The most absurd opening paragraph from an article I’ve read recently comes from Vulture’s recent piece on Girls.  In case you missed it, the season finale of Girls showcases Hannah Horvath receiving her acceptance to the prestigious Iowa Writers’ Workshop (despite no one, including viewers, having any idea she’d applied).  From the article:

The first thing Lan Samantha Chang, the director of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, wanted to do when she found out Hannah Horvath got into the prestigious MFA program was to phone the heroine of HBO’s Girls and offer advice. “I thought, I should give her a call and explain about what’s involved,” says Chang, who calls every prospective student personally. “And then I thought, No, she’s a fictional character.”

The book I’m currently working on revolves very much around the ever more blurred line between fantasy in reality: we fall in love with Ryan Gosling, we mourn deaths on Mad Men or The Americans as if we’ve lost actual friends, we discuss the intricacies of the relationships on New Girl as if it is our social circle that can’t stop boinking each other.  Why should Hannah Horvath receive a call from the real director of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop?  More people, it can be argued, care about her acceptance than of the “real” students about to submit to two years of fantasy immersion.  

Congratulations, Ms. Horvath.  While we may not all be rooting for you, you’ve stirred up some very strong feelings – feelings that are, indeed, real enough.

I was asked last week if he was on my celebrity out list – aka the celebrities I’m free to bang, should the opportunity arise.  I explained that, alas, he was not, but only because he and Michelle are so darn cute together (for more of her wonderfulness, see here).

Nonetheless, I’m smitten.  What POTUS goes on Between Two Ferns???  The dry, exasperated looks he was giving?  His passion for affordable health care?  I swoon.

We flew into St. Thomas, and then took the ferry to Tortola, where we picked up our sailboat.  This was the (not awful) view from our hotel room (our first and last non-rocking accommodation) the first morning.

A sign for us??  Totally Bey-Z worthy.

Where we slept for the week.  Each cabin had its own private (tiny) bathroom as well.

Our boat came with a dinghy that we used to get to shore and to the best snorkeling spots.

I’m on a boat!

I was in charge of meals and let me tell you, planning and preparing food for nine people on a boat is not the easiest of tasks.  We did a huge provisioning trip on the first day and supplemented at small markets along the way.  We also stumbled upon a wonderful organic farm that provided all of our produce – highly recommended if you find yourself in the BVIs.  Instead of the imported-across-the-world, plasticky fruit and veg sold in the supermarkets, we got deliciously fresh (most were picked that morning) selections.

We feasted on a taco bar, quinoa pineapple stir-fry, banana walnut pancakes, and many, many beers.  The outside deck was the preferred dinner seating choice.

It was a week of intense relaxation: ripping through three or four books, playing poker, sleeping on beaches, and, of course, cocktails at every/any hour.

Dance party.

On New Year’s Eve, we all got scrubbed the salt from our bodies and put on our party clothes for a swank dinner out at Saba Rock, a restaurant on it’s own (teeny tiny) island.

Ah, sunshine. Sitting in my rainy room in London, it’s hard to believe that there are places in the world where I can wear a neon bikini rather than than the sweatpants, sweater, slippers and socks (going for a Quad S’s vibe) I’m donning now.  Until next time Caribbean.  We’ll miss you every day.

Anywho, in a hunt for warmer climes, my dad and I spent Christmas in Miami and Key West.  Coming from London by way of New York meant that the first few days largely consisted of me standing with my eyes closed and my arms outstretched, trying to refamiliarize myself with this whole “sun” concept.

Ah, yes, now I recall what sunglasses were invented for.  We spent a lot of time just walking around, enjoying the beach and the street art and the Gatsby-gasp inducing art deco architecture.

Then we got into a rental car (because my dad doesn’t live in cities and still remembers how to drive! Hooray, Dad!) and headed down to the Everglades, where we spotted two hundred birds and two alligators.

Do you see him?  So cute and cuddly, those guys.

Our final stop was Key West, a little town on the very tip of the Florida keys that I absolutely fell in love with.  It’s laid back, artistic, has an amazing food scene, and is the former home of one Mr. Hemingway, whose house I spent Christmas Day swooning around.  Above, pictures of him surrounded by his four wives.

And the famous six-toed cats!  Six-toed cats were good luck, and Papa Hemingway had about fifty of them.  My interpretation of this is that I won’t be a real writer until I add 49 more cats to my collection; also, that no one’s allowed to make fun of my crazy cat lady tendencies anymore.

Not a bad place to write epic works of fiction.

We had a fairly casual few days before trading in our flip-flops for more flip-flops and flying down to the British Virgin Islands for a week of sailing…stay tuned…

(Please note that some of these photos may have been taken by Robert Moody.  The really good ones were taken by his daughter, Liz Moody, although he might note that the really, really good ones were taken by him.)

One day, we ventured out into the countryside to visit some plantation homes, with a brief stop at the Magnolia Plantation and a lengthier visit at Middleton Place.  The grounds were absolutely stunning; as we strolled through the oak trees dripping with Spanish moss, it was easy to picture life in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.  Slave houses and costumed interpreters doing demos on the grounds gave a fuller image of life at the time.

Ye olde coffee roaster.

Making barrels, and husking rice.  Interesting fact about rice (a phrase I never thought I’d write): apparently, rice has a lot to do with why the African culture is so preserved in the Charleston area.  The plantation owners quickly figured out that their climate and land was perfectly suited to growing the grain, but they had little to no idea how to actually do so.  The West African slaves, however, had been cultivating rice for centuries.  Because of this knowledge imbalance, rice plantation slaves in Charleston were treated comparably well.  In addition, they had a tolerance for malaria that the colonists did not; as such, they were largely left alone on the swampy plantations, while the colonists moved to the coastal town of Charleston, where breezes and less standing water made the malaria risk lower.  The descendants of the slaves are now called the Gullah people, and live on the barrier islands, where their cooking, language, and style of living has remained largely the same as their ancestors.

On Saturday, we went to Charleston’s farmer’s market, named the third best in the United States.  It was lovely; live music, delicious food (and fresh green juice!), awesome performances and the cutest fans I’ve ever seen.

Potentially the first exercise machine invented, this mimics riding a horse side-saddle.  You can only find them in Charleston and they’re amazingly fun to sit/bounce on.

Charleston recommendations:  stay at…The Indigo Inn, a gorgeous cross between a B&B and a hotel with huge and reasonably priced rooms, an amazing location, free breakfast, a wine and cheese hour, and a proprietor, Brian, who is maybe the most charming and lovely man I have ever met.  eat at…FIG; the farmer’s market; Sabatino’s New York City Pizza; Butcher and Bee (for gourmet sandwiches).  Also, the Charleston Cooks! class introduced me to the best butterscotch pie and cheddar apple grits I’ve ever tasted.  do…a walking tour, to get a feel of the city; a trip out to at least one plantation (Magnolia has more to do – including an alligator swamp! – and Middleton has more beautiful grounds); a visit to the Old Slave Mart Museum, where you can hear recordings of former slaves describing their life in their own words, captured during a depression-era stimulus project; a house tour – my favorite was the Aikenn-Rhett house, which is completely unrestored, just preserved, and beautiful in its dilapidated wonder, and the Nathaniel Russell house, with it’s infamous floating staircase (you can buy a discounted ticket that gives entry to both).