"Look kids! Big Ben! Parliament!" Highlights from London

The Most American Man in the World took on London. And conquered it. Or maybe crushed it. Well, to be precise, we had a good time and didn't cause an international incident. So that's something, right?

We took the train from Ascot into central London. Travel in a plane or train always makes me pensive, and looking out of the train's big picture window, I note that the sky is overcast but the grass is a vibrant green from all the rain, quite unlike February in New York. And then there are the trees.

The trees in England are not simply characteristic, but characters in and of themselves. There are Hamletian trees, indecisive about which way they want to grow. In a meadow, a Fastaffian oak is laying on its side, its roots obscenely pointing in the air, and Mother Earth, exhausted from trying to coax it to rise, has covered it in a moss blanket. And then there are the Sherlockain ones -- dark trunks with hundreds of synaptic-like branches that stretch to make tenuous connections with the ether.

I realize these metaphors might be a bit forced, but it's been so long since I had a poetic thought, I'm writing each one down in a small red notebook while the train chugs past quintessentially English towns -- Victoria Water, Egham, Feltham.

The Most American Man leans over to whisper in my ear, "I Feltham, did you?"

*     *     *

When we get to London, Chris is in his element, mainly because he loves monuments, statues and reading boring plaques about dead people. I booked us for a Double Decker tour, which is perfect since it allows us to see most of the main sites and hop off when Chris wants to take a picture or grab a snack (we both accept that there will be no end to snacking on this trip). And the weather gods have cooperated to deliver his ideal climate -- overcast, brisk and misty. (Is this guy not made for England?)

Chris outside Buckingham Palace.

Across Buckingham Palace, the tall, stately, trees with curvy bottoms lining The Green Park remind me of Helen Mirren -- but that may also be because she played The Queen. Meanwhile, Chris notices that the hot chocolate stand in the park sells mini-Belgium waffles drizzled with chocolate syrup, and promptly orders one.

But the highlight of his day is Parliament Square where Chris gets to shout dialogue from National Lampoons European Vacation ("Look kids! Big Ben! Parliament!) and take lots of photos of statues to dead men -- a lumpy Churchill, a sparsely dressed Gandhi, a graceful Nelson Mandela, and curiously, a benevolent-looking Abraham Lincoln. (I get why the other statues are there, but Lincoln seems particularly out of place.) I'm generally bored by both Chevy Chase movies and statues, but there is hope for this trip -- Chris mentions on the plane ride to India that he would have liked to have spent a week in London just seeing all the sights.

Ladies and gentlemen, do we have a burgeoning world traveler? Do I dare hope?

Adventures in Traveling with The Most American Man in the World

In 39 years, I've visited nearly 20 countries. My boyfriend, a nubile 37-years-old, has left the U.S. once -- for Bermuda and the Bahamas.

For friends who have known me for more than 24 hours, this is a highly ironic relationship. It's also a goldmine of cultural misunderstandings, sarcastic banter, and many Felix-and-Oscar moments to which I firmly believe I should not be the sole consumer. So let me present for your reading pleasure Adventures in Traveling with The Most American Man in the World.*

First things first. The Most American Man does not like change. I, Felix, do like change. And new ideas.

My constant flow of new ideas -- for life, for work, for art, for travel destinations -- is often met with indifference or outward resistance from The Boyfriend. In fact, here's a graph of the usually trajectory of my happiness when I introduce Chris to a new idea:

See what happens? A new idea is practically infallibly correlated with my happiness. But the minute I share this new idea with Chris, I am met with 0% enthusiasm. Most of the time, this is not because of an obstinate or grumpy-cat nature; he's simply an introvert who mulls over every idea for long periods of time before getting on board.

He's also a civil servant (see footnote below), who knows when to get on board with management's new plan or initiative. This leads to 10% enthusiasm that can seem like progress, but actually it's the worst stage in the Chris Enthusiasm Building process because it is accompanied with Irish-Catholic-level passive-aggressive statemetns (e.g., "Fiiine, I'll go to India, if it's really that important to you.").

I usually pretend to have Asperger's at this point and simply take Chris at his literal word. I pepper him with questions to which he never knows the answer. ("Do you like to see sights or laze around when you travel?" I ask. "I wouldn't know," he responds.) But life is busy, and it's amazing how much a relationship can progress if you just ignore gaping incompatibilities for a few months.

At some point, Chris will realize that things are moving without much effort on his part. At this point, he adopts adrenaline-junkie jargon like, "Sometimes you just have to turn into the skid." The sheer possibility of chaos brings his enthusiasm to 75%. Which is great.

But then things get tricky. Because The Most American Man can't half commit to something. He can't even let it rest at 75%. It's go big or go home. There's no 100%, just 110%. So now, Chris is not only on board with visiting India, I'm pretty sure that if I mention wanting to travel internationally ever again, he's going to want to come back only to India. "It's a tradition," he'll say. "Why mess with a good thing?"

This makes me want to bury my head in despair for all the countries that are out there to be seen. But then I remember what my cousin Cary once told me. "You want a guy who doesn't like change, because that means he won't want to change you." I'm not sure if he meant Chris won't try to exchange me (for someone else) or won't try to change my fundamental personality. But either way, I realize that this trait, this Most American trait, is why I was happy enough to have all those bright ideas in the first place.

And so we continue on our merry-go-round of algorithmic incompatibility. He makes me happy. I have new ideas. I share those ideas, and he mourns the little creature comforts he so desperately wants, opting instead for a life with me. I charge ahead with my idea, and then he gets on board, outstripping any level of interest or enthusiasm I had. And his dedication makes my heart smile with loyal affection. And so we start again...

*For those of you that may dispute that moniker, I should mention that The Boyfriend is a Firefighter/EMT, was born outside of Boston to parents who are Jersey Italian and Irish, loves chain restaurants, and uses the word awesome at least once a day.

Be Who You Love, Don't 'Do What You Love'

This blog post took four years to write.

Not literally, of course. Literally, it's only taken about 45 minutes. Just enough time for my favorite writing prop - a steaming cup of black tea with sugar - to get cold.

But it has taken four years for me to finally be able to sum up in a headline my thoughts on being happy at work.

Fours years ago, at the age of 33, I went through mid-life crisis #1. (It's possible I'm going through mid-life crisis #2 this month, but that's another blog post.) During this time, I struggled heavily with the way I spent most of my twenties and early thirties, distractedly following the newest trends in do-gooder professions. I was a rookie reporter, an international editor, an intern at notable humanitarian organizations, a psychologist-in-training, an "educational content specialist" at a children's educational TV show, and managing editor for a website covering global development.

The problem is that by 33, the sad things of life start to accumulate -- death, sickness, sorrow over things you really can't control. And when these things accumulate, you need a reprieve from the daily grind. Not necessarily a vacation or traveling sabbatical, but creature comforts. A bed that's not a futon. A good meal. An apartment without mice or cockroaches. A pair of boots that keep your toes warm in the winter. Simple things.

But even simple things cost money. And none of the jobs I worked was paying me enough money to afford those things, at least not if I wanted to keep paying my rent. Added to these financial concerns was the problem any honest do-gooder will face when seeing friends and family fall under: What good is saving the world if I don't have the means to help the people I know? It's easy to give money to starving, faceless children in other countries, but that's really very ego-driven. The more honest do-gooder will help the people Fate stitched her heart to -- friends and family -- with equal devotion and convinction.

But it's nearly impossible to be generous towards your loved ones financially when working to "save the world" or "follow your passion." Really, it doesn't always pay off, at least not in the time frame to pay that next medical bill.

And that's the problem people who say "Do What You Love" don't want to admit. It's fundamentally a philosophy of the privileged. Miya Tokumitsu explains this beautifully on Slate.com, illustrating how Steve Jobs, the biggest straw man in the DWYL debate, was only able to do what he loved by exploiting the livelihoods of others, particularly Chinese factory workers. (Go ahead, read that article. It's really good. I'll wait.)

Moreover, Tokumitsu explains how "Under the DWYL credo, labor that is done out of motives or needs other than love—which is, in fact, most labor—is erased." Do you think a cleaning lady is doing what she loves? Probably not. But is it noble because it allows her to put food on her table and raise her kids and get out of an abusive relationship? Damn straight it is.

And that's the problem with Do What You Love -- we all simply don't have the luxury. Even less so as we age and the life initiates us into the Gang of Middle-Aged Survivors with the worst succession of beatings imaginable.

And the flip side is, money really does matter. It can buy happiness. An apartment without mice or roaches is pure heaven for some people. And it costs money.

Now it's true, there's a limit to how much happiness money can buy. It levels off after basic needs and a little comfort are met, as illustrated in a series of lovely post-it note graphs on Brain Pickings. (Go ahead and read that one, too.) But as the article also explains, while money can only buy you so much happiness, there's no end to how many opportunities to flourish it can buy you. More money means more opportunities to flourish. It's a straight line to self-actualization apparently.

So, should we all just work for money?

By no means, NO. Because you spend most of your waking hours at work, it matters very much. I know from personal experience that having a job you hate can suck the life out of you. Money without some fulfillment will leave you depleted and far from flourishing.

So, then, how do we balance the need for money and the need to having enjoyable work?

The answer, I believe, is to BE who we love.

But by being who we love, we chose to work in a way that makes us proud of ourselves. That means working diligently (but not obsessively). It means doing whatever work put in front of you with a sense of gratitude but also with the deep-seated knowledge that your importance is not defined by the importance of your work.

It also means, if you can, pursuing the skills that make you feel like you're flourishing. Don't worry if you want to be the next great American writer but are currently writing VHS manuals (I knew a writer who had. Really. Can you imagine anything worse?). Spend your time honing your skills, shaping your craft, so that when the opportunity comes to write something meaningful, you have the chops to rise to the occasion.

Or to take an example from the non-writing world, don't worry if your job is helping a company sell toilet paper. The world needs salesmen to sell great ideas, and eventually, if that's your goal and intention, you'll get an opportunity to put those toilet paper-selling skills to good use. The one thing I've learned is that excellence is a habit, not a performance. You don't knock it out of the park unless you show up for batting practice every day.

However, on the flip side, do worry if your company does something that goes against your own internal moral compass. This is where passion matters. Perhaps you're passionate about the environment, so selling diapers would be reprehensible. Or you're non-violent, so selling any type of weapon, even guns to cops, would be wrong for you.

Don't follow your passion blindly, but rather, let it inform how you acquire the skills you need to do something great in the world.

Also, be passionate about the skills you develop. If you hate selling, you'll hate your job even if you're selling love to lepers. If you hate writing, you'll hate your job, even if you're writing about do-gooders all day long.

Be Who You Love. Work diligently for pay, knowing the most menial jobs deserve respect. When possible, choose work that teaches you skills you want to know with a company that doesn't violate your moral code. Then look to see if you're happy. My bet is you will be.

Why Introverts Make Better Public Speakers

This past week, I spoke at an industry conference hosted by the company I work for. The topic would relatively boring to most people reading this blog (Marketing Data Subscriptions Services), but it was a lengthy two-hour workshop during which my boss and I spoke for about the same amount of time.

Afterwards, my boss and I received a variety of compliments, the most ironic of which was, "It was clear that you and _______ had rehearsed A LOT." We hadn't rehearsed a bit, and when I told the attendee that, he seemed to brush off my assertions as false modesty. It's then that I realized that my boss and I had pulled off a rather intimidating and enviable feat in others' eyes -- we had made public speaking look easy and enjoyable.

Now, I can't speak for my boss, but there's a certain paradox to this accomplishment given that, by all self-assessment tests, I am a serious introvert.

But I'm also starting to realize that being an introvert might be the biggest asset for a public speaker.

For those of you unfamiliar with what introversion really means, some clarification is probably in order. Introversion is not the same as being shy. It's also not the same as being highly sensitive (although I definitely qualify as an HSP).

Introversion, in my experience and understanding, starts with a need for solitude and quiet to recharge. If you found yourself annoyed and exhausted at college house parties after hanging out with your friends all day, you're probably an introvert.

But introversion doesn't stop there. The most interesting introverts often have a rich interior life and a longing to discuss ideas not events, humanity but not people. This isn't intellectual snobbery (although it can sometimes manifest that way). It's more of a temperament and tendency to see what's under the surface of everyday interactions. This can sometimes lead to feelings of isolation and depression, but grown-up introverts turn this trait into an ability to nurture compassion and understanding towards other people's inexplicable behavior.

So what does this have to do with public speaking? Well, when talking to others about how I like public speaking (it's taken me years to say that out loud without feeling like a narcissist), I've learned that the most extroverted people can sometimes fear it the most. Even if they're also scoring high on introversion scales, these are people who have extroverted mechanisms of feedback -- people who rate their success and happiness by the number of friends they have or how activity-filled their calendars are. And while having friends and activities is by no means a character flaw, seeking extroverted markers of success are the death knell of any good talk.

Standing on stage and expounding for an hour or more about any topic that interests you requires a certain self-containment, a certain self-confidence that your worth is not determined by your audience's reaction. And introverts are better suited for this lack of feedback. Most are so enthralled by the chance to talk about the ideas that fill their quiet lives that they don't register audience reaction until they're well into their talk.

It also helps that my generation of introverts grew up alone on playgrounds. When you're not used to being the most popular kid (but are often respected for being one of the smart ones in class), it's easier to get up there and put your mind on display without a need to be liked. There was only one time I ever worried about whether people liked me while I was talking (and I bombed that talk). The thing that I'm actually more attuned to is "Are they understanding what I'm saying?"

There is one caveat to this rule, however. Introverts need an adult audience to succeed (at least at first). It's easy for me to get on stage and talk when I know that the audience has to behave like, well, adults. No one's going to be outright mean or start talking back during my presentation (although I did have two young women whisper throughout an entire presentation once -- it definitely threw me for a loop). As an introverted but seasoned speaker, I would still rather work an assembly line for 20 years than present in front of children or teenagers.

Which may be, perhaps, why most introverts think they're afraid of public speaking. School is the worst place for an introvert to make their public speaking debut. It's like Simon trying to get the conch in Lord of the Flies. No amount of prophesizing is going to get you off that island alive.

The Worst Piece of Advice I Ever Got

The worst piece of advice I ever got was "Bloom where you're planted."

To be fair, I don't quite remembering being told to adopt this attitude. I'd like to ascribe it to one of my high school teachers, but that's not quite right. Instead, I think it was just a generally-accepted adage, a function of American "Can-Do!" thinking. Like "There's a college for everyone."

There really isn't.

The problem with these sort of "ignore-the-circumstances, make-the-most-of-it" platitudes is that they really only work if you're also willing to embrace assimilation. There probably is a college for every white American in every high school in this country. But if you're an Indian-American who wants a small liberal arts college with a South Asian Students Association and enough acceptance that a few boys will think you're cuter in your jeans and salwar top than the girl with the sweater set and pearls, good luck. I promise you that college doesn't exist. Or at least it didn't between the years 1995 and 1999.

I grew up on Staten Island and I hated it. I mean, really hated it. I hadn't lived in any other city, but by the time I was 16, I wanted out. In all my travels since leaving Staten Island, I am yet to come across another town so ripe with verbal aggression. Maybe Brooklyn comes close, but even they have some hippies and artists that provide refuge and escape. There's no place to hide form the verbal assaults on Staten Island other than one's own home.

So I went to Maine for college, where I was confronted by the preference for sweater sets -- a fetish I still find baffling. The virtues of my alma mater aside, it was probably a bad choice, evidenced by the fact that I left almost every weekend to party with my brother and his friends at Brown.

I spend most of my twenties moving around, living in Boston, Manhattan, Brooklyn. I even contemplated an ex-pat life in Europe, or the lifestyle of prodigal NRIs in Bangalore (that's Non-Resident Indian, the latest culture to invade India).

Recently, I had a meeting with the senior staff of a popular personal finance magazine that publishes one of those "Best Places to Live in America" lists. I told them their subtitle needs to be "If You're White." Because Carmel, Indiana and McKinney, Texas suck if you're looking for an Indian grocery store or need a Sikh priest for your grandfather's funeral.

Fortunately, my story seems to end happily. After 35 years, I finally found a place that "fits" me and my lifestyle. Washington, DC has all the things I like -- trees, parks, public transportation, a lively arts and culture scene (usually free, in fact), internationally-minded people (even if they've never lived abroad), and liberals that aren't hippies or hipsters. It's smaller than New York, with houses and yards populating the side streets, but doesn't have the claustrophobic suburban feel of Staten Island or New Jersey. Unlike Boston, people are friendly. And I'm usually not someone's "Indian friend" since they usually know a few more, making "Indian" a vague qualifier.

So my advice to friends who still feel like they don't fit -- it may not be you. You may not be "manifesting" your misery, despite what Oprah and The Secret say.

Take the time to discover what it is you like in a place (I reluctantly admit that I've been spoiled by the beautiful, expansive parks of Staten Island, and I can't imagine not living within walking distance of one ever again).

Then move. And if you're still unhappy, take stock again of your needs and desires and move again. Maybe it's just a matter of moving to a new neighborhood, or maybe you really do need to go abroad. But don't try to grow an orchid in a desert. It won't work no matter how much optimism you have. Look for the soil that nourishes your own soul and then plant yourself there.

The Best Character I Know

As a writer and lifelong reader, I spend a lot of time thinking about characters -- what makes them tick, what they would do in my life, if I would even want someone like them in my life. But, by far, the best character I know and spend the most time thinking about is my mom.

My mother has all the workings of a great literary figure -- she's complex and flawed, but consistently well-intentioned. She's also humorous and adventurous, but oddly sensitive, which she covers up skillfully with her opinionated demeanor. And she was part of the best love story on Earth.

Elizabeth Bennet would sit down and shut up in her presence. And probably start taking notes.

Don't believe me? Well here's just some of the pearls from the necklace of wisdom she's been fashioning for me for the last 35 years:

Don't ever marry a boring man. Men get more boring as they get older.

You should wear heels and dance on a table at least once in your life.

Always have one kitchen for every woman living in a house. (This advice was given when we knew two brothers sharing a house with their respective wives. Shortly thereafter they had a huge falling out and one moved out.)

When you host a big party, pay the maitre'd $50 up front, before the event starts.

Even Princess Diana wasn't good enough for her mother-in-law. (Given when a friend of mine was having problems with her mother-in-law)

Don't compare yourself to anyone. When I think back, all the times I behaved badly it was because I was comparing myself to someone. (This is my favorite, because it not only shows her honesty, but also her unflinching courage.)

One of my favorite stories about my mother is how she made us "smurf" chicken. My brother and I both liked tandoori chicken (which she would make without the spices for us as kids). One day we asked her why it had to be red--can it be blue? She said sure, and the next day threw some blue food coloring in with a yogurt marinade and made us blue chicken. Though it tasted good, smurf chicken never took off as a household favorite. But it did make me realize as a child that my mother really was willing to do anything in her power to make me and my brother happy.

Since moving to Boston six months ago, I've gotten to spend more time with my mother. I also turned 35, which means I actually have memories of my mother when she was my age. Which is weird. And astounding.

She used to make three dinners every night -- a pasta dish for me, meat for my brother, and Indian food for her and my father. And this was after working a full day as a doctor. I usually don't have the energy to cook for myself.

She also ran a private practice, took care of the finances and kept a roof over our head. My father, and my brother and I by extension, had a compulsion for giving the shirts off our backs. My mother always found a way to buy another one... or sew one from scratch, if times were tough.

And she's done all this without much recognition. Her saying about Princess Diana is especially poignant because my father's charm and charisma made him the prince of his family, and I highly doubt that any woman with a personality would have been good enough for him in his family's eyes.

But my mother's love was unconditional, by all accounts.

A few years ago I traveled to India and stayed with my parents' med school classmate. One afternoon, as we sat on the veranda after a monsoon shower, she confided in me:

"I was so envious of your mom. I'd never seen anyone love another person so purely as she loved your dad. I remember being so envious of her, even as a teenager. Not many people saw her virtues back then, but your father did. And your mom has many virtues."

My thoughts exactly.

Musings on 'Cause Celeb' and Men

I'm in San Francisco, where it's bright and sunny and 80 degrees. I should be exploring organic local markets and the liberally-minded kitsch stores and art galleries.

Instead, I've holed myself up in a dark room with one narrow window, with only the glow of my computer screen throwing light on my face (and not very flattering light, mind you).

The reason I've opted for this self-induced hermit-ude (solitude without the natural surroundings of Walden Pond), is because before boarding my flight to SF yesterday, I picked up a copy of Cause Celeb by Helen Fielding at the Boston Public Library (I can write a whole other post on the virtue of paper books and the library, but I'll save that for another time). It turns out Helen Fielding's first novel is more enjoyable and revelatory than Bridget Jones--at least for me, and perhaps anyone else who dallied with the idea of "saving the world."

For those of you who haven't read it, Cause Celeb follows twenty-something Rosie Richardson as she dates a B-list TV host, gets caught up in the media and publicity world, and then chucks it all to go save dying people in Africa after she realized the man she loves -- desperately, chemically, addictively -- is a real prat. Sound familiar?

In my twenties, I had a special talent for dating men who fell somewhere on the spectrum between self-absorbed do-gooders and narcissistic "victims." These men had the uncanny knack of getting me to sympathize with them through their minefield of self-discovery, to which I ultimately fell victim to, often losing a vital limb of my own self-identity.

But the charm wears off. Around 25 I decided I would never ask any of them to love me--either they did or they didn't, but I was not going to hitch my needs to their emotional rollercoaster. Around 28, I started trending more towards the self-absorbed do-gooders, who were easier to not hate after the break-up (thereby ensuring that more of the person I wanted to be was preserved). Around 32, I just stopped. Stopped dating, stopped trying to figure them out.

As Rosie says in Cause Celeb, "I've had four years of romantic aridity, but also emotional peace."

I couldn't say it better. I became smarter and happier when I stopped trying to figure out men. As Rosie figures out, you can do all the things the books and magazines say, but you can't earn love the way you earn money. Romantic love is spontaneous and unconditional--meaning you can't earn it at all. The relationship is conditional on all sorts of things -- lifestyle choices, emotional stability, philosophical alignment, sometimes even in-laws -- but the chemistry is not. It's completely out of your control. You can have a date with the most good-looking, kind, smart, eligible guy and not feel a thing. Trust me. That's what I've been doing (repeatedly) for the past year and a half.

But the question that keeps coming up in my mind, the one that makes me think that I'll never want to be in a relationship ever again, is "Do men really want to love a woman?" Sure, they want companionship, sex, and all the other goodies related to being in a relationship (if they want a relationship at all). But do they want to give of themselves?

Most women do, and the whole dating scene seems to predicated on this imbalance--women want to give emotionally, and most men want a muse or mother--someone to inspire them and take care of them in their moments of self-doubt. But what if you don't need a provider, nor do you want to be anyone's muse? Can a man want a relationship that doesn't bolster his manhood through the "provider" trope or force the woman to be a self-negating muse? (After all, did a muse ever receive royalties or her own book deal?)

Now, I don't think all men are life-sucking narcissists (though some remain out there--I think that explains the proliferation of vampire movies). But I've never heard a man of talking about wanting a relationship because they had so much to give. Have you?

Of course, the full irony of Cause Celeb is that those of us who dally with the idea of saving the world are narcissists ourselves. Not selfish narcissists, but generous narcissists, who think that it's somehow our responsibility to right all the wrongs of the world. It's a great way to feel validated while invalidating yourself--everyone thinks you're noble while you ignore your own needs. That's why we so easily fall into the role of muse/mother for self-absorbed narcissists--we're so eager to heal anyone but ourselves.