I rolled out of bed at 1:00 pm today. Not too sure if I should blame the jetlag or those crazy apple martinis slash champagne cocktails. I’m sticking with jetlag. The day was spent going through 200 e-mails and rehydrating. It was Liza’s birthday and she invited me to a private birthday party at her best friend’s home. What a fabulous invitation! A meal in a Swedish home! And not any ol’ Swede. Her best friend is also a countess, actually related to the man who shot Gustav III at the Masked Ball (remember I just went to see that opera two weeks ago!).
The dinner party included Liza, her best friend and countess/hostess, a gorgeous Ugandan friend from Oslo, and a darling male family friend who has seven children by a few different women. What an impressive line up!
Everyone was so kind and they all tried really hard to speak basic English during the evening. I must admit, some spoke better English than others. While they did their best to keep the conversation on international topics and culture, things quickly went down hill when the wrong English word was used accidentally.
Let me set the scene….
We are all chatting lightly about our families, and the older gentleman looks over to the big, beautiful black man and says, “So, how long are you?” Now, everyone else is trying to figure out what he means… “How TALL are you? How OLD are you?” or maybe “How long have you been here?” Whatever he meant, I started laughing, while trying to explain what was so funny. Once explain, everyone started laughing and we just could not stop. For the rest of the night, we would look over to the big, beautiful black Ugandan and ask, “So, how LONG are you?”
I arrived into Stockholm at 9:15 pm on Thursday, September 28. One of our Tango Diva members Liza offered to show me around while in Stockholm. So, I expected that we would get together some time during my trip, but I never expected her to be waiting for me in the lobby of the Diplomat Hotel! What a treat! I walk to the counter to check in, all the while thinking I would be in bed by midnight. But moments after getting my key, I see a gorgeous blonde stand up and calls out “Teresa!” Sure enough, it was the darling Liza. She handed me a beautiful black bvlgari bag and says, “I just came from a cocktail party at Bvlgari, and I thought you would like a gift bag too.” Of course, I want a gift bag from Bvlgari! She then tells me that Thursday night is a big night on the town and that she wants to take me to a private club where a few of her friends where waiting for her. I jumped in the shower and in 10 minutes I have transformed form a jet lagged chick to a international Tango Diva.
We stroll the pristine streets of Stockholm, chatting about travel, life, and my plans for the next few weeks. In moments, we reach the club. It is a scene out of the La Dolce Vita – Scandinavian style. A few blocks later, we are in front of a stone building on a small plaza in front of the club that is bustling with VIPs. We walk in the door and magically are handed champagne! Liza introduces me to her first-class friends and I run into a guy that I met at the Monte Carlo Yacht Club last year. We talk, laugh, and share stories – all in English!
After the private club, we head to a few hot night stops and then we settle into Bistro Jarl, a cocktail and champagne bar. Liza ordered us a special cocktail made by the famous bartender Shassen Samaletdin. This delicious cocktail was kinda like an apple martini on ice, topped with champagne. It really was out of this world! But after my second one, I knew it was time to head back to my hotel, by way of a hot dog stand.
I got to bed after 4:00 am, Stockholm time, and I knew that the next day was not going to start until after noon.
Unlike many international carriers, Icelandair does not a First Class. They have a Saga Class. What is great, is the real meaning for the word “saga” which I found at the University of British Columbia:
“The word saga “has been translated out of its original meaning, “She-Who-Speaks,” that is, an oracular priestess, such as were formerly associated with sacred poetry. The literal meaning of saga was “female sage” … The written sagas of Scandinavia were originally sacred histories kept by female sagas or sayers, who knew how to write them in runic script. Among northern tribes men were usually illiterate. Writing and reading the runes were female occupations. Consequently, runes were associated with witchcraft by medieval Christian authorities, who distrusted women’s lore. To them, saga became a synonym for Witch.” from: The Crone: Woman of Age, Wisdom and Ritual by Barbara Walker (1985, p. 53)
I feel like this trip is my “Saga.” And what better way to start a saga than with an up-and-coming female rock star named Dilana? She was the finalist on the fabulously successful show Rock Star Super Nova. She’s my rock star super Diva!
We were both sitting in Saga Class, me sipping champagne, she sipping Airborne. Dilana is on her way to Iceland for a concert tour. I wish I could have stayed and watched, but Stockholm is waiting and I have my own big adventure waiting for me.
Chicks who fly rock! And I am about to board an Icelandair plane that is being flown by a woman. She is the pilot, her husband is the co-pilot and her two kids are also on the flight.
Icelandair is a great way to fly to Europe. I am leaving from SFO, but they also fly from NY, FL, and DC. What is so great is that you first fly into Reykjavik, where you have the option of staying for a few days, and then flying onto a bevy of destinations in Europe including London, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Berlin, Madrid, and Barcelona – to name a few. For a full list click here.
There’s just one problem with flying from SFO to Europe on Icelandair – flights are only during the summer months. So, alas, I am on the final return flight from Stockholm to SFO for the season.
I love airports! They represent possibilities. You show up and there is an endless list of places you can go – that is really cool! Watch my video at SFO before my departure.
I leave for Europe tonight, and although I have vowed to spend my dollars on things that are in Euros, I had to go check out the new Bloomingdale’s. Stephanie and I were invited to a private press opening and the general manager Alan Svensen took us on a VIP tour of his 5-story shopping Mecca.
Us two Tango Divas were the first to purchase items at Bloomie’s!
Door open to the public on Thursday, September 28th, and you can keep up to date about fashion shows, events, and promotions here.
Check out my video with Alan, the general manager here.
This just in: it’s okay to have a good, old fashioned lotion, cream and gel party in your carryon again. Well shut my mouth and lather me up!
Before we send you back to your regularly scheduled program, in this case sultry and surly secrets from Stephanie’s Italian voyage, let me take a minute to remind everyone that today is the first day of the rest of your shampoo and conditioners’ lives…today they are allowed to travel with you!!
Today, the FAA of the United States announced that it will ease travel restrictions on your liquids and gels. Now you get to travel with all that stuff, but not freely. Here are the arbitrary and often annoying rules:
1. All travel liquids and gels must be in containers equal to or less than 3 oz.
2. All travel-sized liquids and gels must be able to fit into a clear, quart sized or sandwich bag-sized ziplock container. If you own ziplock stock, hooray for you.
This weekend we met the most awesome couple ever! Robert and Maryam Scoble. He is a world-famous blogger and she is a very talented marketing and technology maven. Finding out, they live a few blocks away from us, and we have a great afternoon hanging out.
They said that I should do a video blog while I’m in Europe. They showed me how to do it, and I think that I am in business! I did a short video if my riding my horse in Half Moon Bay. I will be shooting video every day during my trip through Europe. I will be jetting across Europe from September 27 – October 15.
Just saw the film The U.S. versus John Lennon – it’s powerful and timely. I was fairly young and definately not aware of all that was going on in the early 70′s. But I do know where I was when John Lennon’s death was announced. I was dreading the end of the movie and reliving it.
Really gets you thinking. Where are we now? Who is leading us? Who is being forced out? What a wonderful glimpse into John’s humour, love, art, wisdom, passion. His songs are lifted right out of his daily journal.
What did not happen becasue John died? This movie weaves the past and the present into one compelling message. A message that is relevant now, 30 years later.
Go see the film. You will be moved. Informed. Possibly inflamed.
I get invited to a ton of events and for the most part, I’ll float in, enjoy a cocktail, and mingle my way out to the next event. No thought involved, just fun nights with peers, friends, and colleagues. But last night was extraordinary. I got to meet one of my idols, a woman that shaped my ideology, a feminist icon, and a true maven – Gloria Steinem.
The Women’s Media Center (WMC) sponsored this fabulous event. And the mission of the organization is to make the female half of the world visible and powerful in the media. The guest list read like a who’s who in female journalism. Jane Fonda was there as well. She is one of the founders of the WMC.
The power, buzz, and excitement in the room was electrifying. Jane Fonda spoke of women’s solidarity, Gloria spoke of strength and courage, and Helen Zia spoke of uniting together as one force. If you did not know that you were at Roe restaurant in San Francisco, you could have mistaken the event as an underground rally in Burma or Afghanistan.
If you have a chance to get involved with The Women’s Media Center by donating or volunteering, please do. Us women are more powerful than we give ourselves credit. So, stand up sister! It’s time to rock this world with positive girl power!!
I couldn’t figure out why I was so nervous about this trip. It wasn’t nearly as exotic as any of my recent travels, and I was even going with friends. Sitting in the airport waiting for my flight, I realized the culprit as a loudspeaker blared over and over again: "We are at an orange terror alert, orange terror alert."
The news, the new travel restrictions, the unknown…it had all wreaked havoc on my psyche. My travel companions reported similar anxieties. Traveling definitely sucks these days.
Because I was no longer flying to Romania for my Dracula tour first (I was too ill to fly), I had scrambled to find a last-minute ticket and was lucky to get one at just $1000 on British Airways. The catch? A 10 hour layover at Heathrow. I followed the signs for Flight Connections and found myself in security hell. The lines reached to infinity and beyond. Not only did we all have to go through a security screening, but the hand baggage size allowances had completely shrunk. Unless I found a magic mushroom fast, my carryon was not getting through the looking glass.
Let me try to describe Heathrow’s carryon luggage size limits: picture half a grocery bag or a biggish briefcase. And you are allowed ONLY ONE carryon, period. No purse plus briefcase. I watched backpackers and Americans used to plump totes full of goodies trying to cram their bags in the tiny size-o-meter metal bin in front of the airport guards. For most, it was useless and they were sent off for some unknown punishment.
Later, on the baggage carousel in Rome, I would see pink backpacks and fortified shopping bags circling around with their gargantuan suitcase cousins. The world had gone mad.
I grabbed my fleece jacket out of my tote, wrapped it around my shoulders and shoved my purse down into my bag. I smiled at the guard and tried to shove my tote in their testing bin. It did not fit. He looked at me and I shoved again, hard. Miraculously, the tote fit and I got to go through to Terminal 1. Whew! After that insanity, there was no way I was popping out for high tea at the Savoy.
Now what? I picked up an airport guide. Harrod’s was here, of course. But there was something new: a spa. Spa? Upstairs from Burger King was a spa that had just opened over the summer called Rejuve, "a revitalizing place for your well being."
It was gorgeous, a true oasis in the bustling airport. I learned that for a small fee, you can become a member for the day and escape the bat race (bats fly and rats don’t!) and relax and restore yourself. I booked a massage and facial treatment (they use fabulous Jurlique products!), exclaiming to the lovely woman helping me, Sam, that this was the first time I’d arrive looking and feeling better than I’d left! The massage and facial were geared to rehydration and circulation, and soon my face was hydrated and my blood was moving. What a fantastic find!
Relaxed and revitalized, I made my way to Roma. I got in at about 10 pm and my driver was there waiting for me. I had booked it and my hotel online at InItaly.com, and so far it was working out great.
As we drove towards Rome, my young driver began flirting in broken English. Then his phone rang. He turned to me, frowning, and said, "Trouble." What was the problem? Apparently it was La Notte Bianca, or White Night. No, Italy’s a little too far south for sun-filled nights, but they don’t care. It was White Night anyways. This meant that my hotel’s street, as well as all the streets downtown, were closed to cars. Which meant that I had to get myself and my suitcase to my hotel on my own.
Though he wanted to sleep with me, my driver did not want to escort me. He pulled over in the total mayhem—cars circling the town center trying to get in and throngs of millions of people on foot, and said, "Your hotel that way, through the piazza, first street. Maybe 100 meters."
I grabbed a hold of my suitcase’s pull handle, tipped it onto its wheels and made for the Piazza del Popolo. It was now about midnight, there were a zillion people on the streets, most of them drunk, and there was music and a laser show coming from somewhere. Even museums were open. I trudged through the piazza. I was wearing a green velour jogging suit, a sweatsedo, and it was humid as a mother. Sweat began to bead delicately on my forehead. Now I was on Via del Corso looking for number 126, and I soon discovered that on one side of the street, the numbers ascended, while on the opposite side, they descended. Whatta the fucka?
This street was slammed packed. People were wasted. They stumbled over my suitcase; I ran over toes. There was no way to be civil and I’d stopped muttering ‘scuzzi’ twenty meters ago. In the distance were some big flags hoisted outside a doorway—it looked promising as a hotel front. But like a mirage in these dunes of humanity, it didn’t seem to be getting any closer. People blew fierce notes through big plastic horns and screamed all around me. The crowd was a sludge and I couldn’t move. The flags waved to me down the street but I literally could not move. Picture trying to get to your hotel through the Mardi Gras parade with all your luggage. I wanted to cry.
Finally, I made one last merciless push through toes and elbows and purses and shoved myself through the hotel door. Yes, it was the right hotel! I was shown to my room, a pitiful closet of a thing on the first floor. I wanted a day to myself in Roma so none of my friends arrived until the next day. I took a deep breath, changed into a Viva Tango Diva tank top and miniskirt, and went back downstairs, into the crowds, the melee, the mystical Villa Borghese park, the White Night…
I rolled out of bed at 1:00 pm today. Not too sure if I should blame the jetlag or those crazy apple martinis slash champagne cocktails. I’m sticking with jetlag. The day was spent going through 200 e-mails and rehydrating. It was Liza’s birthday and she invited me to a private birthday party at her best friend’s home. What a fabulous invitation! A meal in a Swedish home! And not any ol’ Swede. Her best friend is also a countess, actually related to the man who shot Gustav III at the Masked Ball (remember I just went to see that opera two weeks ago!). 
