with questionable marks staining the rim. Gum and other sticky treasures permanently affixed under bar surfaces. An indistinguishable odor permeating the air that would be in everyone’s best interest to stay unknown.  Sweat dripping down the walls like candle wax. Shady characters who may never have seen the light of day hiding out in darkness, beady eyes staring down on you, the imposter. Read more

hijinx in the british countryside

It was a beautiful summer day in the country. The British country, that is. Picture it: rolling hills, stately mansions, posh morning suits, fancy hats. Why all my friends can’t get married in Britain, I’m not sure. The setting was right out of a Jane Austen novel with a pinch of cheeky, floppy haired Hugh Grant thrown in. Read more

behind closed doors

When I think about what Parisians do behind closed doors, it usually involves heady red wine and stimulating political or art talk, mixed with a strong waft of seduction. The recent experience I had in the magical city of Paris was quite the opposite. My fantasies of sipping on Calvados while listening to jazz in an airy apartment in Montmartre living la vie de bohème were dashed. It was in fact a slap in the face back to the 21st century. Read more

members only

Back in London after two years of absence and it was necessary to rekindle some friendships, catch up with family and generally go out on the piss.

After some careful research on a venue – considering factors such as proximity to a tube station, presence of good pub grub, proportion of males vs. females, and general attractiveness of guests, I decided on The Only Running Footman in Mayfair.  Expectations were met and exceeded.  The pub was teeming with eligible British lads – of both the floppy hair and unshaven variety. Read more