Tweet Time

"So much time and so little to do - strike that, reverse it."

So said Willy Wonker in his chocolate factory. Nowhere is this phrase more true for me than in New York. The wide choice of things to do leads to more procrastination. What to do first? When to do this or that? How to fit this in if I'm doing that, etc.... All questions that serve to reduce action and bombard brain cells with clutter. That is how I have been feeling over the past few years. Lots of talk, little action and time spent on reacting to everyday events without proactive results.

I have several book projects in my head- my family's story from Britain, Armenia, Burma and back to Britain, my travel stories of Burma and Brazil, biographies of so many other interesting and amazing people I have met. All stories to immortalize and set in black and white type on my Mac.

Today, I have decided to focus! Camera, lights, Action! Here are my plans v what I eventually accomplish:

Day 1 - May 25th

I have decided to go active on Twitter to keep abreast of social networks, news feeds, friends, businesses and professionals I admire. I do agree with Mr George Packer, one of my favourite journalists, that Twitter is

"crack for media addicts".

But there are much worse addictions out there, Mr Packer, in this day and age, and, some of us need all the help we can get.

NY Times, Mr Carr says that:

“Twitter becomes an always-on data stream from really bright people.” And: “The real value of the service is listening to a wired collective voice … the throbbing networked intelligence.” And: “On Twitter, you are your avatar and your avatar is you.” And finally: “There is always something more interesting on Twitter than whatever you happen to be working on.”

So please, Mr George Packer tweet to me!

Read more: http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/georgepacker/2010/01/stop-the-world.html#ixzz0ox2NDRCU

I made a call to Verizon last Friday for technical assistance on my phone line in Manhattan. A nice girl from the Philippines, Sam, told me that a technician would come today anytime from 8am to 7pm. So forgive me if my day off today is not filled with trips to The Metropolitan's Picasso or the "American Woman -Fashioning a National Identity" exhibitions (the original to-do list). I have an all-day appointment with the cable man - oh joy!

Euro woes and news

The news today was pretty grim, mostly where Europe is concerned. The Euro is tumbling and soon, it is predicted, will be on a par with the dollar.

Portugal, Italy, Ireland, Greece and Spain, now known as the "PIIGS", have proved to be the weakest links in the strong European chain. All eyes and wallets are on Germany who is leading the rescue package to salvage a difficult economic situation that risks the failure of the common currency. Now it seems that Europe needs to have more parity with regards to domestic affairs and social hand-outs. What a telling time this will be for all countries concerned. Of course, the British can feel a slight sense of relief that they did not go hand in hand with all concerned in matters of their "purse strings". The Queen still sits proudly on our notes and is holding it all together for Britannia.

However, the sparkle is still in Cannes, where the Festival boasts stars and billionaires basking in their luminous limelights. Why on earth they chose "Robin Hood" to open the Festival is a complete mystery to me. It is a 13th century D-Day mixed up with all manner of historic events and characters, loads of awful anachronisms and those terrible cliches like "the Englishman's home is his castle". Did you know Robin Hood said that? I wonder what the French thought about it all, especially as their invasion forces turned around at the sight of bows and arrows and swords on a beach in Dover.

The funniest thing I read today was a comment by New York Mayor Bloomberg to a journalist who asked "Did you meet Lady Gaga there tonight?" The answer was "Yes, and we were wearing the exact same thing. How embarrassing for her". Yes, Mr Bloomberg, those sky high headresses and shoulder pads would definitely suit your sky high lifestyle!

A memorable cup of coffee

A remarkable difference between my life in the UK and here in New York is that when people ask to meet for a casual drink it is usually for coffee in a sleek cafe with sleek prices. The ambiance is elegant and demure and very conducive to meetings, networking and civilized conversation. New York runs on caffeine. I have come to depend on at least three cups of this dark brew a day and the variety makes it interesting - cappuccino, latte, espresso, macchiato, cortado, americano, french press - I love them all. New York offers variety in everything!

In London, (my daughter lives there full time so I know it is still true), the drink would consist of some alcoholic beverage consumed in a rather noisy, sombre-coloured, over-packed, trendy pub where conversations are often held in high-pitched tones to drown the neighbouring shrieks of collegial laughter and jokes. The "drink" is the winding down process for the day. Even if it is with work colleagues the drink serves to relax and let your hair down, which is anathema in the New York workplace.

Sharing a drink satisfies many of our social needs; for company, enjoyment and satisfaction. With this in mind, I was particularly drawn to one scene in the much vaulted and praise-deserving series on TV, The Pacific. In full cinematographic glory, Spielberg and Hanks bring to our television screens the grim brutality of the war fought between the US Marines and the Japanese. It is compelling, but in this one particular scene, a Guadalcanal war hero is offered a cup of coffee by the object of his affections, a pretty young mess sargeant. He remembers how good a cup of coffee tasted to him after his first major battle and near escape from death. This simple pleasure for him takes on a surreal dimension given the context it is set in. She, in turn, remembers that her best cup of coffee was offered to her in a cafe by her estranged father who by, adding just the right amount of sugar and milk for her, showed he was ready for reconciliation.

I, too, have an excellent recollection of my best cup of coffee and it is equally as "cheesy" as the Hollywood scene above. I was sitting at the terrace of my favourite cafe in Paris, Le Cafe de Flore, on a Spring morning in April ten years ago. I take solace in my solitude by basking in the sunshine and sipping my usual "grand creme" (French cappuccino). With this aura of contentment and pleasure I strike up a conversation with a lively group of people sitting on adjoining tables. Our serendipitous meeting is prolonged with a trip to the cinema and a farewell drink in a hotel lobby. Having spent the best part of this beautiful spring day in Paris chatting with one particular engaging gentleman in the group it is with no surprise that I hear from him again by phone and by emails from New York where he lives and works. Three years and countless transatlantic trips later, this gentleman becomes my husband and ten years later here we are sitting together enjoying a cup of coffee from our new espresso machine in our New York home, celebrating cafe culture.

Happiness is a cup of coffee.

A nice cup of tea?

Being of mixed descent with a name and birthplace that was unpronounceable and strange to most of my friends, I do remember always feeling part of a bigger picture - that of the old British Empire and its colonies. In fact, most of my life was large and empirical. Take my family of ten brothers and sisters and countless aunts, aunties and cousins. I soon came to realise that not every family had twelve people living together in a semi-detached house, or with five girls and five boys to one bedroom. My sisters and I would need to chop six onions and wash three pounds of rice for our family meals, and my brothers would take up five machines at the local launderette for our weekly wash. Luckily though, there were enough of us to make up two fairly good teams so we could indulge in all our favourite sports without leaving our back yard. Football, cricket and rounders teams would be formed in fair and challenging dimensions, enough to warrant many broken windows, lost balls in neighbour's gardens but lots of fun, laughter and of course, competitiveness.

Mixed descent means also mixed cuisines and so I remember fondly not only savouring the delights of Burmese curries and Armenian dolmas but also the very British High Tea and fish and chips, although not all on the same night. High Tea would be waiting for us on our return from school with dainty sandwiches filled with cucumber, salmon or jam, and of course, scones with lashings of cream and even more strawberry jam. All rinsed down with a nice cup of tea.

There is no doubt that the bonds of food-sharing are the ones that remain unbreakable as each meal nourishes the family, the friendship and the deep seated complicity of tastes.

High Tea would be very much a part of my parents' culture back in Burma. My mother's grandfather had begun his life in Rangoon, Burma after leaving Bristol in 1906. He and his offspring remained true to most things British, including the British style of education and the tradition of afternoon tea. Burma was cultured and civilized like most other colonial countries of the Empire. (Cultured, civilized, colonial countries - is that too much alliteration?)

Now to bring this story up to date and back to New York! This afternoon, I ask my husband if he wanted a "nice cup of tea" on his return from work. "I was told you have to warm the cup before you pour the tea" he quips, proud of his newfound knowledge from an undisclosed source. I smile as I remember the quintessential points of tea-making a l'anglais, showing how the teapot is warmed by the hot water before the tea leaves touch the surfaces, the drop of milk that is splashed into the cup before the tea , the wait of at least five minutes for the tea to brew before pouring into fine bone china cups. Then it is taste, the memories, the complicity of many high teas that rushed back into my mind back in the days before I left Great Britain.