Party in the city where the heat is on

Welcome to Miami

Miami Beach and English roses shouldn't mix, perhaps. But since they invented factor 30 to, well, 80, I felt encouraged to brave the heat for the pool, the beach, the beats and the cabanas.

 Pool Party

 The beach along the east side of Miami Beach is breathtaking. Turquoise waves crash to shore (it's windy here, so better for water sports than west Florida). It's not hard to imagine why New Jersey father and son Henry and Charles Lum were so captivated that they decided to buy much of the island, back in 1870. Yes, I confess, if I had a few quid to spare; if I had won the Power Ball last night...(unlikely since I didn't buy a ticket) I would definitely be thinking of a small pied à plage here.

Hideaways at the W South Beach

 If Gatsby circa 2013 took a trip to Miami Beach, I think he might have taken a suite (or four) at the W South Beach hotel, my Saturday night residence. He could probably still have shown them a thing or two, but this hotel is all about decadence - an adult playground par excellence. Lounge by the pool while the resident DJ plays a series of chilled out (but on the verge of partying) tracks. Dip in the pool or dip your tortilla chips into freshly made guacamole. Sun yourself on one of the loungers or sip more cocktails. (Incidentally, there was a disappointing lack of umbrellas in drinks here, but no doubt the Carlyle can supply those for the camper contingent.)

Miami by Night

Never one to shy away from the local attractions, it was great to try out the resident Bliss Spa for a 75 minute massage. Definitely worth the five days of running that I got in last week! The spa was an interesting experience from the inside of the hotel - a separate elevator takes you to check in (you take the hotel elevator to the fourth floor, then walk to the Bliss elevator...down again to two...then back up (in a different elevator again) to the massage room. Labyrinthine relaxation? So it would seem.

Miami Beach Waking Up

Post massage, I took to the private area of the beach to lounge by the waves. Of course, there's no accounting for your neighbours. A stag party (bachelor party, whatever) on my left, already in the annoying "Dude"--"No, Dude!" phase of the day with their Coors light and tasteless Bermudas. And on my right high powered ladies drinking prosecco and bitching about the CFO. (Lose the prosecco and that could have been just another work chat...)

Sand Bar...Beach Bar

Fortunately or not, these conversations were cut short by the arrival of darkening clouds and thunder, so I headed back to my suite to enjoy views of the lightning and listen to the rain from a dry haven. They certainly know how to organise their rooms at the Ws I've stayed at (Chicago and South Beach so far). Admittedly I had an upgrade this time (I used my hotel points...a lot of them...for this stay) and therefore was greeted by a suite of rooms twice the size of my apartment in New York, and I think, also, bigger than my place in England.

Kitchen to Balcony. Just one of the rooms with a view

The suite has its own amusements. Two toilets, TV & DVD room, that's in addition to the TV in the main lounge and the one in the bedroom; complicated lighting structures; lots of (super expensive) hotel booze and snacks lying around. And two balconies. Thank you, I'll take that.

Sunday morning check out is regimented here at 11am - which didn't quite allow for the lie in merited by the comfy bed listening to the waves. They've thought of that, though, so a hospitality suite is available for the beach-hungry, even after check out. And I took advantage of the complimentary car service to explore other parts of Miami beach with the lovely Pedro. Including the beautiful house outside which Gianni Versace was shot. Colourful, Miami? Indeed. 

Versace's Last Stand - beautiful house

This blog has turned out to be a review of the W South Beach mainly, and that's because there are so many different aspects to talk about. As someone who definitely does not relax well, a place with pretty much everything here is wonderful. I can find seating under the trees for quiet, lounges / day beds by the pool for chilled out music listening and people watching, loungers by the sea for tanning (other people's) and sea sports, and several bars and restaurants. And of course, my own sweet suite. Let's come back here, friends!

Flights, and flights of wine.

There's something about travel that brings time into entirely new dimensions. I stand on the railway platform and a three minute wait becomes a lifetime. I watch the seconds counting down to the point where the train is supposed to pull into the station. The clock reads 8:19:01, 02, 03... It seems to slow time down. Are the people around me sipping their coffee more slowly, flicking the pages of their throw away commuter-rags at stop-motion speed? It seems that way.

 Up with the sun

These days, of course it’s more about airport travel. At around 4.30am on a Monday, or 3pm on a Thursday (in situation normal) I get up and get out to the airport. And then the fun begins. Have you seen Up In The Air? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as slick as George Clooney at getting through security without seamless unloading and reloading of various items. I try my best: laptop out and in a bin by itself. (“Yes, I know!” I scream silently at the security attendants. “I do this every week. I know your name, Jerome, and we’ve been here before!”) Shoes off. Of course in the summer this is extremely pleasant. I love reaching the airport at 5.15am only to realise I’m sharing my foot germs with 3000 other travellers as I walk through the security screening.

 Happiness is an on time PM flight home with a G&T

The time to get to the gate is paramount. To get settled. To eye up the competition for upgrades (no chance of this on a commuter flight at 6am; every chance at 1pm travelling with grandparents, college students and weekenders. If it’s the afternoon I may seek out a glass of wine or a G&T. If it’s the morning I just want to sit down and be quiet, away from the children running around screaming and the non-frequent fliers who don’t appreciate the silence that is the code of the regular business traveller.

 The road home...on a wing (and not) a prayer

Before that comes the security clearance, which is always fun. Firstly, I now really enjoy the contemptuous death stares “How dare you be in a priority lane? You clearly don’t deserve it even if you’ve spent $50,000 on travel this year..” which (being British and a lapsed catholic I so enjoy).
On various days the fact that I wear a Nike fuel band is either: a) something that means I need to be patted down for having, and delays me; b) something that I am told I don’t need to take off or c) something that Mr / Ms. Security feel a burning need to chat about. Which is fine, unless I’m in a TravelRage™ in which case I need to be cheerfully ignored.

Delta Blues. And not even in Economy Comfort 

And then there’s the rest of it. In airports a lot of people are having fun getting paralytic-ally drunk. Depending on the time of day, I might be one of them. However, at 7am I’d be unlikely to be joining in with the guy next to me in first (OK, so I got upgraded) who ordered back-to-back screw drivers. This is not too bad depending on how bad the accompanying behaviour is. It’s not great if the screwdrivers are accompanied by fried eggs and ‘home fries’ (little roasted potatoes, heavy on the grease, for you non-Americans). Grease+Eating Sounds+Alcohol = we might as well be going to Ibiza. Why not take off your shirt into the mix? Why not start singing? Why not take both the arm rests?

Today I find myself in the unusual position of travelling back on a Thursday, which my work commitments haven't permitted for a long while. I have, however, forgotten the Travel Gods' rule number one for Thursday trips home: the weather will be AWFUL. No matter it was 80 degrees (that's upper 20s, Celsius enthusiasts); no matter that there was not a cloud in the sky. That was Wednesday. Today is Thursday, and you're going home, which means rain, snow, freak tornadoes, hail, hurricane strength winds. Fun times for all.

Hooray for flights of wine

So here I find myself. It's 5.20pm. My flight leaves at 5.25. Oh, sorry, I mean is *scheduled* to leave at 5.25. It's currently floating between the 7pm-8pm mark. I'm just hoping not to be re-routed to Philadelphia and left there to fend for myself (thanks to my friend B who kindly let me share his ride to Manhattan).If anyone is in any doubt that consulting is glamorous let this decide you. There's only so long you can be jet set before you have to throw the towel in and check in to yet another hotel because you're so tired of the travel delays that you can't take anymore. And with that, why yes, I'll have another flight of roses. It is the summer after all, even if all evidence is to the contrary in NYC. Cheers.

A Shore Thing. Travels with Herodotus

This weekend I finally finished Ryszard Kapuscinski's fascinating book Travels With Herodotus. A journalist from post war Warsaw, Kapuscinski recounts how he had never been on a plane, although his great wish was to cross the border. A rude awakening, then,  that his first posting abroad was not to Czechoslovakia as hoped, but to India. Here began a career of pairing elegant travel writing and well observed political journalism.

Travels with Travels with Herodotus

Mid-travels, Kapuscinski acquired Herodotus's Histories, and in Travels with Herodotus he presents his own journeys alongside excerpts from the great inquiries Herodotus made some 2500 years earlier. One such trip is to Halicarnassus, Herodotus's home town, home to the tomb of Mausolus. By this time it had been renamed Bodrum, a simple fishing village where he enjoyed a simple meal of coffee, goat's cheese and olives.

Herodotus tells us that he knows "that human happiness never remains long in the same place." How true. I visited Bodrum myself aged 18 on an 18-30 holiday. By the time of my visit Bodrum had certainly become the least appropriate place for a tomb heritage site. Mausoleum; no, rather, music, margaritas and amorality. I remember participating in an organised drinking game where we had to sprint up to a point, spin around ten times and then try and run back. Whilst drinking whatever sickly concoction of a cocktail was on offer. Needless to say I was not running in a straight line on the home leg.

Waking the Dead? Two views of Bodrum

Would this kind of human custom have interested the great inquirer? I think so. I remember being woken up by the sounds of the stereo beats at the pool calling us to the bar at 7:30 am; and I remember the sounds of the call to prayer and some boisterous local rooster competing for airspace. As is so often the case, the sacred and the profane like to live side by side.

Life's a Beach

I read the final pages of Travels With Herodotus on Naples beach, south west Florida, where I'm visiting my parents-in-law this weekend. It's a journey I've made several times before, but apart from a variance of 10-15 degrees (Fahrenheit) there's a certain pride from the 'locals' that nothing much changes here. For tennis and golf enthusiasts it's a haven of perfect sporting weather.

Naples Beach, south west Florida

Herodotus never made it to Florida, but I think he'd still be somewhat interested in the customs of the day-to-day here also. In this place where the trees and plants to me seem in constant bloom, Cosmopolitans or cocktails of your choice are mixed at 5 pm. Okay, 3 pm. Then it's on to the nearest restaurant for the early bird special. Get in before 5 or you'll have a rush. Get there by 7 and the place is deserted. Everyone's gone home to play Whist. And maybe have more cocktails. Before driving home to rest before it begins again tomorrow.

Diamond blue baby New York City...

It's (finally) spring time in New York. The blossoms are out and this city is more raucous than ever. Perhaps the winter storms and sometime snowfall muffled the horns, the blaring car-stereo-tunes and the shouting from the streets; I noticed how the sirens cut through the greyness and bitter winds with their hollow bleating even in March's wintry temperatures. But with the arrival of the blossoms and blooms in the park the noises on the streets are louder than ever.

Central Park in the spring

To greet the spring New York hails The Great Gatsby - Luhrman style - in a couple of weeks. I have mixed feelings about good old Baz after the farcical and touching Strictly Come Ballroom and inspired Romeo and Juliet were followed with the Disney-fied "Consumption, the Musical" that was Moulin Rouge.

Fashion Forward: The Great Gatsby

Nevertheless, New York is going to be roaring like the twenties in two weeks. Only today in my local thrift store I overheard two young NYU students debating whether a particular dress would do for a party in its honour. Fear not, young ladies. it won't be a struggle to find a headband, short dress or bob cut among the fashion followers of the world in a month or so after its release. In fact they are probably in store right now. You too can be Daisy (with the added bonus of being pre-unhappy but shockingly wealthy marriage and nondescript child).

Alternatively, there are those others in the Mad Men corner. A period piece for every figure, then. Busty redheads who become partners, short-haired, long-legged gamine girls who marry money. There are entire fashion lines devoted to the series in store now.

Sixties Style on Madison Avenue: Mad Men

So many of the features of both depict the fundamentals of New York City. Opportunity (in all of its beautiful and sordid channels); secrecy and anonymity; wealth and other riches; brevity. Scott Fitzgerald could have been writing about New York itself: "In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars."

The Great Gatsby is whimsical. For me it conjures elements of Oxford particularly, when we all were characters playing out romances and adventures in black tie, in scholars' gowns throughout those dreaming spires. And now that the haze has returned to Manhattan, with the promise of summer on the horizon the whimsy has returned here too. Engagement photographs and fashion photo shoots abound in the park and the tulips and snowdrops vie for space in its lush gardens.

Whimsical Central Park, through the late afternoon sunshine

Winter was long and bleak. Reflected here by the dearth of posts. Now that spring has returned even I have found my voice again and sit here on the Upper East Side with the windows pushed all the way open to let in the sun, the shouting (!) and the starling songs on the trees outside. The tourists never really left, but like the bees buzzing in the gardens once more they are here again. The music is loud again, the New Yorkers are out cursing on the streets, and our dreams are beyond us, not behind us.

Lana Del Rey - Young and Beautiful

(Nearly) Up In The Air

Travelling with a laptop always has its beginning and its end, and I rarely spend much time on this in this blog. For one thing, it’s the most mundane part. Whatever the airport; whatever the destination; we still have our check in, our security process and potentially the inevitable ‘random’ screening. Then the trawl to the gate, and, finally, the wait for the plane…the flight attendants…Medallion members. Those bastards.

Today at Heathrow, ah beloved airport, they had really laid on the full experience. A bland, neon-vested chap described calmly to those 200-300 back in line:

 “Ah yes, well you see, we have 4 flights leaving within ten minutes of one another.”

Indeed? Well, that explains it then. What other possible explanation could there be for the delay? Or what solution? Nothing like, say, putting extra staff on the desk to offset the busy time? (We could all learn something from Tesco…sad to say.) Or, again, allowing silver medallion members to check in with Sky Priority agents? No, let’s just do the sensible thing. Remove all sense of a formed queue and allow the casually homicidal would-be passengers to form ever increasing lines of confusion. Did I say lines? Clumps, clusters, huddles of disaster may all be suitable synonyms.

In flight

And oh, the airport. Where else to find 200 identically dressed mussed-up-do blondes wearing Uggs of dubious authenticity? And jogging pants from Juicy or similar. Children who bring the art of screaming to a new decibel and pitch; parents who find arguments the best for of airport conduct. Or aimless discussions about when the plane will leave. Or what zone they are in. Or whether the announcements are really working. Or what time is it in America. Or whether they should have filed ESTA before travelling. Love-struck couples soppily kissing their farewells. [oh dear, talking about myself again.]

I love to wait in line. I do. I am British, after all. Where are the passport control people? There they are. They’re changing their mind about whether to continue working or go for tea. (Why are we wasting time on such question? Tea. In fact. Of course. Good decision.) Where are the security people? They are chatting. As I love to do when at work. No, in fact I have nothing better to do…I mean, who does?

I also love the security screening. It’s right up there with my favourite ten pastimes. Like listening to UB40's Red Red Wine and learning how to Morris Dance. I personally love to spend time behind the small group of individuals who still break with tradition and remain deaf and dumb to signs of guidance. “I have to put my laptop in a separate bin?" "I have to remove my belt?" "What’s that you say? My shoes?" "Ah, yes, I forgot about the toothpaste. Good point. And the razor. I meant to put it into my suitcase, I really did. What on earth is it doing in there?”  For these people, I would happily invest in a syndicate to implement Up In The Air’s security scene as compulsory viewing. Never mind the flight safety video. You’ll be preparing them for safety far better with a long-overdue lesson in airport etiquette.

Eventually reunited with functioning films...

Of course, it’s important to be at the gate on time. One risks missing out on the full waiting experience otherwise. Like when I arrived this morning. I am generally an obedient person when it comes to following transport instructions. One never knows when one might be left behind. So naturally it was with a cold sweat beading on my forehead that I marched down to gate five at 9.10am this morning to board my imminently departing flight at 9.25. The sweat trickled more rapidly with the calm at the gate. Had the plane already left? The patiently-seated few were surely the three-hours-early crew for the next flight? Such a waft of calm rested on the entire area of gate 5, that I wondered whether my eyes were deceiving me. Not getting any older, after all.

Two exciting trips to the accessible toilet later, am still no wiser. At this point, shaking with the consumption of additives + caffeine (diet Coke Zero and Kettle Chips) and dangerously close to the end of my range of Scramble with Friends contests, I am praying to the Delta Gods to save me please. And at last, an hour and a half later, it was answered.

Gratuitous George Pic. Well, why wouldn't I?

Fortunately, only a few restarts of the on-board in-flight entertainment system and I am free to watch my films of choice. Shame Up in the Air isn’t on offer.

*EPILOGUE*

The Delta crew provided me with the following delights today:

On takeoff, I learned I had a malfunctioning TV / sound system - absolutely unforgivable on long haul flights. After a 15 minute reset the sound was still providing screeching in my ear rather than anything resembling a film dialogue, so after yet another reset I was blessed by moving into a seat next door with functioning sound. Which was great until the flight attendant leaned across me to speak to my seat-mate and spilled water all over me. Thank you, Delta, for the miles you gave me to say sorry. And thank heaven for small mercies like these.

Telling Tales on Social Media

I was about to be very cross this morning.

Yesterday on LinkedIn I was carefully considering a new article cited in the Harvard Business Review group. The article, from Psychology Today, is fascinating whatever your profession or lifestyle, because on some level we all interact with people.

The Inside Story - Psychology Today

After reading the article I decided to comment myself. As those of you who have patiently followed my blog know, I'm not exactly posting on a daily basis. While I remain very enthusiastic about social media in its many forms and can be found on Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn among other sites, I maintain my blog only when I feel like I have something to say that is potentially of interest. Ah, fortunate reader, otherwise it would be all laundry, time and expense reporting and Friday night margaritas every week. The latter creeps into this blog more often than it probably should.

The article explores our need for narrative and story telling, and how we respond to it. As someone whose career has centred around people's ability to change (including mine) I commented. The crossness I refer to above resulted because I then received a message telling me my comment was under review. "Fine", I thought." That makes good sense - it would not speak well of any publication to let the logic or grammatically-bereft of the world's populace comment willy-nilly."

How wrong I was. Within minutes of posting my comment, the following appeared:

Not quite Daily Mail, but really, people. Logic, thought, grammar. Ringing any bells at all?

Whilst trying to remain calm, it was as a rather disgruntled blogger that I went about the rest of my day. I don't consider myself the expert on change, but I do think that my voice is as relevant to this discussion as any change specialist. Plus I don't make grammatical errors, or post randomly ill-considered bilge.

And what is a blog for, but for the creation of discussion where one's own passions and opinions are at the root of the posts?

So in this post I am recording for posterity my two pence / five cents. And also Tears for Fears' wonderful "Everybody Wants to Rule The World" for irony and for the pure joy of it.

Happy Tuesday!

Everybody Wants To Rule The World. (And I would quite like to be featured in HBR's comments, thanks!)

My comment: now posted in LinkedIn's Harvard Business Review group (thanks!):

"Narratives are powerful because they allow us to connect. As a former teacher, working with some of the most challenging of London's children, connecting with (e.g.) a 12 year old self-harmer, abandoned by both parents, with a shared story - however insignificant (a love of Haribo, a common interest in the weekend's Chelsea result) begins the path to connection, acceptance and trust. To teach is to develop that trust and use it to lead - and leading through stories often fast tracks that learning onto the highway. 

Now I work in change management for businesses, I have not forgotten the importance of the story. How can I get 3000 people to use a new system? They don't like change; they would prefer the old system - it has its problems but it's familiar and they can do their jobs successfully using it. 

The first step towards adopting change is understanding, so we write the once upon a time stories of how this all began. We tell the people why things are not working the way we need them to for them, for their customers and for the company to keep growing. We don't just tell this story once, we tell it again and again with new examples, with key leaders sharing this so that the same message becomes a powerful tool. This is where the stories begin. As we continue on this journey of change more and more people in the company become story tellers for change. 

Training and communications are vital components of all change pieces. It is when the trainees become agents for training other through stories, and communicate the need for change that the entire organisation commits itself to success."

Frankenstorm and Frankenmuth

Stormy weather stalked New York on Sunday 28th October as if to hail the arrival of a real life Halloween. I’m told that American teenagers delight in smashing pumpkins at this time of year. In New York this year I'm not sure they had the chance, as natural forces claimed the land and all of its possessions.

Reservoir View -  New York in the Fall

Not that you would have known this had you been at brunch in New York on Saturday. Everyone and his mother (as they say here, when they mean ‘the world and his wife’) was out celebrating the falling leaves and hailing the arrival of hat, coat and boot season. I would have expected more drama around the weather predictions than the murmurings of an impending super storm rustling around brunch tables like scattered dry leaves.

Prosecco-fuelled and dazed, I realised it was probably time to evacuate if I had any chance of flying home to England from Detroit the following week. Luckily I made it onto a Saturday Detroit-bound flight, and found myself in the familiar surroundings of the Westin Southfield once again. And while there are blips in the service as with any hotel, the beds and showers really are heavenly and the comfort of a hotel room that looks (now) like home, is something, even if I wouldn’t exactly picture it when clicking my ruby slippers together.

My local subway station during the storm. No downtown trains, then.

And here endeth my personal experience with Frankenstorm…So Sunday in Michigan…what to do?

75 miles north of Southfield is a small German town, settled originally in 1845, sometimes known as little Bavaria, but actually called Frankenmuth. No link this time with Mary Shelley. The city is named “Franken” for Franconia (in Bavaria) and “Mut” for courage. Like me, the original settlers arrived from New York – but travelled not by Delta’s *best* fleet but canals and the Great Lakes, on a mission to preach Lutheran Christianity to the Native American tribes.

The road to Frankenmuth

Although I visited the city museum (a bargain at $2) it is clear that Frankenmuth has morphed into another kind of experience – one largely geared towards a combination of the German and Native American traditions I will summarise as: cheese, beer, fudge and moccasins.

Haus of Cheese

I have never seen so many essential major food groups with their own shops – taffy twirling in the window, fudge fresh onto the marble slap and cheeses of all kinds (even chocolate cheese!). To stay in Frankenmuth is to play Russian roulette with the cholesterol gods. And I wouldn’t wager too many would come out unscathed!

Fudge Kitchen

After sampling some (alright all) of the above food groups and walking around the city, I made my way back to the outskirts for the one last stop I knew I really had to make: Bronner’s Christmas Store – “The largest Christmas store in the world”. Now this I had to see.

Would this make you feel welcomed at the Bavarian Inn? Hmmm.

And no, I was not disappointed. The stuff of the Grinch’s nightmares (and probably of many atheists) Bronner’s is Christmas what Disney World is to saccharin childhood cartoons: larger than life and frankly terrifying in some cases! I’ve captured a few choice pictures. I wisely decided not to open my wallet in the Christmas store, lest $1m later I emerged with a larger than life sized Wise Man and about 4 baubles costing $30 apiece.

Bronner's. Possibly the most terrifying Christmas store in the world. Ever.

So, departure from the storm was departure from reality for a while. Frankenstorm - I'm glad I escaped. Frankenmuth, I hope to see you again.