Friends, I've graduated.  I bought a domain and moved Amy Hit the Atmosphere over to wordpress.  You can find new posts at amyatmosphere.com.  Hope to see you there!

Sintra, where Fairytales Come True

We eat breakfast at an outdoor café – it’s the first normal breakfast I’ve had since we arrived.  Ham and egg on a baguette for me, and Randi orders bacon and eggs with a “double coffee,” which means there are probably about eight shots of espresso in it.  We board a train to Sintra from Rossio Station, a beautiful old train station in the middle of Rossio Square. 

Sintra is even more magical than we imagined.  A quaint little town built on a hill; we spend our morning exploring the grounds of the Quinta de Regaleira, a large garden that once belonged to a wealthy family.  Deemed a UNESCO World Heritage site, wandering around this garden is basically a game of “what beautiful amazing hidden thing will you find next?”  From a seemingly secret lily pond with a stone bridge hanging above it, to a multitude of stone castle-like towers and dark, inviting caves, Randi and I once again find ourselves in a real life fairy tale, running around and exploring the grounds to see what we’ll discover next.  We come across a secret door made of stone – it looked just like another rock structure in the garden – but when pushed open, reveals a steep, old well.  The initiation well is a masonry well supposedly inspired by the Knights of Templar.  I heard something about being reborn when you climb all the way down the well and then back up, but I can’t seem to find anything about that here on the internet, so I’m not sure how accurate that is.  But I like to think we went through some kind of symbolic rejuvenation while climbing down the steep, dark steps with water dripping on us.  It was completely surreal.  I don’t know if we were reborn, but reaching the bottom of this structure and looking up at the circular opening so high above us that allowed just a bit of sunlight to creep down and illuminate the small space we were in felt like some kind of spiritual experience. 

 We continued exploring this place, climbing up magical castles and looking out at the lush gardens around us.  We even retraced our steps on the way back so we could experience every part of it one more time.  We ended up spending about three hours at the Quinta de Regaleira, which is pretty ridiculous when on vacation and trying to cram lots of sightseeing into a short amount of time.  But it was well worth it – this place will be etched in our memories forever, and will be my absolute must see recommendation for anyone planning a trip to Portugal.

Eventually, we’re able to part with our new favorite place in the world, so we head back to town to get some lunch.  Randi read about a Portugese/French restaurant in a guidebook, so we make our way around the narrow cobblestone pathways until we find it.  This restaurant, Tacho Real, had the best salmon I’ve ever eaten – melty, super fresh and delicious.  Randi’s stuffed crab was pretty good, too – I now understand why guidebooks exist and why people buy them.

After lunch, we did a bit of shopping, and then made our way up to the Pena Palace, which sits atop the hill overlooking the entire village of Sintra.  Yet another gorgeous place for us to explore while feeling like we’ve entered a magnificent fairy tale, the royal family once lived here.  I particularly admired Portugal’s queen Amelia, whose glorious bedroom opened up to the “Queen’s Balcony,” which overlooks not just the entire castle, but all of Sintra and beyond. 

Sintra was like a five-star, fifteen course decadent meal for the eyes.  

  

San Jorge, Alfama, and Nutella Pizza

Today we’re going to the Alfama neighborhood and starting our day at Castelo San Jorge.  Our cab driver asks where we’re from, and when we tell him America, he says it’s a good day for us.  We ask why, and he tells us Osama Bin Laden was captured and killed by American troops.  We’ve hit possibly the most major turning point in the war on terror, and Randi and I are in Portugal.  But on a positive note, we get the BBC here, so we’re getting a global perspective on the situation versus a skewed view from American media. 

Arriving at Castelo San Jorge, we walk up onto the castle grounds and see the most amazing view of the city of Lisbon, terra cotta rooftops everywhere and an incredible view of the Tagus.  We start to wander towards the castle but are interrupted by a peacock walking around with its feathers extended.  We admire this guy, one of many stray peacocks that seem to wander the castle grounds.  We begin to make our way up to the castle itself, and soon, Randi and I are running around through ancient stone fortresses and climbing narrow staircases, peering through windows and exploring this ancient labyrinth.  We feel like we’ve walked into a fairytale. 

After playing at the castle all morning, we begin to explore the narrow cobblestone streets of Alfama.  We wander into an artisan shop, where the owner asks if I voted for Bush, thoroughly relieved when I shake my head no.  I ask where the tiles I’m admiring are made, and he holds up his hands and says “with these.”  He lives across the river and has a workshop set up at his home, where he makes everything that he sells in the stores.  I buy a few of his hand painted tiles before leaving the shop.

 

We stumble upon a small park, with two men playing music next to a painter making watercolor depictions of the site we’re looking out on.  The park overlooks the river and sits next to a church with blue painted tiles depicting various biblical scenes.  We wander a bit more and head towards Rossio Square, on our way to explore the Bairro Alto neighborhood. We stop into a café for lunch.  As we’re enjoying our meal of calamari and pork, the weather changes our plans.  It starts raining, and we decide to visit the Oceanarium, the world’s second largest Aquarium.  The café owner, a sweet woman in her fifties who can’t do enough for us, gives us detailed directions on how to get to the aquarium by metro.  And then she scolds us for not finishing our meals.

 

Our afternoon at the aquarium is lovely – we see penguins, starfish, and the most adorable sea otters.  We can’t stop watching these furry otters as they glide around in the water, washing themselves and just enjoying their aquatic life to the fullest.   The aquarium is set up so you can see ecosystems from all the major oceans of the world, which is really interesting.  We walk outside the aquarium and stare at the Vasco de Gama bridge, the longest bridge in Europe.  It seems to go on forever.  We stroll back to the metro station on what seems to be a rickety wooden path over the water, somewhat unsettling, but we make it.  After many failed attempts to put money on my metrocard, we make it back to our hotel just in time for our exotic wood and bamboo massages.  Randi booked a bamboo massage, me an exotic wood drainage massage, but when we compared notes afterwards it seemed like the same thing – where the masseuse basically rolled a rolling pin down each of our backs at various points during the massage.  The spa at the hotel is a sight itself, containing an indoor pool that illuminates in different colors every few seconds, and has a tile mosaic of some ancient statue overlooking this glowing technicolor spectacle.

 

This evening, we’re eating at Guilty, a new restaurant opened by famous Lisbon restaurateur, Olivier.  Our waiter doesn’t speak a word of English, so we communicate with him through pointing and hand gestures.  He’s amused by us, and every time we buzz him on the buzzer in the middle of the table (apparently this is how you get your server’s attention in Lisbon), he cracks up and comes over to see what we want.  We’re too full for dessert tonight (obviously), but we order the nutella pizza anyway, which proves to be one of the best decisions we’ve ever made.

May 1^st - Belem

We’re told to take the tram to Belem, where Portugal’s most famous piece of architecture lives.  After boarding the crowded tram, we realize the machine accepts coins only, of which we have none.  We desperately ask people to make change for our paper money, but no one has any.  We notice that they really do make a valiant effort to look – very unlike what we’re used to in America.  After giving up and simply hoping we won’t be kicked off this tram, we notice that one of the men we originally asked for change had made his way to the front of the crowded tram, and is now pushing his way back in our direction.  He gives us coins, and it’s apparent that his trek through the crowd to the front of the tram was solely a mission to get us the change we needed.  We’re astounded by his kindness.

We pass our desired stop at Belem, but when we get off one stop later, we’re standing in front of the Jeronimos Monastery, a centuries’ old, vast building with domes and iron wrought spokes extending across its massive roof.  We admire the architecture for a long time and walk around the gardens surrounding the monastery.  There’s a beautiful fountain directly in front, which adds to this amazing scenery.  We see an interesting looking sculpture in the distance, up by the water, so we head in that direction.  The sculpture hangs over the Tagus River, depicting various 16^th century prominent figures boarding a ship.  It was such an interesting structure, and the placement of it hanging over the river made it that much more impactful. 

At the base of this sculpture, we find ourselves on a path along the Tagus, looking at the Torre de Belem in the distance.  As we enjoy our lovely stroll across the river, we stop at one of the ultra simplistic cafes that pop up along the path.  By simple, I mean the décor of these restaurants consisted only of white walls with floor to ceiling glass windows, with outdoor and indoor seating.  We had a quick orange juice and sandwich as we stared across the Tagus at the rolling hills and terra cotta covered homes dotting the Portugese landscape. 

 

We continue on and reach the Torre de Belem, the most famous structure in Portugal, a castle/fortress standing since the 1500’s.  We walked around and admired it from all angles.  As we walked away from the fortress, we stumbled upon a military memorial, guarded by two military soldiers.  Fully dressed in uniform, the soldiers were slowly marching towards each other in front of the memorial.  When they reached each other, they promptly turned around, and slowly marched back to their individual posts at either end of the memorial.

 

Next, we made our way to the famous Pasteis de Belem, which I can only describe as the Café du Monde of Portugal.  Sitting at a table in a large area crowded by tourists, our disgruntled server brought us our coffee and pastries.  These were no beignets, though.  The following description won’t do the pastries justice, but these were the most amazing creations, crispy, caramelized goodness on the outside with creamy, cheesy deliciousness on the inside.  Randi and I were in a complete daze as we lost ourselves in these delicacies, savoring every single bite.

Dinner that night was at a restaurant called AlCantera, located in the neighborhood of the same name.  The expansive restaurant with high ceilings and nude statues was almost empty, and we’re told this is because it’s Sunday, and May 1^st, which is Portugal’s national Labor Day holiday.  The décor reminds me of Morocco with the high ceilings, wood paneling and wooden fans hanging down from the ceiling.  Everywhere we go in this country reminds us of somewhere we’ve been, but really, it’s like nowhere we’ve seen.  There’s a little Israel, Spain, Italy, even New Orleans here.  We’re still encountering confusion followed by delight everywhere we go.  

A Night Out in Lisbon: Confusion, followed by Laughter

When we return to the hotel after our first meal debacle and admiring a fusion of Asian, European, Egyptian and Persian art at the Gulbenkian, there is a message for us in our room.  The hotel has to move us out of the room they originally put us in when we arrived at 6 a.m. that morning, because they’re doing renovations on the floor.  We’re just happy they were able to accommodate us at that early hour, so we don’t mind moving rooms at all.  When we go to the front desk to exchange our keys, we’re told that we are being upgraded to the top floor, with windows that overlook a sprawling view of the entire city of Lisbon.  And for our inconvenience of having to switch rooms, we’ll be granted VIP spa access.  Again, Portugal, is this REALLY happening? You really love us, don’t you?

We move to our new room and get dressed for dinner.  We’re feeling really special here, so we decide to continue with this theme and eat dinner at a five star restaurant that came highly recommended.  Our cab driver can’t find the restaurant.  He pulls the cab over not once but three times to look at a map, get out of the cab and ask pedestrians for directions, while leaving the meter running.  Not knowing our way around this city yet, we don’t have much choice but to wait for him to return to the cab and try to find his way to our destination.  Eventually, we find the restaurant, which was supposed to only be five minutes from the hotel.  The doors are closed, and we have to ring a buzzer to get in.  A uniformed woman retrieves us at the door and escorts us down some stairs to a regal looking couch adjacent to a small coffee table, the whole setup overlooking an outdoor garden with palm trees and greenery.  We’re again, confused in Portugal.  Is this where we’ll be eating our dinner? Why do other people seem to be at normal looking dinner tables? Are they simply placing us in this strange situation because we’re two seemingly naïve American girls? The waitress finally comes over and takes our order.  We order two entrees, but there is no wine on the menu, so she asks if we like white or red wine.  We respond with white, completely unsure of what she’ll come back with or how much we’ll be paying for this bottle.  Meanwhile, we’re served appertifs upon appertifs, which were all delicious, but now I’m growing concerned about what kind of appetite I’ll have for the main course, and will I be scolded again for not eating it all, and is our entire meal going to be eaten while bending over this coffee table, and is there any more of this ridiculously ornate restaurant that we haven’t seen yet, and also, what the hell are we even eating right now?  Just as maximum levels of confusion overwhelm, our waitress comes over and in a chipper, pleasant voice, asks, “Shall we go?”  She motions to one of the tables with normal dinner chairs and silverware, similar to the tables the other Portugese patrons are sitting at.  We’re pleased to see that we haven’t been pushed into a corner because we’re two American girls, not because they’re shunning or tricking us, but this is simply the process in which this particular restaurant serves dinner.  So if anyone goes to the Casa de Comida restaurant in Lisbon, just enjoy the unique progression of your meal.  By the way, it was delicious.  And yes, they were disappointed because I didn’t lick my plate clean.

 After dinner, we head to the Al Canterra neighborhood, with the waitress telling us to go to the “docas.”  The docks? We pull up to a roundabout and are greeted by a swimming pool on its side, lit up like a sculpture at night.  The “docas” remind us a bit of South Street Seaport, a line of bars along the water, with a mix of American pop music and Portugese dance music blaring out of every nightclub we pass.  We take a video of two couples dancing beautifully to Portugese music, and one of the women comes up to me and says, “This is not photo for YouTube.”  Laughing a little, I shake my head and wildly stress to her that no, no, I’m just taking photos from my vacation, not for YouTube.  She eases my concern by putting her hand on my shoulder, saying, “It is only to laugh.”  I know she meant to say she’s only kidding, but I really like this new expression.  Because so many times in life, “it is only to laugh.”

After making our way through a few of these nightclubs and enjoying the nighttime waterfront scenery and carefree culture, we are ready to head back to the hotel.  It’s around 1:30 a.m., and our taxi driver’s name is Marco.  He was a law student who had to stop his studies to go back to work, because of Portugal’s current financial crisis.  He’s determined to go back to finish his law degree in the fall, and wants to visit New York as soon as he gets his life in order.  We’re stopped at a red light when out of nowhere, Randi and I hear whistling and a voice yelling “taxi, taxi!” over and over again.  We look all around us to see where this voice is coming from.  Turns out, it is Marco’s cell phone ringtone.

Portugal – utter confusion followed by laughter and delight.

Arriving in Portugal, or, “Is this Really Happening?”

Portugal is certainly a confusing place.  From the mosaic tiled walls of the airport that remind me of the locker room of a public pool to the fact that classical music seems to be narrating our journey from the tarmac to the hotel elevators. 

We deplane, and our luggage is the first to come off the conveyor belt (a first in my travel experiences to date.)  We take a cab to the hotel, and are only slightly ripped off by the cab driver.  We’re shocked to see how beautiful our hotel is – we booked it based on a flight/hotel package we found on Expedia (my first time doing so), and never imagined it’d actually be close to luxurious.  But it is – sprawling lobby with cherub statues, a spiral staircase leading up to the second floor and a friendly concierge staff eager to help us out. 

It’s 6 a.m., and we know we can’t check in until after 2 p.m.  But we plan to drop off our bags at the front desk for them to hold until we check in.  We’re dreading this sleepy, delirious part of the trip, where we picture ourselves wandering the streets of Lisbon, tired and jetlagged, searching for pastries and coffee.   So when our concierge tells us he has a room available right away, we’re overjoyed.  They take our bags up to the room, and Randi and I collapse onto our beds, where we sleep for the next seven hours.  We’re both happy and completely horrified when we wake up at 1:30 p.m. and realize we’ve slept through our first morning in Portugal. 

We shower and get dressed immediately and head down to the lobby, asking the helpful concierge where we can get a bite to eat near the Gulbenkian Museum, which we’ve deemed as our first stop due to the ominous rain clouds we see outside.  They recommend a bierhaus right near the museum, and when we arrive, we ask the uniformed guards standing outside the museum to help direct us to the restaurant, but they shake their heads and suggest a better restaurant.  In fact, they’ll lead us there themselves.  Now, I realize this might not be the best idea, two American girls gleefully following the young (and handsome) Portugese men, but remember – they had uniforms on, were on duty…and it was broad daylight.  We follow them through the museum grounds, comprised of beautiful gardens, stepping stones, trees that make natural archways that seemingly lead to secret gardens but just keep opening up into sprawling greenery all around.  We step out of the gardens and are back in the city, and after passing a bride taking photos in front of the garden, we cross the street and arrive at the restaurant.  We are seated while the guards talk to the owners and help translate for us.   By translate, I mean they simply order for us.  I am told I’ll have the cod, the national fish of Portugal, and Randi will have the pork.  They also give us a bottle of white wine, which feels strange because we just woke up, but we go with it since we are, in fact, on vacation.

One of the guards, Ricardo, sits down with us and tells us all about his recent trip to New York, showing us photos on his cell phone.  Then he asks if we’re on Facebook.  The guards have to go do their rounds, but tell us to stay put.  This shouldn’t be a problem, since we haven’t gotten our food yet.  It’s interesting how we thought we were picking up a coffee and pastry for breakfast and yet, here we are, two glasses of wine deep and about to devour a meal of fish and meat.  They serve us delicious appetizers of bread and prosciutto.  I’ve been told to say no when they put extra food down on your table because they’ll make you pay for it, but I’m so hungry I just let them – and it seems rude to say no.  We never denied the food they offered in the beginning throughout the whole trip for fear of being rude – I suspect we probably paid a lot for that, but it was worth it.  I can barely speak the language; I can’t afford to be rude.  By the time my cod arrives, I’m too full of prosciutto to eat anything, but this ends up being a good thing because the cod isn’t very tasty.   The owner comes over, looking disappointed as he picks up our not entirely finished plates of food. He shakes his head to signify that we didn’t like the food.  We respond by rubbing our stomachs, trying to communicate that we were too full – but giving an “mmm” noise, to show that we really did enjoy the meal (lie.)  Still looking disappointed, the owner brings our plates to the kitchen.

The guards come back, carrying with them two tickets for the museum.  They speak with the owners, and then translate to us in a very stern voice, “They said you didn’t like the meal.” Again, we tell them how we were just too full to finish it.  After a series of eye rolls and back and forth between the guards and the owners in Portugese, we’ve clearly communicated our message, but no one seems any less disappointed in us.  We feel like we’ve represented America poorly here – aren’t we supposed to be obese and clean our plates?  Randi tells me that I simply need to lick my plate clean for the rest of the meals we have in this country (something I will fail to do, leading to more scolding and disappointment from restaurant owners all over Portugal.)  It really is a testament to how wasteful we are in America, the fact that we don’t even think twice about sending a plate back to the kitchen if it has some remnants of our meal left on it.

New Orleans and Me - A Love Story

Thank you.  Thank you place of employment, for giving me work on an account that allows us to do good things and sponsor cool events.  Thank you for putting me in charge of said events.  Thank you Laura Mayes for creating the Mom 2.0 summit and thank you Megan Jordan for not allowing horrible things to ruin your spirit, and for being the storyteller you are, on paper (shit…we need a new expression for this…on the interwebs?) and in person.  Thank you both for coming together to make the stories of hope event at the Eiffel Society in New Orleans a true success, on a professional and very personal level.

Thank you Heather Armstrong, queen of the mommy bloggers, for not running away when I approached you to tell you my old friend and former roommate was your biggest fan.  Thank you for remembering that she waited for three hours outside your book signing in Brooklyn so she could meet you face to face.  Thank you for remembering that her mom emailed you after she passed away last year to tell you what an inspiration you were to her, as an aspiring write herself.  Thank you for talking to me at length about her, and for being truly interested in the story of her life.  And thank you for what you did Saturday night, after being reminded of Robin’s story, in front of hundreds of people (and thousands of online followers) dedicating your story of hope to her.

Thank you universe for allowing me to play some role in having Robin’s idol honor her on a stage in a public setting, in front of so many other talented writers.  Thank you for allowing her memory to live on 15 months after her passing.  She must be going ballistic up in heaven knowing that the one and only Dooce so publicly acknowledged her.

New Orleans Riverboat on the Mississippi

What a vast difference this weekend was compared to that first trip to New Orleans.  From hating the cheesiness and spring break-like atmosphere to finally understanding it after interacting with those who were affected by the hurricane, to actually having a deeply profound evening that overwhelmed me with emotion.  New Orleans, we have quite the relationship.  If visit number one was an awkward first date, I think we just consummated our relationship, and I’m even inclined to say I may have just fallen in love with you.

Saturday evening, we (we being Tide Loads of Hope) threw an event at the Eiffel Society, a beautiful structure that used to sit atop the Eiffel Tower.  The event, called “Stories of Hope,” featured 10 incredibly prolific writers who rose to fame because of their written musings on what we’re currently calling “mom blogs.”  This was the concluding event for the Mom 2.0 Summit, a “mom blogging” conference held this year in New Orleans.  We decided months ago that since New Orleans was the birthplace of the Tide Loads of Hope program and, let’s face it, Tide loves moms, we would absolutely have to be a part of this event.  We had each reader dedicate their story of hope to someone they knew who was affected by disaster.

Which is why I was so touched that, in addition to dedicating her story to someone she knew in Japan, Heather, queen of the moms, chose my old friend Robin, aspiring writer/designer/friend/fiancee, to honor.

Like I said, this trip to New Orleans was quite different. 

All along, I thought traveling to different places was the most inspiring thing I could do.  Seeing beautiful places, going on new adventures.  Why did I fall in love with Morocco?  Was it the scenic coast of Essouira, or the overwhelming aromas of the souk? Did I love Guatemala because of the beautiful volcanoes I saw across Lake Atilan? Undoubtedly those scenes were breathtaking, but when I think back to some of the best trips I’ve taken, I think of the people.  I think of Hayat, and Tim and Brian, and the Moroccan families, and the Guatemalan children, and even the people with whom I traveled to these places.  Sure, I hated the cheesiness of Bourbon Street when I first stumbled upon it last summer.  When I saw Frenchman Street, the disappointment turned to appreciation and admiration.  But this time, this was a whole new level of amazement.  Could the Mom 2.0 summit have happened in any other city? Sure.  But if it had, would we have heard Megan’s story about losing her house in Hurricane Katrina, a story that went beyond anything she’s publicly written?  Did hearing her tale in person, in the very place where it happened give us all a stronger connection to the Gulf Coast? Absolutely.  Was I embarrassed to cry at a work function? No, I was proud.  Because it turns out, I’m not as inspired by the beauty of the places I go as I am by the people I meet while in said places.

At the end of the night, Laura and the Mom 2.0 gang made a donation to the Red Cross with the money from Tide’s sponsorship.  It’s hard not to walk away completely inspired when you’ve spent an entire weekend soaking up the awesomeness of creative women who are probably some of the best writers and storytellers in the country.   I went in as a PR chick only there to represent her brand and throw an event that people would enjoy.  I walked away feeling like part of a community.

And for that, women of Mom 2.0, writers, storytellers, families abroad, creators, designers - I thank all of you.

Eiffel Society

Heather and Me, after her reading

Portugal

Dreaming of my next adventure, which begins in one month...

On Dreams

I’ve been having a lot of crazy dreams lately.  Last night I had a dream that my mother, sister and I went to Haiti together, and upon arrival we stopped in an artist’s studio.  I walked outside onto the deck for a moment only to have a parade of elephants walk right by me.  Then I looked down at my arm and noticed I was developing a small rash.  I then remembered that you were supposed to get vaccinations to go to Haiti, and I had completely forgotten to get them.  And that’s when I realized that if I had taken the time to think about it, to get the vaccinations and get nervous about the health risks of going to Haiti – then maybe I wouldn’t have come, and maybe I wouldn’t have ever seen those elephants.  Guys, this dream was so real – even though I’ve been awake for hours I’m still not completely convinced it didn’t actually happen.  (Although 1- my mother would never travel to a place like Haiti, and 2 – there are no elephants in Haiti, so this was most definitely a dream.)

Two days ago, I read through  my friend’s book proposal.  Any time you read a book of memoirs from a good friend, it’s an amazing thing.  Seeing everything you’ve experienced with her, or everything you’ve heard her talk about so much, right there, written down all in one place, it’s this surreal experience.  I was fascinated scrolling down the pages of the novel, and I came across a chapter about an experience we had witnessed together.  The focus of the memory was on the atmosphere, and this one inspiring person we met in this story, but as I read through her account of that same memory, I noticed one thing was absent from her story – me.  I understood why, the focus was on this more inspiring person, and it made for the story to flow better, but I still couldn’t help but feel a bit hurt that I was omitted from this tale. 

This is coming from a person whose presence in my life has been incredibly significant.  She would most certainly be in my book.  The fact that I was removed from hers showed me that even though I try to do so much…I’m not doing enough.  I’m not doing enough to impact the lives of others, to inspire others where they see me as a crucial part of their story. 

The other night I was talking to someone over a glass of red wine about my life dreams.  How every time I’ve had a dream, I’ve managed to make it come true. How I’ve done things that are so far beyond what I ever could have dreamed I’d actually do.  He said I needed to dream bigger.  He’s right.

Which brought me back to my original dream.  The one that started before I ever embarked on any kind of path.  The one that was implanted into my head at a young age when I discovered my passion for writing.  The one that sent me to enter and win that young writer’s contest in Newsday when I was 13. The one that sent me to journalism school.  The one that inspired me to start this blog.

I want to publish a book. 

However, I’m left with the same questions I faced years ago, the questions that made me think I needed to become a journalist and travel the world in order to collect enough experience that would one day give me material to work with.  Well, I’ve traveled the world.  I’ve lived in the most exciting city in the world. I’m still doing both of those things, and doing my best to make the most of every single second. But alas, I still have no clue what I’m supposed to write about. 

Maybe I need to stop thinking, and just start writing.  This blog post isn’t about any significant event, or world travel.  It’s just about my most personal thoughts.  Maybe it’s not going to get me closer to publishing a book, but maybe it will.  In any case, this is me, making the decision to go to Haiti with no vaccinations, and praying that I see something as fascinating  as a parade of elephants from the deck of an artist’s studio.

I know I've been slacking - it's been a busy three months.  I went to a few amazing events, we rang in a new year, I went to Sundance, and I have a million other things to share.  For now, here's a post I wrote for my company's blog:


Cause Marketing: Is Bigger Necessarily Better?

So, I kind of lead a double life. By day, I do PR for one of the largest brands in the world. By night, I run the New York board of a small charity that came into existence a few short years ago.

You’ve probably heard of Tide. You probably do your laundry with it. What you might not know is that Tide has an amazing program called Loads of Hope, which provides clean clothes to families who have been affected by disaster.

About four years ago, I found out about a nonprofit organization called Nest that provides loans to women artisans in developing countries. I loved the idea, and about one year and a trip to Guatemala later; I had taken on the role as president of the NYC board.

What’s most interesting is that even though these programs are so drastically different, a lot of the principles in how to create a successful cause marketing campaign are the same. Here are a few of the things I’ve learned by working simultaneously on cause marketing efforts for projects big and small:

Make the Most of the Resources You Have:

With Tide, we are backed by a large company that invests wisely in its marketing efforts. There are dedicated teams of people at top creative agencies whose full time jobs are to come up with ideas and ways to turn those ideas into actual programs.

With a small nonprofit, you are most likely dealing with a minimal to nonexistent budget. If a nonprofit is fortunate enough to have one or more full time staff members, they most likely have to spend their time courting big donors and thinking of new ways to fundraise before they can turn their focus to marketing. Nest, with only two full time staffers, has to rely on their network of hundreds of volunteers across the country, most with demanding full time jobs who can only help with Nest in their limited free time.

Get Creative:

With a well known program like Loads of Hope, trying to come up with new ideas and to make such an established program feel fresh can be difficult at times. Yes, we are always going to different disasters and it’ll always be local news to the residents of the affected area, but in terms of the bigger picture, what can we do to engage more people around the country in our cause?

On the contrary, with the rapidly growing nature of Nest, new news is constantly pouring in. Between new partnerships with retailers, new loan recipients and events happening in each city, we’re flooded with information. The challenge here is how to choose what people outside the organization will find interesting. We’re often sifting through the clutter and determining what the most important news is and how to use it in a way that will get our target consumers involved.

Keep the Focus on the Mission:

The one thing that remains constant in my work on both Tide and with Nest is the bottom line. Both programs have a very clear mission-to help people. Whether sitting in a woman’s home with her children in Morocco or standing in the freezing cold by the Tide Loads of Hope truck in Fargo, North Dakota with a man whose home was destroyed, it’s the people who keep us all inspired to continue doing what we do.

Originally posted at:
http://www.devriespr.com/2011/01/cause-marketing-is-bigger-necessarily-better/

Apparently I Love Culturally Significant Crowds

So, it turns out I really love big crowded events that massive amounts of people flock to.  I didn’t realize this until I found myself in DC the weekend of October 30^th, going to Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert’s Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear.  Armed with our posterboard signs, Joya and I walked over to the national mall, where we became so smushed in a crowd of people that we couldn’t even see the jumbo screens set up around the mall, let alone the actual stage where the various performances were taking place.  Sure, we had a few good laughs at some of the wittier signs around us, “Save Jon Stewart, he’s our most important Jew,” and “Mr. Stewart, my mommy says you’re my daddy, but all I want is a hug,” (ok, that was my sign), and “Rally to Restore Santa,” held up by a man dressed as Santa Claus.  But when out of nowhere, Cat Stevens took the stage to perform Peace Train, we were all pretty startled and amazed by what we were about to witness.  First of all, who knew Cat Stevens was allowed back in the country after being put on the no fly list because of his pro-Muslim sentiment?  Second, we never thought we’d hear Cat Stevens sing this song live, in our lifetime.  Third, the performance made us understand what we were doing there.  It didn’t even matter that seconds later, he was interrupted by Ozzy Osbourne playing “Crazy Train,” as part of Colbert’s schtick – we all got the message loud and clear.  Jon Stewart brought this Muslim man on stage, a man who was also known for his song about peace during a time of political and global unrest, quite the antithesis of what Muslims are usually thought of in our country.  It was pretty damn inspiring.

 I went home to New York the next day, only to meet two of my friends an hour after arriving back in the city to march in the annual Village Halloween Parade.  I hadn’t celebrated Halloween much that weekend, and marching in the parade sounded like a fun idea – I had been to the sidelines to watch the parade and it had been a disaster in years past, but marching sounded less intense for some reason.  And it was.  Waving to groups of Asian tourists in my Dorothy costume was one of those incredibly unique New York experiences that I won’t soon forget.  I plan to go again next year, but in a much less generic costume.

This Sunday, my best friend Drew ran the New York City Marathon.  I went to watch the marathon about half a mile from the finish line so I could see her as she passed.  But in the 45 minutes before she came running by, it was really incredible to watch these thousands of people who were about to complete a race that started 4-5 hours earlier, took them through all five boroughs, and was about to give them the feeling of accomplishment that only incredibly dedicated runners can ever obtain in a lifetime.  I even caught a glimpse of the Chilean miner who had been rescued two weeks earlier after being trapped underground for over two months.  Talk about dedication.  Also, walking through the streets after the marathon, whenever we saw people with the signature “burrito” wrapping signifying their completion of the race, we went up to each person to congratulate them.  Some people were wincing in pain and limping, but it seemed to lift their spirits when we, strangers on the street, stopped to tell them how proud we were. 

So apparently I like big crowded events that have widespread meaning and cultural significance.  I guess it’s like having school spirit.  And I’m always going to be a cheerleader for uplifting events that bring all types of people together for one unified cause, from a political rally in the nation’s capital to a silly Halloween parade.

The Girl Effect

I really wish more people knew and/or cared about this problem. I learned in reading Nicholas Kristof's book, Half the Sky, that maternal mortality and young girls being kidnapped and sold into the sex trade are the biggest problems women in the developing world face. And the developing world is a lot larger than the developed world. I know it's easy for people to turn their heads and ignore the problems that exist outside their own backyard, but I urge you to take a moment to think - what if it were you who was born into an Ethiopian village as a baby girl?

The Girl Effect, a wonderful organization I learned about this week while watching the speakers at the UN's Social Good Summit, simplifies the message in this compelling video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1e8xgF0JtVg&feature=youtu.be

When I was 12 years old, my biggest concern was my braces and a math test. What was yours? We're extremely privileged to have been born into this world. Let's do something for those who were not so lucky.

Ok, New Orleans, I finally get it.

My summer of 12 hour workdays came to an end when my team and I traveled to New Orleans to put on a concert commemorating the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. I'll spare you the details, since I don't want to make this a work related blog, but we basically paid a high level spokesperson (Faith Hill) to perform a concert in New Orleans to honor those who have stayed in the area in the five years since Katrina hit. I wrote about this in communication materials, spoke about it to media and spent months preparing for it, but I don't think I actually GOT it until the evening of the actual concert. See, we made sure the theater was filled with local residents as well as people who worked at relief organizations in the area. About an hour before the concert, we realized a mistake had been made, and we had about 50 extra tickets right in the front orchestra section.

After I got over my panic attack and readjusted some of the seating, I took a handful of tickets, and right before the concert started, I made my way up to the upper balcony section. I went up to a couple and asked if they were with a relief organization. They actually said, "No, we're with the fire department." I looked at them quizzically and said, "Well, that's certainly a relief organization," and handed them two orchestra section tickets. They were amazed, and thanked me before going downstairs to take their upgraded seats. After handing out a few more tickets, word must've spread throughout the upper balcony to what I was doing. One elderly man came over to me and tapped me on the shoulder as I was giving out some more tickets to some folks from Homeland Security. He said to me, "I hate to ask, but is there any way you can upgrade me and my wife? We're sitting all the way up there...and I know you're giving these to relief organizations. I'm from St. Bernard's Project, and I helped save thousands of lives when the hurricane hit." I smiled, and handed him the two tickets I had that were closest to the front. He thanked me, and I said, "no...thank you!" I was thrilled to be the person to give something to this man who had clearly given so much to his community.

Later that evening, as the lights went down and Faith Hill took the stage, I was amazed that my team and I had just put on a large scale concert. But as amazing as that feeling of accomplishment was, the part of the evening that stood out most was being able to give something to that man I met in the upper balcony. In all communication leading up to the concert, we kept saying how this concert was about the people of New Orleans. And as great as it was to have coordinated such a high profile event, what we had been saying all along really held true, the evening wasn't about the theater we had decorated, the production we had coordinated, or the celebrity we had signed on - it was wholeheartedly about the people of the area.

After the concert, my boss took us out to show us the "real New Orleans," on Frenchmen Street. Again, I finally understood what people love about this town. We entered a small, dark bar, where there was a five piece brass band playing and four or five couples dancing in a way I had only seen in old movies. The quickness of their feet, the energy they exerted into the room, you couldn't help but stop and stare...and wish you could dance like that. I felt like I had been transported to the 1940's. And I loved it. After finishing an Abita beer, we headed to the next bar, where there was another brass band playing, and a female singer who had the most amazing voice, again feeling like we had been transported to the 1940's. There was even a piano in the ladies room of this bar. It was hilarious, and incredible - like nothing I had ever seen before.

I finally understand why everyone falls in love with this town. Once I veered away from the chaos of Bourbon Street, met a few locals, and entered a few dark jazz clubs, it all began to make sense. And I won't even get into the part of the evening when we followed the "bicycle balladerist" out of what our cab driver dubbed "the safe zone" and got some po'boys in the ghetto of New Orleans. Another experience I won't soon forget. Our night ended with the Westin room service guy delivering complimentary ice cream to my room at 4 a.m., while I was devouring po'boys and other New Orleans delicacies on my bed with my bosses. Now, where else can you have an experience like that?

A Much Needed Local Mini Vacation

I haven't enjoyed this summer at all. It started off as being filled with one obligatory event after another, disappointing experiences here and there, but then it kicked in to full on insanity when my normal workdays turned into twelve-hour-can't-stop-for-one-second-to-breathe-or-eat-lunch kind of days. Then one morning I woke up to a phone call from my sister that her boyfriend had been hit by a car. He survived but was in critical condition. It was incredibly scary for the first few days until the situation became much less seemingly life threatening. Now he's stuck at home in a neck brace for months, can't move his left arm, and takes daily trips to various doctors. Last week I had heart palpitations and found out all the valves in my heart were leaky. Today my dad was in terrible pain and they think he has kidney stones.


No one is enjoying their summer. We only get three months of good weather and it's at this time that everything seems to be spiraling out of control. I know, it could be worse. Everything is on the mend and will be ok. I finally got to enjoy my summer this weekend for the first time. I went out to fire island with a group of friends and left everything behind. Ironically, it was the most beautiful weekend of the summer. We spent three days sitting on the beach until sunset, barbequing, sitting in the hot tub on our deck and boozing til the sun came up. I almost didn't sign up for this summer share, but even for three days on Long Island, not so far from home, this weekend was the most necessary vacation I've ever needed. Here's the view from our deck. I can't wait to go back in August.

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