I.B.I.Z.A. J'adore. Mi Amor

'Love, the life-giving garden of this world'. By Rumi.
May your light shine through night and day. 

Returning to London ten days ago, like a wounded soldier, I hardly felt any pain, physical or otherwise.  

We are all soldiers marching in this life; 
Each battling through a journey of our own 
There are brighter days, lonesome nights
The joy a friend can bring, the baring of a shame
Times of questioning, reflecting and reviewing
The turning of the universe or a rainbow's glow
From tornado to tsunami, destruction of nature
A smile from a child, the angry-looking stranger
A rose garden of shades liven the soil
Flooding in one corner, deserts left waterless
Diamond flashing limo, despair of a milk-less mother
From maximum to minimum, the world has lost its power
What is there left to do but prayer and hope 
Love is the answer, the question, our being on earth
To God, I turn.  
'Scribblings of thoughts'.

In all moments of life, as a reality check, it is necessary to be aware of what is happening around us: healthy thinking.
On that note, I must say the diet that follows gall bladder removal is a killer! For someone who has felt blessed to eat and drink everything I have always wanted to, now comes a time when all is forbidden. It has been superb enjoying all the rich food, the outstanding collection of wines and champagnes, and those mouth-watering passion fruit martinis, never mind my latest taste for caipirinhas. All the lovely friends' cooking. No more Indian food?! Que? Really?! Oh yeah, baby. But I love salads... What, without any dressing? Thank goodness for balsamic! And there is so much else to enjoy that all I have to do is change my diet. My first thing upon arrival was to call a dietitian, and she would sort me out with bright ideas, I am sure.
As Aisha remarked: "Ah! So, finally, your always-full fridge is empty now."
My response: "Not at all, Darling. I went to a nutritionist, got a list of what I could eat, and headed straight to Waitrose (supermarket). Now my fridge is bursting again! With fruit and vegetables."

Let's move back to my return from JFK to London.  
Elliot, being the considerate friend he is, ordered us a limo (that's what they call a minicab in the US, so it turned out) and on the day, a run-down large, typical American car with the grumpiest of drivers turned up to drive us from Southampton to JFK.
When the burgundy colour, almost falling into pieces car from hillbillies turned up, I turned to Elliot and asked: "Darling, didn't you say we ordered a 'limo'?!"
My friend laughed and answered: "No, Darling. A limo here is just a minicab for you guys."

At the airport, once we said our goodbyes, I had fun being wheeled around by the airport porter (it was only six days since my operation, to be fair), almost right to the door of the plane, missing out the queue for passport control, zoom zoom and the first to get on the plane. Cool. I even missed out on any shopping! I would not want to make that into a habit, though. Arriving in London's semi-sunny morning on Thursday, less a gall bladder, still made me feel happy to be home again. I lay on my bed, recovering from the long flight and phone playing with friends and family. There was a flight to be caught to Ibiza the following Friday evening, so it was time for quick decision-making. Shall I go or shall I not?

The phone conversation with Jill on the afternoon of my arrival home helped me make my mind up on going. She said:
"Kelly and I'll pick you up on the way to Gatwick Express, and you're not allowed to lift a thing."
And that was precisely what happened. The evening flight was easy (but not easy jet, thank goodness), and the three of us sat in a row as though going on a school trip, just as jolly and excited. Ernest had already arrived with Daren to ensure everything was for his guests to descend to the magnificent holiday villa. The kind of modern, white, grey, wood, bluest infinity pool, slick black sunbeds, ice-making machine, comfy bed, basically the type of house one sees in glossy magazines or in particular search on homes on a computer screen. This was to be our residence for the next four days! Wow. I would have been a fool to miss that for a mere few stitches! And this has not even begun to tell you about the superb company we kept in those surroundings. Heavenly is the only word that comes to mind.

One of my fond memories of the trip was Ernest driving, Kelly in the passenger seat, and I sitting in the middle of the back seat, enjoying the drive back from the hippie beach while the sun was about to set. The sky was clouds of colour in the most peachy, orangy, pinky way appearing through a dark greyish blue sky and those fields we passed, green with trees, the soil shouting in its true meaning of the word and the hills behind, all lit up with a yellow, orange shine that no lens could possibly capture, and radio Sonica of Ibiza playing the most excellent version of 'Love to Love You Baby', I danced sitting in the back, letting my hands-free to reach outside each window of the car, then turned to my friends equally high with the vibes of Ibiza and said:
"Wow! This is like driving through Heaven... The Heavenly Drive. I wanna die in Ibiza."  When Kelly gave me that look with the right eyebrow lifted and a questioning smile, I quickly corrected myself:
"Not now! In many, many years to come. I wanna live here first."

'Isn't it funny that we can't choose where we are born or die?' And yet, we are in charge of our destiny? 
We are born alone, we live alone, and we die alone. We have no choice in our place of birth nor where we fail. Except for the people who are born in a place and die there, never having left. Then why do some people think they are so in control? Control of what? Why not just let go of the flow? Why complicate things when they can be simplified?
Is pain a state of mind? 
I once watched a program about people who did not feel any kind of physical pain or burn, which was dangerous as they could have a severe problem like a gall bladder and would not feel any discomfort, which could prove hazardous.

Oh! My God, I do get carried away with thoughts. My blogs are turning into chapters!

On the first night, upon arrival in 'the' villa I described earlier, the group of exquisite people gathered around, lounging in the balcony as equally as hanging around the kitchen, with a fully-stocked American fridge to feed an army and chatted away, each expressing our joy at being there. I finally managed to head to bed in the late night hours (sounds better than the early morning hours!). Six hours of sleep was great. Descended to the pool, where most beds had been occupied by early risers laying around, so I dipped my feet in the cooling blue hanging pool and breathed in the warmth of the sunshine.  

Friday night was the evening of hitting the clubs. In this latest number from my NYC shopping expedition of a white-based, colourful tunic with white, lacy leggings, my feelings were as happy as the bright tones of the mini dress I wore.

We arrived nearer to the closing time of 11:00pm, while the Ushuaia Pool Party started at 7:00pm. I enjoyed the Spanish DJ's music. Before they closed at midnight, we left in our group of magnificent eleven and went on to Pacha, where Giovanni had a table booked in the VIP. Despite being eight days after my operation, I stuck it up in the club till about 5:00am. Going well.

Saturday, we were booked for lunch at the Blue Marlin. Well, as many times as I have visited Ibiza, I had never made it to this beach club/bar till this time, and although we had fun, I don't think I would bother going again. A bit too busy and chichi for my newly hippie-acquired liking.

I.B.I.Z.A.

Blue Marlin Beach at Night

PACHA - Ibiza

Keep thinking of all the love I felt around me, the feeling of peace and harmony, which helped my recovery by at least fifty per cent. What do I owe the strength to go on and an energy-filled life? It's from these friends who make my life sooooo worth living. When I say my friends, my family are a large part of my friends, and my friends are my family. There is no difference.
My two most wonderful spliff-sharing partners in crime had both quit smoking but gave me the pleasure of sharing those puffs and giggling. There is a particular love that is transmitted through passing that joint. It's not encouraging anything. I recalled the bouncy, busty nurse at Southampton Hospital asking me a few questions in the emergency cubicle before surgery; I confessed:
"... And I smoke a little weed."
She simply puffed away and answered: "Ah! You and the rest of America."
I smilingly added: "Me and the rest of the world, it seems."
OOooopsy! I ran away with my thoughts again.  

Yes, my super buddies, Sydney and Denzel. Sydney had been so warm and super friendly since the first time we met now; seeing him for the third time, our friendship had grown in time to the most amiable of hugs a girl could get. As for his partner, Denzel... Goodness, the guy is so cutely handsome; I could have bitten him a few times, but I did keep my teeth to myself.  
Ernest was as MDAaaamazing a host as anyone could be and made us feel superbly at home and all in love with one another. Now, that's what I call a super host: my superhero.
At the beginning of our journey, my travel companions, whom I feel are sisters from a past life, are now rekindled: Kelly and Jill.  
Kelly's remark when she tells me in that sweet accent and naughty tone makes me laugh every time:
"Haldita, I love how you talk about 'life before the revolution and how everything was glamorous and amazing', then go on to... 'After the revolution, everything changed for the worse. This clergy of a man showed up, and the country began mourning. All I want to know is, 'Who the hell invited him?! We didn't know he existed!" Kelly continued, "I wish I had a revolution to discuss."
Jill managed to break a few glasses along the way, then onto making sure there was no trace of crystal in sight. In Pacha, she came to me to confess: "You know, I just broke another glass!"
I couldn't stop laughing, responding: "Good Darling. Glad you're reporting. They say breaking glass keeps the evil eye away!"

Then there was Daniel with that body to die for (the guy doesn't stop going to the gym, even on holiday in Ibiza, no wonder), those blue eyes and a wicked sense of humour. He was accompanied by his partner Richie, whom I have not had the proper chance of connecting with yet, but he sure made an excellent tomato and mozzarella salad which I could not touch but admired his artistic skills in the kitchen; a boyish beauty whose few remarks showed a certain wisdom.
My introduction to the newlyweds whom I had met in the countryside a month earlier had not entirely left the mark it now has since this more extended trip. Barby and Ken were joined by the bride's best friend, Rose, with whom we bonded as we shared experiences and travels. I did tell them a few mad stories.
Last but certainly not least was Daren, with whom we had spent a trip in Croatia getting acquainted, and I was only just beginning to acquire a taste for his sense of somewhat sarcastic humour; not in any way crude, just funny.

Some of the best times were spent on the Hippie Beach. There was such an excellent air in the breeze, remarkable because of the way people made it feel. As soon as the boutique on the island was spotted by yours, I glanced at my new shopping buddy, Barby, and ooopsy la! We needed to get to the shop faster. The stunning girl there assisted me patiently while I got a souvenir for everyone from our group. Then came the smile of the man behind the counter, who must have owned the trendy space. I found myself sighing aloud:
"Ah! Look at you both. You're SO gorgeous!"
The handsome creature warmly said: "You must come back and visit us. You must." 
And I will, was my immediate response.
Then, there was the Latina masseuse whom the crew had met on their first day on the Hippie Beach; she had come to release any pressure from everyone's body and mind, playing Balinese-like, soothing music while rubbing the oil deep into the flesh with magical movements of her knuckles and wrists. I sat on the sofa on the balcony, high above the green scenery below, next to the square low-level pool of large white stones, shining with tones of varied colour changing with music and watched the sun set amongst the leaves in the trees far away. At the same time, the breeze of the air brushed against my skin. Although I was not allowed a massage, I felt it through Elisa's vibes as though she had her hands on my back. When I met her properly in the kitchen to thank her for the experience, she gave me the warmest hug a stranger could provide. What a delightful girl, and she felt my energy too.
 My dream is to live and then retire in Ibiza. One day.

Flying back from Dreamland, the reality check came when I got to the door of my home. But then I smiled, knowing my Boy stayed with me for a while.  
London is a place I cannot rest! It was great having had that super break. My first appointment on the day of arrival was a badly needed manicure pedicure. The following day, I had booked myself from early morning at 10:30am with my kinesiologist to prescribe the best vitamins a body would need after surgery, followed by a visit to the nutritionist for a good regime and finally the new cute dentist, who assured me I was doing good for a while to come. Health comes first.
The table at Fabric was cancelled on Saturday, and needed to rest, so on Friday, Qadir was in town, and I asked Sirena to join us for dinner at Sketch, sitting at the bar. The place had changed drastically since I regularly went there on the Saturday before heading to Fabric at 2:00am some years ago. The good old days! This time, we had dinner, then retired to the round bar under the egg toilets, where Mademoiselle Jayne was DJing some super cool tunes. So, as Qadir left to rest and be ready for his football match the following day, Ali joined us girls, and we danced till the closing hour of 2:30am. On high heels, too! Ayayaya.

Saturday was spent going around the antique markets of Alfie and Golborne Road around Notting Hill with Robby, who was looking for a couple of chandeliers. The afternoon outing ended with a late lunch at E&O's. I got home, only to get a text from Aisha asking whether I would like to join her, Risha and Kristel for the latest Woody Allen movie. Of course, I agreed, and she picked me up, only to get to the sold-out cinema! As the four of us drove around, we managed to get to the only film left showing at 9:00pm, the Belgium movie; 'Untouchables' as Aisha and Kristel had seen the previous night; they left me and Risha to watch this funny, inspiring movie which almost left me 'out of' my stitches! And yet, it touched me with feelings of 'Aaah! And Oooh!'s all over. That is me and everyone in the movie theatre.  
I told Aisha before she left us at the cinema: "Darling. Thank you for being such a wonderful friend. You came to pick me up, drive me around, bring me to watch this amazing movie, and then leave."
Aisha barely looked my way and said: "Fuck you!" Haha.
Friendship is Love... Love is Friendship.

Have I made bad judgements along my journey? Done wrong? Lost at times? Oh God, yes.  
Any regrets? No. Anything I would change? No. Simply because this is my path, my learning and my journey. I accept it and expect it to be no other way. It is what it is, and I must keep learning and moving on... 

London to NYC to Southampton... And the 'Gold' Bladder!

The adventures of my life continue... Here is a summary (never short of words) of a week ranging from restaurants in London's sunny capital of friends to New York City during Fashion Week, a visit to the architect Michael Arad's creation of The Void, where September 9/11 took place; shopping in the Big Apple and last, but not least, the removal of an organ in Southampton, under emergency anaesthetic.

From sex to the city... To the bliss of the countryside.
What more can a blog offer? Ha-ha...

Before taking a flight to JFK, my week in London was full of aspirations. There were drinks at the new Bulgari Hotel's newly decorated dark wooden surround with Sirena; Gianfranco's dinner invite to the Thomas Cubitt gastro pub and our tennis match of words on the broad travel experiences we had each been through; a sunny lunch at Brinkleys with the excellent Julie whom I met at the boot camp near Marbella; another delightful dinner at the Bodega Negra (where I almost died on my last visit, but soooooo didn't!), with the charming Don Juan, each sharing our naughty stories since we last met. Remember the late lunch at Notting Hill's E&O with the eligible Tyler, who seemed as wooed as I was by our rendez-vous turning into a melodic prelude.  

However, the last two days before my flight to NYC, I was bedridden and put myself on solid antibiotics, thinking it was a mere cold I was suffering from; I still managed to make it to Lola's big birthday bash with the kind offer of Donna picking me up on her way. Shoreditch was the destination for the party, and the entourage of Lola's circle of wonderful people made the night one of joy, love and dancing on my golden Michael Kors heels. On my return home, the pain under my right chest did attack me somewhat while packing (always last minute!). But after 3 hours of sleep, I woke up ready for my pick-up to head to Heathrow's shopping terminal 5 (another danger point), oblivious to any aches.

Getting into JFK, once again, there was a two-hour queue (or line as the Americans call it), but again, I got to flirt with yet another customs officer who seemed surprised at the stated number on the passport age category and when I told him: "It's all natural." With a naughty streak in my eyes, he replied: "And I like it that way!" Oh, really, now 'ociffer'?! (Officer with a French accent).

It was great seeing Arnie in his high-rise, interior-designed modern apartment, with extensive windows facing the side of Queensboro Bridge and red trams crossing in front of the windows of his living room and the guest bedroom where I stayed. We had a heart-to-heart about some of the happenings in our lives since we were last able to chat, which turned into Arnie leaving with his papa and cousin for dinner. At the same time, yours genuinely went on cabbing my way down to Greenwich Hotel's trendy restaurant, Locanda Verde. At Kristine's recommendation, we met and installed ourselves at the bar with the hot, obliging waiter doing his American best at service. After some fun food, Kristine persisted in trying out a club in the Meat Packing District, which seemed jam-packed with queues outside each hotspot of long-legged creatures, all glammed up and waiting to be let in from a 'guestlist'. Oh, how I despise that word and all the attitude that goes with it. From the Dream Hotel's club to some other one I cannot even be asked to remember the name of, walking in high heels, the exhaustion got to me fast. I had to bid my friend farewell, jumped in a cab, and headed to my bedroom with the divine view under the dim lighting.

Outside the Dream Hotel

The view from my room

Saturday was an easy day as I felt somewhat too chilled to shop! Went for a walk in the neighbourhood with Arnie and left him to walk to his lunch date. At the same time, I took more photos of NYC and spent the afternoon on my bed, watching the trams pass by while the opening in the window let in a humid autumnal breeze, accompanied by the sound of the traffic of NYC at its most soothing. Strange, but there was nowhere else I would have been at that moment instead. When Arnie returned, I was finishing my last blog, and as he asked to read it on his iPad for the first time, he began laughing and called out:  "Haldita ... You're SO you!"  And he knows me well; we have been friends for many years.

The day was highly restful, so we headed out to dinner at the charming Da Noi Italian restaurant, still in the hood and ended the evening from midnight on at the Townhouse's gay establishment. I just loved all the attention everyone introduced to me. From the semi-crowded bar, we moved onto the next room where someone played the piano, and others gathered around him, singing along ... 'New York, New York' was on the cards. I felt so at home amongst my new lively and friendly buddies, including one of the only other ladies, Sylvana; the tall, blonde glamour-puss (and I mean that in the best sense) and the drag queen who arrived dressed as her, to add flavour to her big night. I was having a ball sitting at the bar, getting better acquainted with the super-friendly Kev and the tall and elegant Iman, amongst all others. At 4:00am, I literally had to be dragged out of there.

Sunday, was a dinner of the Three Musketeers as Elliot joined Arnie and I, on his way back from The Hamptons; a Chinese take away at home, eating, laughing and catching up. The next day, Arnie left for the Caribbean while I headed to the East Village's 8th Street with Elliot, where the shabby chic shoe stores have now given way to closure, and we entered a Gothic-style boutique by my friend's strong recommendation. With the help of the long, grey-haired and most helpful assistant, I raided their sexy lingerie shop. 

Let's talk about New York Fashion Week now.
It's all about mixing leather with fabric; black seems to be the colour. Trés New York, now. Shame I missed the new concept store on New York's retail horizon: Townhouse's Upper East Side style, following inspiration from Paris' concept store, Colette, which has a more Avant-garde theme. 'Swept off her feet' was the heading for the Bergdorf Goodman shoe salon re-opening statement. 'When is a shoe not just a shoe?'  But an object of desire to feel sexy and relaxed in. Don't you just love all the marketing for women ... 'Who would cut back on vacations and entertainment to walk-in footwear that would put them in line with celebrities ... With the stars!
Gosh! I feel there are stars in my eyes, never mind my feet.

After shopping on 8th Street, I went back to Elliot's to watch the US Open final, where Murray kept the suspense of his winning from Djokovic till the end of the almost 5-hour match on Monday, 10 September. That day, Olympians and Paralympians paraded through the streets of London in victory. What an inspiration these strong-minded athletes are to us all. Ted, Elliot's long-time partner, arrived home that evening to take us to dinner at Saigon's Vietnamese restaurant.

On Tuesday, the day of our car journey to Southampton with Elliot arrived. Piers, whom I had met in the US Virgin Islands through my friend, offered to take us on his ride back. It was good to see Piers carrying the perfect interior designer summer look with his golden locks now grown to shoulder length, Ralph Lauren shorts, layered t-shirts, and sock-free, worn-in loafers. His drive through Williamsburg Bridge brought back memories of my first introduction to this now artistic area of NY. After a two-hour ride, we arrived at the house in Southampton, where the weather report was sunny and glorious, lucky after the previous week's storm.

The first night was a visit to Suki Zuki and, yes, you guessed it, sushi. Wednesday, we spent a couple of hours on the almost deserted beach, came back to lay by the poolside and ended the evening at the Red Bar restaurant, where a group of the typically white, grey-haired crowd was dining. There was no interaction amongst the somewhat stuck-up entourage, and no one looked away from their tables. Dull.

Once we got home, the pain grew under my right chest, and it became intolerable to such an extent I had to wake Elliot up at 11pm to drive me to the Emergency at Southampton Hospital in his semi-drunken state. Not a patient in sight! Boy, they must be a healthy bunch in this part of the world or is going to the hospital a luxury not every American can afford? After the nurse was asked the relevant questions by the nurse, I was directed to a curtained cubicle to lay there 'til I was seen to. The pain had somewhat disappeared in anxiousness, so I lay there waiting for one nurse, followed by another, to ask questions and make me sign paper after paper (this is America and suing is a hobby for most). In my mad moment, I thought, 'Here we go. I had to have an ER episode in my blog, and here it is!'

The hours passed while I went in and out of sleep, and every time I awoke, there was yet another new face looking down at me with more of the same questions: "Do you smoke?" or "Do you drink?" Hope they don't ask if I have sex, too! Haha. Anyhow, I seem to have amused the nurses with my answers. In the morning, the surgeon, much older looking than any other doctor who had visited me throughout the night, walked in for examination and decided very quickly there was a gall bladder to be removed. In looks and manner, he could have been a politician on Capitol Hill or, indeed, a senator from upstate New York. When the surgeon holding my hand asked: 
"How old are you, Haldita?"
I looked him in the eyes and answered: 
"I'm 53 and fancy-free!"
I somewhat embarrassed him in front of his young intern, who was smiling with his head down. 

The catwalk of lovely nurses, not to dismiss those gorgeous young doctors who visited me throughout the night, actually made my time at the hospital a happy one to reminisce about. After numerous blood tests and X-rays, I was finally rolled into the operating area with the clock reading 1:30pm, and all I remember next was seeing another clock at 5:00pm. Once I gained conscience later on at night, all I wanted to know from the good-looking interns was whether I could fly to London the following week as I had a flight to Ibiza to catch. I was discharged the next day after lunch, less a gall bladder and with a strict diet of no fat. 

Elliot, who had somewhat disappeared from the scene for a while, confessed upon picking me up:
"Haldita, Darling, I've a confession to make."
There was a spark in his eyes that made me automatically guess what he was about to say.  
"You know how drunk I was when I dropped you at the hospital?" He continued. "Zo, I drove to the next closest highway rest stop and noticed one of these huge American black and silver trucks parked here. So, I installed myself right behind where the driver could see me from his side mirror and turned off the car engine and lights. The truck driver did the same."
I could not help butting in at this point: "I knew it. I just knew it; you had sex!"
Elliot burst into a loud laughter and said: "No. Really? You know me too well, Haldita. Yes. You know this is a total gay fantasy, and it turned into reality. I got out of the car and walked around the large vehicle, and when I got to the driver's side, he was there, ready for me. Da'lin, it was sooooooo hot!"
I doubt it not! So, my immediate response to my dear friend who had been such an angel by my side was: "My Darling. See how your good deeds paid off so fast!" And we laughed.

In my state of half-consciousness out of the hospital, I had texted my Girl with many others to say: 
'Just had my 'gold' bladder removed and doing well.'  
To which my Girl responded: 
'Do you mean gall bladder, mama? I've never heard of a gold one, haha. Not that I doubt yours would be gold!' 
I concluded in writing: 'I must be delirious, my love. Elliot is in stitches with laughter, and I certainly mustn't laugh, or my stitches will snap, but I can't help it.'

On the following day out of hospital, Elliot and I drove to Southampton for my prescription and some supermarket shopping for the delicious salmon he would cook for us, with Ted and Piers arriving that evening from NYC. At the sight of the Helmut Lang boutique, my knees went weak, and we entered briefly to order the black fabric/leather jacket to be picked up later. How else does a girl go through therapy if it does not begin with retail?  

And so, I spent the next few days being looked after beautifully by Elliot. We sat by the pool, under the glorious sunshine of the perfect heat before autumn's descent, looking at the light blue water, which I was not allowed to enter after surgery, with the Hawaiian Tropic oil shimmering on my skin and every so often, the sound of the breeze swiftly moving through the leaves of the tall, green trees surrounding us. Bliss in the haven of recovery! I could not be more grateful for Elliot and all the care he took of me, his love, and his friendship.

Southampton Beach

Houses along the Atlantic Ocean - Southampton

After a stop over at Starbucks in Bridgehampton and heading back to his city life, Ted took the time on Sunday to drive me by the Atlantic Ocean and show me the magnificent villas, which did not disappoint, along the stretch which went on for miles and miles. Wow! So much wealth.

Elliot had planned for us to have lunch at the American Hotel's restaurant in Sag Harbor, a must, especially with the most delicious sweet potato soup, which I can still taste under my tongue. 

Sag Harbor theatre

The American Hotel - Sag Harbor

What came as a total surprise, yet again, was having a last dinner at the Suki Zuki and upon walking in, I noticed Cyrus and Mitt sitting at a table near the entrance. We had a brief conversation on the phone after my operation. They were supposed to have left East Hampton the day before but, realising it was Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, they had delayed their trip back to the capital and decided to visit the sushi place on their way home - for the first time, I may add. And who walks in but us! So, we joined them for the meal and enjoyed catching up. Superb and, once again, incredible. Tiny, tiny world we live in.
Another restaurant we ate at in East Hampton was Nick & Tony's, where the Clintons had been spotted dining two or three weeks previously.

Pumpkin picking for Halloween

Today is my last day in Southampton, six days after the operation. Aaaah! All packed and ready to be picked up by the limo at 2:00pm to head to JFK for my flight back to London. Last night's major storm kept me awake until late, so I look forward to catching up on that on my way home. I had a plane to catch from London to Ibiza the following day. And I did.

Till the next episode, I send you 'Healthy Love'.  

Memories of Beirut keep dawning on me

Do you sometimes feel like just letting go and running somewhere remote where you can be left alone... To 'be'?!? My running away is to jump on a plane and go wherever life takes me. There is nothing or no one to run away from; instead, the many wonderful friends spread across the world to visit and feel their familiar feeling of love, the family I picked to accompany me along my journey.  
There is my 'blood family' and my 'chosen family'; equally impressive.

Hey, don't call me 'bitch', although it makes me smile, I 'know' I'm a lucky girl and making my dreams come true, however big or small, is my 'raison d'etre' (reason to be alive). Fly high and see the world at large as one. Meet the most exciting people life could possibly offer, at its best or, as it happens, sometimes at its worst, for the pages of memory and experience.
It is not the tabloid celebrities I particularly want to meet, the ones who fill up those gossip columns on those colourful pages of magazines, but everyone and anyone who crosses my path; we are all one, all with tales to tell. After all, famous people are just like you and me; they started with dreams and went through their own stories to get there. 
During a deep conversation with Charlotte, she expressed her learning in a spiritual session that the celebrities who come to fame young, live the lives most envious and part early, such as the wonderful Whitney Heuston or others with tragic deaths, are apparently only 'new' souls on this earth. So, they make a considerable impact, only to disappear from our lives, but certainly not from our thoughts. They possess beauty, talent, fame, riches, and everything most would only dream about rapidly, only to leave abruptly. My point is, 'we are all ONE'. Allow no one to make a judgement on who you are and what your life's journey is about. That is individual, and we are each on our own path to learn and move on to... 'Greener pastures', you may ask?! Haha....  Well, yeah.
(Unless you read the blog with that heading, you may need help understanding my meaning here; that's fine).

Before I lose you here, let's return to the August Bank Holiday in the UK while having dinner at the Embassy club with Donna on Friday evening...
I recalled a story from my long nights at the party in the liberal capital city of Beirut. Can't wait to go back to all those years ago, the year before their President Hariri was assassinated.  
One night, on an outing in a nightclub downtown, my sister Hala and I met a charming, tall, slender character resembling Sacha Baron Cohen with even similar glasses on. I do not recall his name, but to tell the tale, let's call him 'Sacha'. He was charming, fun and friendly. Hala seemed tired of all the non-stop partying since our arrival and decided to return to our hotel for some rest. So, I ended up with this very colourful character in his car, driving through a motorway somewhere out of town, going to some party as he expressed! Again, let me be clear: the man did not for a second give me a reason to feel any kind of threat or discomfort.  
We chatted happily; he answered some calls on his mobile, then abruptly left and stopped in a dodgy area under a bridge with dim lighting from the street light shining in the far. 
He seemed a little agitated at the time but explained:
"I'm gonna get some coke. Meeting the dealer here. Do you want some?"
 It all happened so fast, and although I had no intention of touching the white powder, under the circumstances, I found it appropriate to play along with his game, so I answered:
"Sure. Here's the cash. Get me one, too."
There I was again, inquisitive, getting myself into another bizarre situation.

We waited ten minutes in that dark passage before the dealer appeared at the rolled-down window. Sacha introduced me, and we shook hands across his chest; they spoke in Arabic (which I did not understand a word of), then the dealer offered Sacha to test the goods on some side road outside the city, me thinking 'Fuck! I hope they don't get arrested now. ' But no.
Sacha exchanged money for the goods, and the dealer politely said goodbye and left while we continued driving to a concrete building, obviously by now, well outside the city where there was no question of going back for me; I was at Sacha's mercy. He even joked, and we laughed at my situation... How mad am I?!? True.
We got out of his car parked on the dismal side street of a concrete building; I followed him to the lobby, where Sacha exchanged words of familiarity with the porter, and we went up in the lift. We walked through the corridor of a white wall on one side separated by dark blue apartment doors and sixties-like square frosty glass panels on the other, leading to the darkness outside, with plain white tiles on the floor. It reminded me of a night out in Momo's club with Sis in London, where we ended up in Hackney, me driving, being conducted by some extraordinary character we had met at the end of the night. Now, that's another story. Strange places I have been to!

Towards the end of the corridor, he stopped and rang the bell outside one of those blue doors. We entered a relatively bare, open space of a studio, where apart from the guy who welcomed us in, two guys in their late twenties or perhaps early thirties were sitting on the white tiled floor, playing football on PlayStation. I was introduced and sat on the small, brownish leather sofa, close to where the football player was deep in his game on the widescreen TV. He began supporting his team as we laughed, and he continued playing. The atmosphere was of none but friendly; we were chatting, and goodness knows what I told them; nothing but the truth, of course, of being my first time in Beirut and how the people there had impressed me with their hospitality, their kindness and their utmost to show us the best time ever. 

I even had a go at playing football on the PlayStation. They all engaged in conversation with me, a fantastic bunch of guys, but Sacha seemed agitated, and shortly after our arrival, everyone but the two of us left the apartment. Now, it was Sacha, and I left in that studio, white walls, white square tiles covering the floor, a flimsy double bed in one corner, a small leather sofa and a folding chair, plus a plain wooden coffee table topped with the packets of two grams of coke! I knew not to indulge in anything but simply pretended to do so and dusted away the evidence of any white powder being left on the table. Hence, Sacha ended up snorting most of the two packs until sunrise, which may have been two or three hours since our arrival, but it seemed like I had endured two to three months, waiting impatiently for the sun to come out and as of his promise, to drop me off at my hotel on his way to work. There was nothing else I could do but stick around, watching Sacha lean onto another line of coke spread on the now dusty-looking coffee table, jumping up and down like a wired chimpanzee around the room. It was entertaining, just like seeing Bruno at work! Honest.

At sunrise, Sacha disappeared in the bathroom where I heard the shower running and came out shortly, changed into a sporty look, as I sat in a corner observing another form of human behaviour! Amazing.  
I followed Sacha out of the building into his car, and we drove in silence until he dropped me off.
Frankly, all I could see was a man with so much potential as there definitely was a way about him, wasting his life away, jumping up and down till morning, paranoid, then dropping me off to my destination and disappearing into thin air. I chose not to answer his call or text after that episode. But little did I know, this was not the very end of Sacha.

The trip to Beirut was one next to none. Needless to say, if it was not for Aisha and her proposal to show me this city at its best, I would certainly not be here, reminiscing on those tenacious memories and, through her, meeting Sabella and Sohi on that same trip in the mountains of Fakhra which led to another 24 hours of unexpected fun, as came next ...

One midday, Hala, my Girl and I were in our bikinis, wraps and beach bags, getting into our friendly driver's comfy 'big' car to head to Ede Sande, the party beach, one hour from the town centre. But that had to wait for another day, another story! Instead, we instructed the driver in broken English for him to understand:
"Instead, we go to the beach, one hour away, and everything changes. Haha.  Now, please take us to the mountains ...  Fakhra! You know?"
The driver looked us up and down in our bikinis with the friendliest of smiles and happily accepted to take the journey of one hour, heading the opposite way: to the mountains instead of the beach. He was entertaining and trustworthy, and he totally understood our humour in life! 
Oh! As with everywhere else in the world, once or twice, we did have a run with one arrogant taxi driver in Beirut, whom Hala and I were happy to kill, thinking he could treacherously cheat us with a ridiculous fare.
Listen, 'Everything happens Everywhere'!

Once in Fakhra, we spent a pleasant afternoon by the large outdoor pool in the ski resort hotel in the mountains of Lebanon in July. Magical. We swam, sunbathed, ate and as night was falling, Sohi managed to get us a great deal on a suite in the hotel for sis, my Girl and I to stay the night. That evening, we all entered a restaurant, similar to a posh glasshouse nursery with plants everywhere, close to the hotel, set amongst some ruins, filled with fancy people. Aisha, Sabella and Sohi were dressed up, but we were still in our bikinis and matching wraps! At least they were fitting, right? We simply smiled through the stare from the tables around us and went on to have another fantabulous Lebanese meal. Yummy.   
The following day, we were driven to a restaurant, where lunch was served on two long tables set literally in the sea, on the stones on the beach, with our feet standing in the water, tickled by the small waves. And we returned to our hotel to change for another night to begin later that evening. But that was fine; nothing starts early in Beirut.

Now, to go back to Sacha, listen to this...
Three or four years must have passed since my trip to Lebanon. At that time, I was visiting Dubai with my brother Soltan when one of his friends mentioned the opening of the reputable nightclub 'Crystal,' which we had been to in Beirut years before. The atmosphere in Crystal was one of Beirut itself; the lights would go on strong on stages when magnums of champagne came pouring in, I presume for people to be able to show off what they were wearing and check out properly who was there. Later through the night, the club began emptying from its total clientele capacity. I recall talking to several people from Italy, Germany, etc, at the following tables who, without exception, mentioned being in Dubai for two to three years to make a quick buck and head out. Some may have done so, but most seemed to stay on. Dubai may not be one of my favourite destinations, but to many, it is a relatively safe environment, especially for bringing up families, comparatively drug-free and duty-free!

Back again to the Crystal Club... While dancing on the seat, a guy from the following table made a gesture towards me as though he wanted a word, so I approached my friendly smile in listening:
"Weren't you in Beirut some years ago? I met you there."
I looked at the guy in a different light and tried to replace him. His face? His smile? Nope.  
My reply was: "I think you've got the wrong person. I don't remember meeting you."
So he continued: "You live in London and went to Beirut on holiday?"  
I nodded as a sign of agreement, and then he said, "I met you at a club; we drove to see my friend near a motorway and went back to my flat. You don't remember?"
I thought the guy must be making this up or MUST have me mistaken for someone else, but wow, what a story! So I apologetically smiled and tried to be sympathetic: "Really?! Am I that mad?"
Then, he began thinking deeper; he could not be making up such a story. To my dismay, I suddenly changed my tone and shouted: "Oh My God! Of course, I remember now. It's YOU who put me through that crazy night! But you've changed Sooooo much!"

I was taken aback seeing this man, this character whom I thought I would never meet anywhere in the world again, seriously. And now he was dancing next to me, looking at a picture of health and happiness. He had put on weight, looked respectable and must have had his girlfriend there, so I did not engage in further conversation. Instead, I just sat on the velvet Chesterfield sofa, remembering that long night and truly happy for the man. At the same time, I rolled my eyes up in the air, thinking of myself... 'You're a WILD woman. In the true sense!'
He kept looking my way every now and then, smiling. I must have sunk in the reverie.
 
Here and now, back in London... What was crazy about the Notting Hill Carnival???
I was once again invited to a country home only one hour away from London. Ernest had again done his marvels of asking a bunch of friends down to spend time in a cottage with a heated swimming pool and endless grounds to walk in, flower beds of a proper British garden in full bloom, aromas of freshness and sweetness carrying through the end of a summer breeze. Having been raised in a boarding school in the UK, I genuinely appreciate and value the British countryside, especially in the hilly parts. The weather was iffy at most, but we did get a few glimpses of the sun. Following Ernest's footsteps on the cover of the heated pool, I attempted to do the same walk, which felt like stepping on a wet moon, dragging my feet out of the water, and coming to the ankle to take the next. I looked back and saw friends' faces lying by the pool on those sunbeds, watching. Then, I opened my arms and decided to fall back in full dress and only a bikini bottom on the wet cover. Bam! I dropped off to everyone's burst of laughter. Kelly, my partner in crime followed suit to what must have looked a wet t-shirt contest. We kept falling backwards and forward onto the damp surface, legs up in the air, like grown-up kids having fun.

My stay in the countryside, which would end after one night on Sunday, kept going till the Monday Bank holiday (Well, I had done a 'true' Carnival the previous year, so there was no need for an immediate repeat). Besides, I was having a bundle of fun, sharing the room with Jill and having our girlie laughs, spending time with the charming Sabrina who constantly kept the oven of the house in use with roast chicken, lamb made with pistachios and dried apricots and vegetables to accompany.  
Aaaah! Once again, where would my life be without such... What's the new word I keep using? Oh yeah... FANTABULOUS, loving family and friends?! Nowhere.  

To the readers here or anyone in my life, however you judge me, I won't take it at heart, nor personally, not to the slightest. This heart of mine is only meant for loving. And if I feel your good vibe, hop along and let's help make people around us happy. It's not much to ask.

Exceed and Proceed your limits! Live life to the MAX.