An abundance of activity rolls non-stop through Christmas

Christmas Eve, 11:15 pm. I'm sitting in the second row of St. George's chapel at Windsor Castle, enveloped by comforting Gothic architecture and soothed by the angelic voices of the boys' choir. It's peaceful and calm, as if the whole world has ceased turning on its axis for a little bit so that everyone can concentrate on their spiritual well being. It was, I think, the first such moment of peace I'd had in ages. As ever, the Christmas season was a roller coaster ride of work hard, play harder twists and turns that didn't run out until that clerical interlude.

The Friday before Christmas was typical of the seasonal routine. At my desk first thing checking emails and sorting through the usual round of political issues. On the train by 10:26 in order to make a Harley Street doctor's appointment at noon. My last visit to my plastic surgeon ... I am, officially, complete. I was a bit sad to say goodbye; he's been a dependable and steady authority figure in my life for 18 months. I don't get many of those...

Then off to a photo shoot at Health and Fitness magazine, who will be including me in a feature on breast cancer in an upcoming issue. I've organised and accompanied executives on scores of photo shoots in my years as a PR executive, but have never been the subject myself. This was a high end affair, with a hair and make up artist there to spend 40 minutes on me before I ever got in front of the camera. A full make over in the middle of the work day ... This was one of those surreal times when I found myself thinking: I can't believe I get paid for doing this. I did, of course, mention my benevolent employer frequently in the interview, so hopefully making the effort pay off for us all.

As I was looking absolutely fabulous, I was relieved I had something better to do than return to my desk. Off instead to Maze, where I met one of my colleagues from the publishing industry for a catch up on work issues, mixed with a delightful late lunch. Having reviewed Maze once already in this blog I won't go into details. Suffice it to say that the experience was just as wonderful as my first time, and the place definitely belongs in the top 3 restaurants at which I've dined this year.

Since we started to so late, we didn't push back from the table 'til 5. Giving me an hour to kill before meeting my mother and a friend for a pre-theatre dinner at 6. (Yes, perhaps not the best planning.) I felt as stuffed as the proverbial Christmas goose, so I took a meandering stroll from Grosvenor Square to Green Park. This area, called Mayfair, is one of London's prettiest parts, especially at Christmas. Mostly Georgian and Regency in architecture, it retains many old shop fronts and period details. Christmas lights are tasteful, garlands drape festively over narrow shopping streets, the darkness allows you to peer into the brightly lit drawing rooms of gracious mansions now used as offices; this is as close to a Dickens scene as you're going to get in modern London.

Next to Waterloo, where I met my mother and the news that British Airport Authority staff were planning a strike on the day next month I'm flying off for my Caribbean holiday. Bastards. God Bless American Airlines, who changed my outbound flight to an earlier date in between planned strike actions. Now I just need to arrange to work in New York for a couple of days before catching the Barbados hop.

Crisis averted, we moved across the street to the Waterloo Bar and Kitchen for our pre-theatre dinner. Still completely sated by the lunch that I'd barely started digesting, I only managed a plate of smoked salmon, for politeness' sake. But the reports from my Mom and Hillary on their meals were excellent, and all the dishes coming out of the kitchen looked good. I'll have to try this place again in the future. When you commute in and out of Waterloo, finding good restaurants in this area is essential.

On to the pantomime at the Old Vic. Despite living in the UK for 13 years now, this was my first outing to this classic British tradition. Not having a child to take, it wasn't until famous wit and Renaissance man Stephen Fry wrote one that I was inspired to get tickets for myself. Panto is a rather odd combination of musical theatre, fairy tales, burlesque and double entendre. The shows are drawn from a familiar short list: Cinderella, Jack & the Beanstalk, Aladdin, etc. Though the plots are traditional, the jokes are rewritten every year to reflect popular culture. For example, our Cinderella's ball was a reality show in which the winning princess would be chosen by audience phone in. There's a whole audience response factor that almost reminds you of attending church; everyone knows what to do and automatically gives their responses ("He's behind you", "Cake!") when prompted.

Most bizarre to American eyes is the tradition of cross dressing, which the Brits don't see as sexual ... simply funny. There's always a big, brash female role played by men in drag, and the young hero is often a woman. In our case, though Prince Charming was comfortingly male, the wicked step sisters (dubbed Dolce and Gabbana) were men. Radio personality and writer Sandy Tostvig played the male roles of narrator and Lord Chamberlain. Yes, it was funny. But if you didn't grow up with it, definitely a bit strange and very foreign.

Roll on the weekend, filled with Christmas prep. We were at Waitrose for the big grocery shop when the store opened at 8am on Saturday. By the time we left 90 minutes later, every cart was in use, the whole shopping area was packed with people and my account was £200 lighter. In a country where a fresh turkey breast costs £29, it's not as difficult as you'd think to wrack up that kind of grocery bill.

Back to work on Monday. With most of the world taking holiday I had one phone call, no meetings and hours of quiet. Which meant that I actually cleared my 484-item email backlog, ending the day with everything filed neatly and my to do list waiting for me on the 27th. (I've always considered it one of the tragedies of modern communications that we now get so much stuff that reading and sorting mail has become a major accomplishment.)

And thus back to Monday night at Windsor Castle. Our fantastic seats were due to Mom, who's always been fanatical about getting in line early for such events. We were sixth in the queue and stood outside the Henry VIII gate for an hour and 10 minutes for the privilege of being amongst the first into the chapel. It was worth the cold: services at St. George's deserve a good view as well as open ears.

This is the night for full pomp and pageantry. The choirboys are in their vivid red gowns with white ruffs around their necks. Ushers in red and black cassocks with rich black tassels and braid work, straight out of Jane Austen. And the celebrants wear white and gold robes stiff with embroidery, metallic threads glinting beneath the lights. All the best props are out ... towering Georgian candlesticks polished to a reflective peak, solid gold chalices engraved with the monograms of previous kings. In front of the altar, a beautiful manger scene sculpted from terra cotta in a modern, middle Eastern style. At the start of the service, the manger was empty; the vicar of St. George's makes a big show of placing the baby in the manger as part of the entry procession. Throughout, one of the best choirs in the land delivered on some of the richest and most majestic music in church tradition. All within one of the finest architectural settings possible.

I am ambivalent about religion. The intellectual in me finds the stories on which it's based unlikely at best, and at worst sees in it the root of most of the world's wars and prejudices. On a night like this, however, I am reminded that it can also bring out the best in mankind, from soaring Gothic fan vaults and delicate melodic counterpoint to the crazy idea that we should all be nice to each other. Thus I'm not particularly bothered whether we're here to commemorate something that really happened, or a bundle of myths whipped up by Middle Eastern radicals for their own political ends. The drama, sounds and sights of the ceremony create a marvelous sense of stillness and inner peace. After the madness of the holiday season, this is just what the doctor ... or the deity ... ordered.

Office Parties are England's Christmas "USP"

I remember being bitterly disappointed with Christmas in England when I spent my first December in the country. Thanks to Charles Dickens, legends of carolers and wassail, and hundreds of Christmas cards that looked like illustrations from Jane Austen novels, most Americans figure that England must be the font of all good holiday cheer. Perhaps I didn't really expect capering children dragging the yule log across a snowy green to the manor house, but I thought I'd see something close.

Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I realised that the British Christmas is a pale shadow of the American celebration, and all those pretty traditions we Americans imagine happening in the old country are mostly consigned to history. The English don't really decorate the outsides of their homes (though Christmas lights are catching on), they don't do Christmas baking, and they don't put their trees up 'til late in the month.  Their town centres and shop windows ... even London's ... fall behind most American small towns. If you're used to the holidays in the States, it's all quite disappointing.

There's one exception: the office Christmas party. In America, this is rarely an official thing, and rarely funded by the company. A team might get together for drinks one night after work, or a generous boss might host a pot luck and gift exchange. But in England, the office party is an institution ... practically a workers' right that would bring on high protest if cancelled. It's funded by the company, can often be lavish, is always alcohol sodden and may sometimes trigger outrageous couplings and legendary embarrassments. These are very big deals. In the past 13 years I've been to balls at country houses and museums, wild times in nightclubs, ice skating inside a Georgian monument and a lot of very long, very boozy lunches. If you work at a large corporation, you can really hit the jackpot, as you're likely to be part of multiple teams, all of which are hosting some sort of festivity.

One of my great joys as a boss, therefore, is to host my team Christmas party. And though I do get invited to a variety, this one is always my favourite. For the past four years I've co-hosted it with my PR agency, the one constant as both my remit and employees have changed. Sadly, this might be the last year. As my team grows ever bigger, I'm not sure I can afford such a serious party. (We weighed in at 21 this year.)

Conscious that in previous years the wine-sodden-lunch-followed-by-evening-in-cocktail-lounge format had endangered livers, we thought we'd throw in some physical activity this year to vary the pace. Thus we ended up at All Star Lanes, a private bowling alley, American diner-themed restaurant and cocktail lounge in West London. I was a little hesitant about the bowling idea, but let the planners at the agency get on with it. And how right they were. I haven't been bowling since I was 20 (and am just as dreadful at it now as I was then), but it turned out to be a perfect event for a spot of team building. The venue is beautifully maintained and extremely authentic; were it not for the accents I wouldn't have been surprised to emerge into Michigan or Ohio when I walked out the door.

After the bit of exercise it was back to the seasonal standby of drinking a lot while exchanging gifts. We dined at the bowling alley; ironically, off a set menu that offered a variety of sophisticated choices. Smoked salmon salads and fish stew are all very well, but in that atmosphere I was actually dying for a cheeseburger and a chocolate shake.

We were on our way to our next venue by 7, opening up space for more revellers to come in behind us. Next up, the sophisticated surroundings of The Gore Hotel bar. A conversion of a grand Edwardian house in the neighbourhood around the Albert Hall, the high ceilings, wood panelling and portraits on the wall might have given the impression that Oscar Wilde was about to stroll in, were it not for the hip dance tracks playing over the sound system. Fortunately, they pulled off that difficult trick of keeping the music loud enough to hear, but not so high that you're yelling to make conversation.

We started here with a round of champagne toasts, before heading into a list of cocktails that was probably quite unwise. Raspberry mohitos may taste good, but they're probably not something you want to be adding on top of an evening of wine. Fortunately, common sense took over this year. Most of my direct team had called it a night by 10, leaving me with just two direct reports and my agency staff. I decided to head for my last direct train home, no doubt saving myself from some serious peril. Those I left behind pushed on 'til 3am, evidently doing a fine job at singing the entire repertoire of Bond theme tunes to the rest of the bar.

Ah, to be young again...

A Good Boss is a Hard Thing to Find (And Worth Celebrating at Conran's Best)

Good bosses are rare. This problem seems particularly acute in corporate communications, where you're just as likely to get some wandering executive in need of a temporary posting, who has no experience but is friends with the CEO and "good with people", than you are to get someone who's worked through the ranks and actually knows what he's doing. Challenges are exacerbated as you move up the ladder.

Being a boss is hard, but is somehow easier when you're managing very junior employees. Things get complicated when both boss and employee get quite senior. Who should do what for whom? I've had a long succession of bosses who are pleasant, but don't know much more than me and can't teach me much, so have just let me get on with things. This is a vast improvement on people who don't know much more than me but meddle and micro-manage; I've had those, too. But the Holy Grail of senior-level bosses is someone who has a light touch, but gives you clear insight when you need it, clears blockages from your path and has a lot to teach you.

I haven't had that kind of boss since leaving Dallas eight years ago. Then I got lucky in June. Then unlucky in October, when she announced her pregnancy. Today was her leaving lunch. Thanks to generous European leave policies, she'll now be gone for longer than she's been my boss. And I'm on to boss no. 7 in my five years with my current company. (To be fair, he shows great promise.)

My depression at my current boss' departure was assuaged somewhat by a lovely send-off lunch today at Orrery on Marylebone High Street. This is, I think, one of the better "occasion" restaurants in London. The bright, airy atmosphere with big windows overlooking an 18th century churchyard provides a comfortable venue, big enough to generate a bit of buzz but not so crowded that you can't hear each other. We had a large, round table at the back of the long, narrow room (a gallery, really) and filled it with a bunch of witty and amusing female colleagues. A delightful time, marred only by the fact that we're a diligent bunch and were all scurrying back to the office by 2.

Orrery is probably the best in the stable of Conran-owned restaurants, and actually sits above the Conran shop at the top of Marylebone High Street. Ten years ago Conran seemed to dominate the culinary Top 10 list. These days he's ceded his restaurant kingship to Gordon Ramsey, but Orrery is certainly worthy of a slot on anyone's list of best spots for business lunches.

As with so much of top cuisine in London, the menu and most of the serving staff are resolutely French. But it's presented with a light touch in style, architecture and density of dishes. Eating here is a treat, but doesn't have to feel as "worthy" as some of the bigger names.

Nor does it have to be as expensive. Orrery does a great set price menu: Three courses for £30. For a quality restaurant in London, this is a steal ... and priced well below their a la carte menu. Going set menu doesn't mean you skimp on options, with an amuse bouche of chickpea mousse followed by three possibilities for each course. I was feeling resolutely autumnal and went for the game terrine followed by pigeon. The other main course options, beef or sea bass, also looked excellent.

In addition to its cozy Marylebone High Street location, Orrery is probably best known for its cheese board. It is the best I've had in London, with a staggering variety and a cheese steward who can guide you through it with deft expertise. As a goat cheese fan, I let him make me up a plate from their 15 different varieties. The selection is presented in a circle, moving from mildest flavour to strongest, with clear explanations about each cheese's name and region of origin. I defy anyone to remember their list, but it's very impressive at the time.

Thus ended a fitting celebration in an above average restaurant for an above average boss. Here's hoping she finds childbirth as painless and easy as today's service, and she comes back at the appointed time to re-join our merry team.

Can comfort food be gourmet food? In Luxembourg, quite possibly.

Unfortunately, I have never been one of those delicate types that pushes away a half-eaten plate and sighs, "oh, that's just too rich to finish." Nor, to my regret, am I the type who can hardly make a dent in generous servings of hearty, stick-to-your-ribs fare. Such delicate eaters probably wouldn't have liked my weekend in Luxembourg and Germany.

I, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoyed the lashings of comfort food. Though I was glad I didn't stay for too long, and I did actually crave vegetables when I got home. A dangerous place for big appetites.

Fresh bread seemed to be giving off its fresh compelling aroma everywhere, and it was all of the same quality you associate with France. Christmas markets featured stalls groaning with chocolates, cakes and gingerbread, and upscale pastry shops showed off windows of fanciful creations. I managed to skip both of these ... the savoury fare was so substantial that even I didn't have room for sweets. A classic example: my lunch of veal stew in a cream sauce with home made spaetzle in the Ratskeller restaurant in Trier. I find these small German dumplings so tasty I'll order just about anything on a menu that comes with them. The veal was an excellent choice, and with a glass of red wine on the side you're set up to face an afternoon hiking through the cold. Or just about any other rigorous exercise. (What I really wanted was a nap, but I resisted that, along with the cakes.)

The finest meal of the trip was a special night out in Luxembourg city at a restaurant called Mansfeld. It's in the heart of the old town that lies in a deep crag along a river. An upper town, filled with bank headquarters and the Grand Duke's palace, sits on the promontory above. Mansfeld is in a historic house and has a lovely balance of design: A sleek modern entry and bar area, black with blue lighting, leads off into dining rooms in wooden paneled rooms that evoke the 17th century.

Clearly, the Luxembourgers must not eat like this every day, or they'd be the fattest people in Europe.

The menu is seasonal, and my meal was a classic winter warmer. We started out with the pan fried fois gras, recommended so highly by my friends I really couldn't say no. I can be a bit ambivalent about fois gras, but this was absolutely perfect. The meat lay on top of slices of mango, and was surrounded by a reduction of sharp, sweet balsamic vinegar. The fruit and sauce were a perfect complement to richness of the liver. Onward to venison stew in a rich red wine sauce, cooked so long that the meat fell apart under my fork. Strong flavours, but magnificent, especially with an extremely robust and fruity pomerol to wash it down. The stew came with a side of ... yes, more ... fois gras "lasagne". Slivers of fois gras and forest mushrooms laid atop of pasta sheets, covered with a bit of cream sauce. Again, a perfect balance of flavours going on, as the sharpness of the venison and red wine cut down the richness of the fois gras and cream. Of course, nothing could cut down how bad this combo was for the diet.

Cora and Didier both had the lamb, which looked good but they reported was overcooked.

On to dessert. And after all that warming, comforting food, why break the trend? Bring on the cheesecake. This was a quite exceptional version however, light and fluffy with a tang approaching sour cream and served with a lavender & citrus sorbet. Exactly what was needed to relegate all those strong tastes of the previous courses and settle everything down. I did have a taste of Cora's chocolate fondant, which was also a lovely choice ... though would have been too much on top of my flavoursome meal.

Clearly, the Luxembourgers must not eat like this every day, or they'd be the fattest people in Europe. But they ... or at least the chefs at Mansfeld ... know how to pull out all the stops for a special treat.

No contest: Germans take the top prize for Christmas experience

Fans of C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia will remember the magic wood in The Magician's Nephew. It was a strange, quiet place that was nowhere in itself, yet was the gateway to hundreds of other worlds if you jumped into one of the pools beneath the trees. I find myself thinking of that place as I visit Luxembourg, a tiny spot on the map that seems most noteworthy for being a crossing over point to other places.

We were over the German border in 20 minutes yesterday. Today, the same driving time took us to France. We spent more time in traffic approaching central Trier, in fact, than we'd spent getting to another country.

Our objective for the day was Trier's Christmas market. But it's worth noting that this city has plenty more to recommend it. It was the Northern capital of the Roman empire and has some great ruins, notably its impressive "porta negra", a multi-arched colossus of a city gate, now blackened by the soot of ages. It stretches along the Mosel river and is thus a centre of wine production and tasting. The cathedral is a venerable Romanesque pile, conjuring visions of the earliest bits of the Middle Ages. And the town is packed with festive gables, colourful statues and all the other little decorative elements that scream picturesque Germany.

The picturesque was marvellously enhanced by Trier's Christmas market, 95 wooden booths gathered around the main square and the square in front of the cathedral. The booths were decorated with lights and greenery, with the roofs of many sporting angels, santas or alpine animals. Both squares contained lavishly decorated carosels, and the square by the cathedral sported a towering, oversized version of one of those wooden christmas toys in which the lit candles drive a propellor at the top of a pyramid of figurines. (See my Facebook page for a full range of photos.)

The booths were similar to the types I'd seen in Vienna a fortnight ago, though perhaps with a bit more variety. Decorated gingerbread in the shape of hearts, booths filled with glass Christmas ornaments, mulled wine and luxury chocolates were in common across both fairs. But the German market seemed to have a wider variety of custom crafted items.

Woodwork was abundant. I've never seen so many nutcrackers, in such variety, in my life. Ditto the little figures that smoke incense, and the pyramids that spin under the candles. Most of the nutcrackers were of the traditional sort, and we saw a few that were real pieces of art you'd consider keeping on display all year. There were lovely nativity scenes in hand carved wood, and a profusion of thin, stencil-cut wooden scenes made into wall plaques, screens and candle holders. A booth in each square held a life-sized nativity scene of the type once seen in most American town squares but now legislated into private spaces. (Ironic that America, caught in the grip of a rising tide of Christian fundamentalism, has practically eliminated public displays of religious Christmas scenes. Whereas in Europe, where nobody is particularly concerned about religion and there are active Muslim and Jewish minorities, nobody seems to mind creche scenes and Christmas trees.) I was tempted by many things, but remained quite restrained in my buying.

The memory of the scene, however, was the best thing I could possibly carry away with me. This is Christmas as imagined in the most perfect holiday fantasies. Only snow was lacking. Even the soundtrack was there. Brass quartets mixed Mozart and carols. Men in traditional costume turned the handle on glockenschpiel-type things that issued fantastical tunes. And at 6, the sonorous yet cheerful boom of every bell in every church in town rang out for fifteen minutes, a magical cacophony unknown either in the United States or the United Kingdom.

After an afternoon walking through this fairy tale, one thing was very obvious to me. Though Americans think of England as the source of our Christmas traditions, the real font of holiday magic springs from Germany. I suppose we all owe Queen Victoria and Prince Albert a real debt for importing all this stuff into the Anglo-Saxon tradition.

After more hellish travel, Luxembourg at last

My run of horrific luck when it comes to travel continued on Friday. Getting to Luxembourg should have been easy. It's a one hour flight, and I'd booked out of City Airport. Which, everyone told me, was an absolute joy because it's so small everything always goes on time. Ha!

First came the emotional trauma of barely getting to the airport. The London transport site says to allow half an hour between Waterloo and City Airport. No. Try close to an hour. Over an hour if you're a clueless newcomer to the line and accidentally get on the wrong DLR train. I arrived just 40 minutes before my scheduled flight, in a serious panic that I wasn't going to make it. I shouldn't have worried. Not only was the flight delayed (supposedly by 30 minutes, ultimately by two hours) but the belt system for moving luggage around had broken. So everyone in the airport had to check in with their airlines, then stand in a single queue to hand in their luggage at one window at the far side of the terminal, by the runways. There were at least 200 people in that line.

With just one trip left in the calendar year after this one, I wonder: Will I take a single flying journey this year that leaves and returns on time, without complications?

We boarded the plane about an hour after it had been scheduled to take off. Fifteen minutes later the captain announced that because of the heavy rain and the low pressure system, the prop plane on which we were sitting was too heavy to fly. Cue further delay as they opened the hold to unload enough luggage to get us off the ground. Meaning that for the whole flight to Luxembourg, everyone on the plane new it was a crap shoot whether or not they'd have luggage on the other side. For me, with a bag filled with Christmas presents and a trip only scheduled to last two days, this caused serious heartburn. (Which, at least, displaced the angst of taking off in a prop plane in heavy wind and rain. I'm sure we were safe, but it sure felt scary.)

At last on the ground in Luxembourg at 11:30, I jumped for joy when my bag emerged. It was a quick ride to the home of the friends I'm visiting. Then, despite the hour, we stayed up a further two hours for our initial catch up and gossip session. Which seemed like a mistake when an excited five-year-old leaned onto my bed at 8am to drag her Auntie Bear into the new day.

But that's another post...

Thanksgiving in celebration of good friends and good health

By all indicators, my first Thanksgiving dinner "flying solo" without a mother in the kitchen to assist was a great success. Happy guests powered though an enormous amount of food and kept the conversation going 'til past midnight. The turkey, roasted to perfection, came out on time and all the recipes ... both traditional and experimental ... were successful. This morning it took me three hours to clean up, and I carted 10 empty wine bottles to the recycling bin. Clearly, my six guests were full of cheer last night, though this morning might have brought a painful awakening.
I'm relieved I didn't attempt this without taking time off work. I was cooking almost all day yesterday, and recovering most of today. And worth every minute.

I love the whole concept of this holiday ... a time to gather with those nearest and dearest and think about what you have to be thankful for. Gathered around my table last night were four of us who've had serious health issues in the past year; three with life-threatening cancers. All are recovered or recovering, and I think we've all gained a new respect for what's really important in life. It felt good to have these old, dear friends around me at such a special time. Far, far better than past years where I've met friends for a meal at one of the American restaurants in town.

I may just have to establish my own Thanksgiving tradition on this side of the pond.

ELLEN'S THANKSGIVING MENU
Appetisers:

• Cucumber slices with sour cream and caviar
• antipasto platter
• Olives & stuffed peppers

First Course:

• Chicken broth with tortellini

Main Course:

• Maple & peppercorn glazed turkey
• Stuffing with sausage, wild rice and water chestnuts
• Sweet potato crisp
• Braised fennel & chestnuts
• Chicory & orange salad

Pumpkin Pie

Coffee, Tea and Austrian Chocolates

A walk around Vienna makes another business trip tolerable

Wednesday, 10:30 pm, Heathrow's unspeakably dreary Terminal 2. I was standing in the pouring rain, waiting at the appointed spot for my taxi driver who'd been "5 minutes away" at 10:05. The plane had left Vienna half an hour late; a half hour, because of Vienna Airport's irritating security-at-the-gate policy, endured without drinking water because there's no chance to buy more once they take it off you. Upon arrival in London, another 20 minutes lost waiting on the plane because the jetway was broken. This, I thought drearily, was the reality of business travel.

But, now home, dry and with a lovely Thanksgiving behind me (blog entry to come), I can admit that there are almost always upsides to business travel, and this was no exception.

I was in Vienna to present on "third party partnerships and content as a brand building strategy" at a telecommunications branding conference. Though the conference itself was disappointingly small, the attendees were from an excellent variety of companies and the presentations were, for the most part, both interesting and useful. My presentation was well received and generated a lot of further discussion at the break. I was asked to serve as conference chair for the second day, which was also good fun. (Although presented quite a challenge at one point when the conference's persistent bad boy was having a conversation throughout one guy's presentation. I was contemplating stopping proceedings and asking the rude bastard to step outside, but the presenter at the time was so good, and was carrying on with such force, I figured I'd let him power on and just ignore the distraction.)

The highlight of the trip, however, was the unexpected joy of ending business about two hours earlier than expected on Tuesday, meaning that my colleague Sarah and I were in casual clothes, wrapped against the cold and wandering around central Vienna while some dim light still hung in the air.

I hadn't been to Vienna since the summer after University. I liked Vienna then, but I hadn't traveled enough at that point to appreciate just how elegant and sophisticated it is in comparison to the rest of Europe. Viennese must feel like they're entering the third world when they come to London, with its rubbish-dotted streets, graffiti-covered trains, slow and expensive public transport and sizable percentage of badly dressed, badly behaved people. At least that's how London appeared, in reflection, as I strode down Vienna's wide, pedestrianised shopping street.

Elegant 19th century buildings rose on either side in pleasing harmony and generally unmarred by modern signage. Plenty of modern brands, they've just proved here that it is possible to promote your store without wrecking the architecture. Almost laughably ornate baroque monuments dot the place. Pavements, buildings ... everything, really ... is spotlessly clean. (I became obsessed with looking for rubbish. There must be some. In six hours I managed to see one discarded coffee cup lid.) The Christmas lights were up, but not jet lit. No tacky, advertising-subsidized stuff here. Festoons of lights criss-crossing from rooftops with giant chandeliers hanging at the intersections.

We walked the standard tourist route, starting at St. Stephen's cathedral. I'd forgotten how Catholic Austria remained in contrast to its German neighbours; the cathedral leaves you in no doubt, from its massive holy water fonts to its towering, reformation-fighting baroque monuments. The building itself is high Gothic and quite dark, probably not best seen at dusk on a winter day. Though it did add drama to have the main monuments looming out of the gloom under the drama of the occasional spotlight.

We stopped for the obligatory coffee in an elegant coffee house ... the historic Demel just behind the palace. Fortified by the hot drink and the generous glug of alcohol spiking it, we continued through the palace and strolled the ring road, taking in the gloriously over-the-top architecture of the National Library, the main museums, the Parliament building and the town hall.

It was at the last that we found one of the famous Christmas Markets open despite the early date. The scene lived up to expectations. The wonderfully ornate, neo-Gothic Rathaus loomed like a dramatic stage set over the scene, dramatically lit and with a line of high windows draped, numbered and ready to serve as a giant civic advent calendar. The venerable old trees in the foreground park had been hung with big lights ... basketball sized or above ... in the shape of different Christmas ornaments. The wooden huts sell piles of colourful glass ornaments, wooden nutcrackers and toys, chocolates, baked goods and many vats of mulled wine.

Reinthaler's Beisl was a welcome find amongst a dearth of traditional restaurants in the historic centre

After a thorough exploration, we started to hunt for a restaurant. Which turned out to be surprisingly challenging, as the central district seems not to have many. Plenty of coffee houses, a few sparse, modern, trendy places and a curious abundance of Italian food. But it was hard work to find what we really wanted: a cozy, old fashioned, local place with traditional cuisine.

Luckily another colleague had passed a guidebook on to me, which led us to Reinthaler's Beisl. This was just what the doctor ordered, and just in time to keep my ears from heading towards frostbite. Wood paneled, packed with locals, a warren of little connected rooms with a handful of waiters running the place with firm efficiency. They bundled us onto the end of a table already half-occupied; we exchanged smiles but no conversation with our neighbours as they, like everyone else in the place, were speaking German. I suspect that had either Sarah or I spoken the language we would have discovered a treasure trove of local delicacies on the hand-written menu. Limited to English, however, we had to go for the few recognisable dishes. Since we were after tradition, this wasn't really a problem. I went for the weiner schnitzel, Sarah the bratwurst with saurkraut. Mine was the best example of the dish I've had. Crisp and light coating, cooked just enough to get the meat piping hot but not overcooked, with that classic pairing of vinegared potato salad and other pickled salads. I had a bite of Sarah's dish, equally a top example of the form. Best of all, two mains and drinks cost us just 25 euros all in. Great traditional food and a bargain; you gotta love it.

I'm back in Vienna on business in 10 days. I found myself regretting not extending the trip. I've spent so much time away from home, I just wanted to get back after the meeting ended on Friday afternoon. Now I'm envisioning all I would have done had I stayed on through the weekend. But, like all business travel, I'll take the good with the bad and rejoice in the fact that I'll get another crack, however short, at this lovely city.

As the career slides ever further into the "dark side", I take guilty pleasure

My career, viewed from one perspective, has been a steady progression from the noble and high minded to the grasping and sordid.

I began my adult life training to be a journalist, filled with dreams of championing the truth and keeping the world safe for democracy. Starting salaries and market realities soon drove me towards the corporate world, but I was in employee communications. I reasoned that I was still a representative of the people, doing good by helping others to do their jobs better. Another twist of fate, and the necessity of jobs on offer, drove me into PR. I was less comfortable here, given the atmosphere of spin and the idea that I was now sometimes in an adversarial position with those journalists I esteemed so much. And still, at heart, was.

Eventually I got the hang of PR and once again justified my choice. My background allowed me to find hard news, to be an advocate of the journalists, to find and package the truth in a way that helped both the company and the press. And always, I consoled myself with the fact that we weren't marketing. Marketing people destroyed the English language, paid no attention to the realities of the outside world, wasted vast amounts of money and generally lived in an ivory tower unrelated to the world I knew. They were evil, and the fact that I was NOT one of them was the single greatest bulwark I had constructed against the fear that I had "sold out" from my youthful journalistic aspirations.

Then in June the corporate wheel turned again. Circumstance dictated a move to marketing from a PR role that had become the proverbial "burning platform". And so I became what I'd always held in contempt. The frightening part? I'm enjoying it enormously.

And so I became what I'd always held in contempt. The frightening part? I'm enjoying it enormously.

I contemplated this odd evolution of fate yesterday, walking across Waterloo bridge with the throbbing, vibrant heart of London spreading out on either side of me. I was coming from a lunch at the Savoy, where I'd been a speaker at the International Advertising Association London. I was made a big deal of, sat at the head table and given an introduction so laudatory I hardly recognised myself. I rarely had this sort of opportunity when I was in PR. Now they're coming thick and fast. Next week, I fly out to Vienna as the guest of the conference organiser to speak on media partnerships and content strategy at a telecommunications branding conference.

And it's not just the external profile that's shifted. Almost overnight, the sense of respect for what I do amongst my peers and the amount under my control increased. My team and I all became eligible for bigger pay increases: the marketing job family pays more than the PR equivalent. It's actually more intellectually stimulating as I work across a much wider pool of agencies and vendors, and have a broader set of intellectual challenges to face. And, let's be honest: the perks are much better when you own marketing budgets.

I suppose I will soon come up with some justification for why I'm actually doing good as a marketeer, and haven't really betrayed the eternal search for truth, simplicity and the perfect story. Perhaps yesterday was a start. I was, after all, presenting on green marketing, and how those of us in the IT industry can use marketing to promote a sustainable agenda. Thus saving the planet. Even so, I suspect it will be quite a while before I can say "I'm in marketing" without a small internal shudder of revulsion; a mental hair shirt to counter my external grin of self satisfaction.

Roussillon delivers a perfect evening

As regular readers of this blog must certainly be convinced by now, London has no shortage of truly spectacular restaurants. We don't have many, however, that offer you not only an extraordinary meal, but service so perfect the maitre d' pays attention to the time of your last train home, suggests when you need to leave and arrange your taxi. The team at Roussillon could offer a master class in customer service.

In this part of town, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. Roussillon is in Pimlico, that lush, moneyed enclave stretching between Sloane Square and the designer shops of Knightsbridge. With its elegant Edwardian architecture and quiet, twisting side streets, I always feel that I've dropped into a scene in an Oscar Wilde play. The restaurant is tucked on a quiet residential street and is small and discrete. I don't remember seeing more than 12 tables. (We were sitting at the round one in the centre of the photo at right.)

It was a business dinner and we were shamelessly indulged by our host with the 7 course chef's menu, matched with the sommelier's choice of wines for each course. It won't surprise you that with that level of indulgence and complexity I don't remember all the details, but the overall result left me with a warm glow of contentment that lasted well throughout the next day.

The company and conversation only enhanced this mood. And here I have to give a special nod to the wisdom of my host and his decision to break tradition. The accepted etiquette is, of course, that you don't discuss business until dessert. Whoever came up with this rule clearly wasn't thinking about 7 course meals. Dragging yourself back to business in the late stages of debauchery is hard work. Our host wisely covered business topics over the first three courses. We got a lot done and ran through meaningful topics while we were still alert, allowing us to slide, guilt free, into wider conversational waters as the later courses came on.

The menu, as I remember it, was as follows. First, a tablespoon-sized dollop of fish mousse, with a sweet topping that might have been quince jam, surrounded by a delicate and richly aromatic cream of potato soup. The wine that went with this was the most floral I've ever nosed; it's as if they managed to liquefy and bottle a bouquet. Next, a two-inch square slice of grilled sardine laid atop two small crayfish tails, surrounded by a chopped, stewed vegetable that might have been turnips. The tastes were very intense, and were perfectly complemented by a sherry so bone dry I'd call it astringent. I don't think I would have liked either the food or the wine on its own, but the combination brought out the best in both. A triumph for the cheerful German sommelier who talked us through his every selection in detail. Next, risotto with white truffle, perfectly al dente and rich with earthy mellowness.

Time to switch to red wine ... a particularly lovely pinot noir ... to accompany four wafer-thin slices of rare venison, a bit of poached pear and a swirl of mashed potatoes. The cheese course was a pleasant surprise, bringing a white cheese souffle rather than the customary cheese tray. And then that magic phrase: "for your FIRST dessert..." My taste buds may have been fading at this point, because I couldn't really identify what dessert No. 1 was, other than it was creamy, white and might possibly have involved apples. Or perhaps it just paled too far into insignificance behind dessert No. 2, a small, round stack of praline biscuits enrobed in a decadently dark chocolate and decorated with a little flourish of gold leaf. (I always feel horrifically wasteful eating gold leaf. But it did look good.) Both sweets matched well with their dessert wines, one glass an unusual chestnut-based liqueur that might have been my alcoholic favourite of the meal.

My eyes were beyond glazed by the time the meal-ending plate of bon bons came out along with the after dinner drinks. The sommelier was having great fun with us at this point, giving us blind tastings and challenging us to come up with identifications. One stumped all three of us and ended up being, amazingly, a boutique-produced Rum. A testament to the transformations that can be achieved by the distillers art.

This was one of the most perfectly balanced meals I've ever had. Though it reads like an enormous amount of food, all the servings were quite small, the combinations delicate and everything well paced. Thus you emerge pleasantly full, but not stuffed to the gills. I'm not sure I could, or would, have ever put together all those combinations for myself. That's the beauty of a chef's menu. Give yourself into the chef's hands and you have a chance to really understand why cooking can, at its highest levels, be part art and part magic.

New York leaves me feeling middle aged

Last week, off to New York City ... before I'd even had time to unpack my bags properly from Tunisia. I'm not used to this much travel any more. Having taken three trips in, and been on the road for, most of the past 8 weeks, it's perhaps not surprising that I came back from New York with a miserable cold and am just getting back to normal, almost a week later.

New York has never been one of my favourite cities. It's probably the midwesterner in me. Growing up, St. Louisans always seemed to regard New York with a mix of admiration, longing, fear and hatred. I'm past my juvenile prejudices, and having spent more than half my working life in London I am now comfortable with big cities. But there's still something about New York that leaves me a bit cold. I suspect it's the combination of the relentless pace, the endless canyons of concrete, the noise and the lack of trees.

Those feelings were exacerbated this trip by the location of our hotel: The W on Times Square. If, like me, you like quiet green spaces and old world elegance, this place is not for you. It's basically like staying in a nightclub. The ground floor lobby is a stark, grey cube filled with club music and funky light features. Head up to the lobby on 7 and you step into the middle of a funky lounge/bar with artistic lighting and seating, where beautiful 20-somethings are knocking back martinis and the music has been turned up a few more notches. You have to work hard to find the reception desk, tucked discretely to one side. If I were on holiday with friends, and the intent of the trip had been fun, fashion and alcohol, this might have been fun. Arriving at 1:30 in the morning, on a business trip, after a 5 hour flight delay and with the prospect of a 9am meeting ahead, it all just made me grumpy.

The rooms continue the nightclub theme. Everything is sparse, minimal, black or grey. The lighting is so low as to be a bit ludicrous. Achingly cool light cubes under the side tables give the room a dramatic glow, but there are no overhead lights to get the room lighting past anything beyond dim. My colleagues joked that they ought to give anyone over 40 a flashlight when checking in.

On the positive side, the location is spectacular. Easy walking distance to many important locations, particularly (a) the office and (b) Rockefeller Centre and Saks.

The trendy theme continued on Halloween night, when our corporate outing was to a nightclub in the meat packing district called Lotus. All this hip stuff is courtesy of my vice president, who is one of the most fashionable and "in style" people I know. There's a clubbing 25-year old lurking not too far beneath the senior executive surface.

Rated a top 5 New York hot spot by Zagat, Lotus is the kind of place I felt I'd visited many times before ... mostly when watching episodes of Alias. The music mix was great. The decor was minimal and black, draped with swathes on red cloth and hanging skeletons for the holiday. The bar served up a fine mix of cocktails; I quickly settled into apple martinis of a calibre and icy temperature you don't often encounter in London. The food is Thai ... good if unremarkable ... and came to our group of 14 on large platters for sharing across the night.

"Halloween has become quite an adult holiday in America: in multiple senses of
the word."

As we were finishing our dinner the regulars started coming in, and I realised how much Halloween has changed since I left the States. Clearly, it's a seriously adult holiday. And, at least in New York, I'd use the word "adult" with all its nuances. Women were dressed as pirates, angels, devils, maids or Alice in Wonderland, all unified by their exceptionally short skirts, plunging necklines, push-up bras and spiky heels. I think the men in our party were enjoying themselves greatly. The fact that we all had to be at the office at 8 the next morning, and the sad reality that we were increasingly out of place as the club filled up with these costumed deities of sex, were a double reality check that sent most of us heading for the ride back to the hotel around 11.

The night before I'd dined in a different world: quiet modern elegance a stone's throw from Rockefeller Centre. I met my friend Lisa, with whom I'd just gone to Tunisia, at The Modern, the bar associated with the Museum of Modern Art. Another stage set of sparse, modern design, solid colours, draped fabrics, low lighting ... this time mostly in white and with a crowd that had a decade or more on the denizens of Lotus. On from there to Anthos, a restaurant at the heart of what is evidently a Greek revival in NYC. I was a bit surprised when Lisa suggested Greek ... pastitio, moussaka, roditis and baklava make good comfort food, but hardly seemed appropriate for fashionable mid-town Manhattan.

There's a reason they call this "New Aegean". The "Greek" is only a faint influence, present mostly in the platter of mezze that comes courtesy of the chef whilst you're perusing the menu. It was certainly the most elegantly served mezze I'd ever seen, with tiny cubes of fried holoumi artfully arranged on skewers next to a small pot of fish roe dip with pinkie-sized bread sticks custom made for dipping. The menu was heavy on fish, as you would expect. I saw some beautiful smoked Octopus go by but settled on a rich seafood risotto. We shared a trio of sorbets to honour our memories of Tunisia. The arrival of the bill reminded me that New York is probably just as expensive as London, and perhaps would be more so if not for the strong pound. Two courses and a bottle of wine for $80 a person is certainly no bargain.

Of course, bargains are not the point of New York. Fashion, 24-hour activity and making money are. And I seemed to get a taste of all of those this time. Not bad for a business trip. Even if you are feeling a bit too middle aged to fit in fully.

El Jem's arena brings glamour to the middle of nowhere

It is surely one of tourism's more delightful ironies that one of the most impressive Roman amphitheatres in the world looms above a poor, ramshackle little town on a dusty ... if magnificently straight ... road towards nowhere.

Of course, 1800 years ago this was most certainly SOMEWHERE; not deprived El Jem but sophisticated Thyrsus, a gracious community of wealthy grain and olive oil magnates at a crossroads on the busy highway between the provincial capitals of Carthage and Leptis Magna. The impressive arena was a gift to the city from local boy made good Gordian I, who was briefly emperor before committing suicide. We encountered Gordian in bust form at the Bardo, and he did look like a poster child for stress. But he built a fine stadium.

It held 30,000 -- more than the city's population -- so was obviously an entertainment draw for the whole region.

El Jem is known these days as the world's most perfectly preserved Roman amphitheatre. This is probably a superlative too far. Verona's version has a much more intact seating area and a more complete circuit of exterior walls. But El Jem has three things I've never seen before.

First, three complete levels of stairs and internal corridors, so you can climb all the way to the top and marvel at how little sports stadia design has changed since the Romans invented it. Second, this certainly must be the world's best preserved arena floor. The full ring of walls that separated gladiator from the best seats is intact, still punctuated at regular intervals with the doors through which performers came on and off. It is startling, standing on the packed dirt of the arena floor, to realise just how close observers were to the action. Certainly it mustn't have been unusual for the wealthy patrons in the best seats to get sprayed with blood. I strongly suspect that was part of the allure.

The third unusual feature is the completeness of the subterranean "backstage" area, where gladiators, animals and sets would have been massed before heading up, often through trap doors, to wow the crowds.

The El Jem complex is big, and, given the meagre huddle of buildings around it today, seems even bigger. This is a relatively flat part of the country and we could see the amphitheatre from miles off on our approach. The modern town is comprised of one and two story stucco buildings, many in a poor state of repair, with no obvious plan to the streets and a crazy bustle of natives, many in traditional dress, going about their business by car, motor scooter or donkey cart. It reminded me vividly of photos I've seen of Afghanistan.

So, needless to say, there's not a lot to see in El Jem beyond its star sight. The little town museum, however, is a pleasant surprise and should not be missed by anyone who's made the effort to get all the way out here. It's perhaps a quarter mile from the arena, on the outskirts of town.

The relatively modern building is constructed in Roman style, with large rooms grouped around open courtyards. The collection is mostly mosaics pulled up from local houses. Another indication of how different life was here once; these people lived WELL. Though far smaller, the collection here has quality to match the Bardo. Doors from several galleries lead to porticos and beyond that to an area of excavations where you can wander around the remains of several villas, with many of their floors intact.

At one side is the so called "Africa House" a villa that was moved here piece by piece from the centre of town and then partially reconstructed so you can get a feel for some of the rooms once they're walled and roofed. The double story dining room with its transom windows, lavish mosaic pavement and one side open to a peristyle court planted with a garden was particularly evocative.

The drive to and from El Jem took about 90 minutes each way, and despite the fact that this is the main road to the south, wasn't particularly crowded once we cleared the traffic around Sousse. As on the road to Dougga, we saw seemingly endless miles of olive trees. Increasingly curious, I dug around on my Blackberry and discovered that Tunisia is the world's 4th largest exporter after Italy, Greece and Spain. They've just done a rotten job of marketing and a lot of their oil is disappearing behind brands that are bottled, but not produced, in the top three producing countries.

The other consistent feature of the landscape is construction. Buildings are in the works everywhere, although many of them seem to have been abandoned mid-way. Construction appears to be uniformly made of terracotta, honeycombed breeze blocks. This all looks rather slapdash, but once covered with stucco appears sturdy. They're then decorated with an abundance of columns, tiles, moulded cement arabesque plaques and statues. The Tunisians do seem to love their decorative detail. All this seems to be available at tiny construction supply yards packed with decorative details and placed frequently along the road. I've never been to a country where builder's supply seems so abundant. And yet these homes are going up in seedy villages awash with trash, cheek by jowl with ancient hovels. I suppose that's one of the enduring paradoxes of the developing world.

We arrived back at the hotel at 2. (Driver for half day was 120 dinar plus tip) In time for Hillary and Lisa to disappear to the spa for more treatments and me to head to the pool. Unfortunately, the rainclouds that opened our trip had returned and it was a bit cool. But that, wrapped in spa bathrobe and a big beach towel, just made for lovely napping weather. The sun did return for a bit in the late afternoon. Which made the view from our westward facing balcony particularly lovely as we watched sunset colour the sky and killed off the last of the wine we'd bought at duty free on arrival.

Eventually we headed back to the port one last time and, based on the past 3 nights, returned to Les Emirs for dinner. The staff was particularly glad to see us, encouraging us to order more drinks and scattering the table with rose petals. Must have been a slow night. Before consuming too much wine we toted up the spa and restaurant bills, getting everything into balance before heading home. We were all in perfect agreement: Tunisia delivered to, and beyond, our expectations for a fantastic holiday.

The scene gets more exotic in Sousse

I love Sousse. I had been searching for Tunisian tilework to decorate my garden since my arrival, and had seen nothing but mass-produced stuff. Finally, in Sousse, a proper tile shop.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning of the day, in the spa. From the impressive domed space where we made our reservations, a long hall leads to the main spa areas. Fountains of arab design cascade water down the walls and all the floors are of highly polished white marble. At the end of the hall you come to a big square atrium with a pavilion in the middle where a girl is brewing tea. There are atrium gardens on each side and song birds in cages. Upstairs, massage rooms radiate in two half circles from the atrium lobby.

Fortunately Hillary had prepared me for the possibility of a masseur rather than a messeuse, so I wasn't as horrified as I might have been when the wiry Tunisian lad came in and helped me off with my bathrobe. Perhaps not surprising, then, that this was the most vigorous massage I've ever had, really digging down into knots and stretching things out. Suitably relaxed, I joined the girls at the pool for a few hours before our afternoon excursion.

Sousse is the third largest city in Tunisia and just 15 minutes by taxi from the hotel. The feel of the old town, however, is totally different from Tunis. In the capital, the souks wind away from a square of 19th century French colonial buildings. In Sousse, the 1000-year old crenelated walls are intact and the entry square is bordered by the mosque dating from 900 ad and the ribat, a defensive castle cum monastery built for a Muslim equivalent of the Knights Templar. The sand coloured walls and round topped towers make you feel that you've dropped into the set of one of those French foreign legion films from the '50s.

The souks here sell much of the same stuff as in Tunis but with far fewer crowds. This means that there's also a lot more hard sell, as people invite you in for coffee or literally tug on your sleeve. If you do wish to buy something, this can actually turn into quite a pleasant experience as you sit down and are given the special treatment. The biggest difference from Tunis, topographically, is that the old city of Sousse runs up a hill, making the streets even more picturesque.

I would be hard pressed to find the tile shop again. All I know is that after much wandering I finally came upon a shop that did nothing but hand painted tiles in a variety of patterns and configurations. Exactly what I wanted for the garden. After some moderate bargaining, and allowing the young shop keeper to stroke my hair, which for some reason fascinated him, we struck a deal that satisfied us both. I got a central mural made up of 8 standard-sized tiles and two single side tiles approx 8 inches by 12 inches, for 50 dinars. Which is about £18. It will cost me more to pay my handyman to install them than it cost me to buy them.

After more shopping and a late lunch in the picturesque cafe de casbah, we set off in search of the Dar Essid museum. We narrowly averted a rather monumental mistake when a local man blocked our way and turned us around as we tried to go through a gate that was "as the crow flies" in the direction of the building. We later discovered that it was the red light district. Not a tourist version like Amsterdam's, but a state-sanctioned, entirely enclosed area with just one entry and exit, the gate we'd almost passed through.

We followed the wall of the district and finally came to our objective: a rich merchant's house, foundations 1000 years old, rooms and furnishings laid on over the centuries. There's amazing tile work throughout. Wife no. 1 and no. 2 had bedroom complexes across from each other. In the room of no. 1 you can see an ancient Roman lamp which, legend has it, was there as a guide to the man. He was to make love to his wife as long as the lamp burned and couldn't stop 'til it burned out. A rare piece of girl power in this country. But clearly the care and concern for the female didn't last long. You can see the much smaller bed across the room that the woman was supposed to move to to sleep once love making was concluded.

Upstairs at Dar Essid you can see kitchens and another drawing room, and climb up the tower that's the second highest point in Sousse. You can also have a coffee in a cafe with expansive views. That includes a look directly down into the aforementioned red light district. We were fascinated to watch the men coming and going at a furious pace. And this on Friday afternoon, the Muslim holy day.

Leaving the old town we plunged into the 4 story, fixed price shopping bazzar next to the main entry to the old town and realised this is where we should have started. It gives you benchmark prices, many of which are lower than you'd get haggling in the souks. My tiles still turned out to be a good deal, but I bought small gifts for others here. And if I were to buy a carpet, I'd do it here. Quality, range and price were great.

We had originally thought to eat dinner in Sousse, but found the hotel and restaurant district here to be package tour hell. In comparison, Port al Kantaoui is quiet, refined and sophisticated. So we returned "home" and tried our third place on the marina: the Restaurant des Emirs. Ironically, this wasn't in the guidebooks but we felt it was better food, and better value, than the two that were.

Thus almost a whole week falls behind us. Just one more day of adventure and sun left.

Beach resorts make Tunisia feel like Florida , with Europeans

Today was a complete R+R day, taking advantage of the hotel facilities. We're staying at The Hasdrubal in Port al Kantaoui, a massive, V-shaped building that encloses lush gardens and a pool separating hotel from beach.

We knew we were coming to packaged tour land, but we guessed wrong on the audience. We had imagined a lot of 30- and 40-something Brits, both parents with small children and drinkers in search of late season sun. Instead, we were surrounded by hoards of 50-something Germans, French and Russions all shuffling around the place in white bathrobes on their way to their abundant course of spa treatments. One advantage of this demographic is that it's spectacularly quiet; I barely heard anything above a low murmur when poolside.

The three of us headed to the spa first thing to make appointments. I am fairly laid back about this process, but Lisa and Hillary had been studying up on possibilities and Hillary had a diligently researched, neatly drawn up short list that made it clear she was the lawyer of the trio. It's a shame the spa receptionist did not have a soupcon more of this efficiency.

The entry to the spa is impressive: a long, marble-paved hall with windows on each side giving views of the gardens and decorations down its length with bowls of flower petals and swans fashioned neatly from snowy towels and sprinkled with more petals. You walk down some stairs and emerge into a grand, domed hall redolent of that heavy floral and spice scent all spas seem to share. The staff are shuffling around quietly in white coats, looking more medical than their trendy, pajama clad bretheren in the UK. So far, so good. Then we tried to get our appointments.

English is obviously a fourth language here after Arabic, French and German. We certainly couldn't find a common ground on which to get much detail of the treatments. And very little seemed to be available, probably as a consequence of all these Continental types here for their two and three treatment a day packages. Hillary and Lisa finally got some stuff booked for our first day; I had an appointment on our second. That much scheduling took more than half an hour.

I spent half my day at the pool and half on our hotel balcony, doing my best to follow the sun. This was a bit challenging as it rained all night and was partly cloudy for most of the day. The pool area is magnificent. The pool is a huge rectangle, with a long curved addition to one side and an artificial island planted with palms and bouganvilla in the middle. It's paved with hexagonal tiles in a vivid blue, making the expanse glimmer jewel like against the lush green foliage of the gardens around it. There's a smaller indoor pool with lots of jacuzzi jets, but it's not heated ... And I'm only fond of getting pummelled with water when it's good and hot.

A short walk through the gardens brings you out to the beach, of which you're aware when poolside because of the sound of the surf. It is a massively disappointing coast, unfortunately. The surf is rough, probably too much so for swimming on an unknown beach, even if you could ignore the fishing nets that were suspended fairly close in. The tides had kicked up a wide bed of seaweed at the high tied mark, interspersed with a lot of trash and a variety of sea urchin type creatures. This is a beach desperately in need of a Florida-style beach tractor that drags the sand clean each day. But that's obviously not something they do here. And despite the resemblance to Florida in the resort hotels and condos stretching as far as the eye could see, there was almost nobody to be spotted on the beach, either in repose or walking in the surf. With all that gunk, I suppose it's no surprise. Even I, who normally prefer to be seaside, retreated to the pool after my 10-minute foray.

We rendezvous-ed back at the hotel room in the late afternoon, where we sat on our porch, drank a bottle of wine and watched daylight fade. Then it was back to the harbour for dinner at the other recommended restaurant, Le Doraude. Much of a muchness with last night, except that we could eat outside and there was a bellydancer we could watch generally embarassing all the 50-something men in the place.

Head to the souks for shopping as competitive sport

"I'll be honest, we need your money."

That was the most refreshingly honest of all the lines I heard enticing me into shops in the souks of Tunis. I had a marvellous time, though it didn't take long for me to decide that the difference in shopping styles is perhaps the biggest gulf between Arabic and Western culture.

The souks are little more than winding alley ways, perhaps 8 feet wide. They are all covered, most with high barrel vaults with small, occasional holes to let in the light. You realise the wisdom of this the moment you step into full sun. There was a 10 to 15 degree difference between inside and out. Stores are mostly small, some no bigger than an American walk-in closet, the biggest perhaps the size of a two-car garage. And outside each shop is the keeper, always male and doing his utmost to get your attention and lure you in for a browse.

I will admit to being a sucker for a flirting man in any culture. So, unlike Lisa and Hillary who'd perfected their "ignore everything and stride straight ahead" stares, I was ready to exchange words with anyone who told me I had pretty eyes. This did not lure me into any unwise purchases, but I did talk to more people and admittedly slowed us down a bit. The banter rarely bothered me and I never felt threatened. The only times the attention got mildly uncomfortable was mostly when the younger shopkeepers were directing their attention directly at Lisa. There are few circumstances in which being thin, blonde and beautiful can be considered a disadvantage, but I think wandering the souks of Tunis is probably one of them.

So what is there to buy in this warren? Tunics, robes and belly dancer costumes of every design. Pottery. Tiles. Hammered brass and silver. Gold jewelry (like gold sellers around the world, these guys had the prettiest shop interiors, some with really ornate carved ceilings.) Lanterns. The tacky triumverate of chicha pipes, tee shirts and stuffed camels. Perfume. Spices.

It was the last two that were my objective today. One of the souks is actually called the souk of the perfume makers, and though there's more than that there today, there are still many shops selling scents. I picked a tiny, beautiful cubbyhole that ONLY sold perfumes. No stuffed camels here. I negotiated a third off the price. Which, frankly, says little for my bargaining skills. But 1/3 off was already so far below London prices that I didn't bother. My percentage of discount on the saffron was much better, starting with 12 dinars a pack and buying at 3 packs for 10. In comparison ... 10 dinars is about £3.50. A tiny box with approximately a teaspoon of saffron in it is almost £3 at Waitrose. Each of these packets had about 10 times the Waitrose portion. In both cases, I wished I'd bought much more after I left. But the souks meander and there was no going back.

At the heart of the souks is the Great Mosque. As both infidels and women, there was no chance of us seeing the interior of the prayer hall. But you can pay 2 dinars (about 40 pence) to get into one of the arcades to see the courtyard. If shopping emphasised our differences, the mosque made me contemplate our similarities. Swap the marble courtyard for grass and the architectural decoration for gothic, and it could have been a cloister in any monastery in Europe. Columned arcades formed a square around the central court. The minaret stood high over one side, serving exactly the same calling to worship purpose as a medieval bell tower. On the other side, doors opened into the prayer hall, clearly magnificent from the elusive glimpses we got through the doors.

The crowds were intense on the main route between the old town gate and the Great Mosque, but fell away to almost nothing the moment we tried another route. We were the only Westerners in sight when we were invited upstairs to the tiled roof of a shop that overlooked the sprawl of the whole souk area. The same applied when we took a break in a tiny coffee shop walled in vivid tiles and topped by a towering arabesque dome.

In addition to the regular tourist souks, we purposely took a wander through local areas. Used clothes markets, shoe makers, junk recyclers: the cheerful heckle of shopkeepers immediately fell away in these areas, where it was obvious we did not fit and were not potential patrons. Eventually we found ourselves wandering through entirely residential streets. Not the wealthy suburbs of Carthage but a decrepit, narrow, garbage-strewn district of breath-taking antiquity. The architecture crushed in layers like geological strata. It was obvious people had just been building on, up or around for centuries. We kept going through covered passageways supported by columns that were only 4 feet tall, topped by corinthian capitals almost worn away, implying that the street level was at least 4 feet further down when the passageway was originally built. We felt perfectly safe in these backstreets. In fact, everyone just ignored us. But it was a pleasant validation of our map reading skills to emerge from those native passageways into the tourist hum of the Place de la Victoire.

The final shop on our excursion was Mains de Femmes, not in the souk but on Avenue Bourgiba, the so-called Champs Elysses of Tunis. No tourist could ever stumble upon this shop without being directed here specifically. As we were by the Lonely Planet guidebook. It barely has a sign and is on the second floor of a non descript office building. The appeal? This is the outlet for a fair trade cooperative for women artisans. And it's fixed price. It's lovely, after the relentless masculine hard sell of the souks, to be able to let your guard down, have a nice chat with the women running things while knowing that the money we spend goes directly to the women who make the stuff. This seemed particularly relevant in light of the one thing we haven't liked about Tunisia: the women seem to be absent (at home?), running errands or working, while scores of men pack the coffee houses doing absoutely nothing for hours at a time. The only shame about Mains des Femmes is that their selection is so limited: most women's desire to spend money here will probably outstrip the small selection of cothing, rugs and knitted toys on offer here.

Back to the hotel in a taxi. Now that we've figured the system out, we realise that the three of us can get to Sidi Bou for less than £5. So while we're glad we had the early experience of taking the second class train with the locals (3 for less than a pound) we've settled in to treating ourselves.

And on the subject of taxi drivers, I should relate a salutory tale. Even though I feel it's almost a rite of passage to be ripped off by a taxi driver in every country you visit, it's still good to be warned. Tunisian dinars are made up of millimes. Not 100 of them, as is standard in most Western currencies, but 1000 of them. Which means there are three numbers behind the decimal point. You may not notice this the first time you get in a taxi. And when the meter reads 02875 your brain will immediately put the decimal point between the 8 and the 7. You'll round up to 30 dinars, do a quick calculation and realise you've gone all the way across town for £12, which seems reasonable in comparison to London. It's only after you take a few more rides that you realise the fare was less than 3 dinars and the driver let you overpay him by a factor of 10 without giving you a hint of your mistake. C'est la vie. I hope he's saving to send his kids to college.

Back at the Dar Said, we had a late lunch at the pool while waiting for our transfer to our next hotel. At 4 we set off, driving for an hour down the coast. A bit like yesterday, we drove through miles of exansive, gentle hills covered with olive groves, mountains in the distance. But today the sea was always to our left, and long miles of landscape were flat, marshy areas.

We were prepared to enter a different world at Port el Kantaoui, and we were right. It's a bit like Florida with Arab architecture. After settling into our room we walked over to the port and had dinner at the recommended Le Mediterranee. Good food, good views, not exceptional.

I'll refrain from describing the hotel today, as I suspect we won't be moving far beyond it tomorrow.

Dougga delivers on promise of spectacular ruined city

Today, away from beguiling coastal views and into the interior.

Our objective was Dougga, legendary for being one of the finest Roman sites in the world. It's about 80 miles from Tunis and quite literally in the middle of nowhere.

We hired a driver for the day for 200 dinars (about £75). He was cheerful and attentive but neither his English, nor his French, was up to communicating that we were taking the longer, but much more picturesque, route out to Dougga and would take the shorter route home. This might have made us a bit more relaxed about the seemingly interminable, but in fact 3 hour, ride. It was enjoyable nonetheless.

We drove through vast agricultural valleys with wheat fields spreading to distant horizons and olive groves on every hill. (Turns out 19% of the world's total of olive trees are in Tunisia, and it's the world's fourth biggest producer after Italy, Greece and Spain.) But this isn't an area of modern agriculture. It was half way through the return journey before I saw a tractor; the roads were filled with horse carts and men bobbing along on heavily laden donkeys. People were selling piles of melons, garlic and pomegranates on the roadside. And every flock of sheep or goats we saw was accompanied by its own shepherd. (I can't grasp the economic validity of that.) It was both easy to see how this was the bread basket of the Roman empire, and to understand how they now import wheat because their modern agricultural standards are backwards.

We climbed over a low mountain range, getting spectacular views reminiscent of Tuscany. Then we wound back down into a non-descript, rickety outpost of a town, followed a country road along the edge of more hills and finally saw the temple of Saturn on the promontory that told us we had arrived.

Dougga has the usual mix for Roman urban sites: forum, temples, houses, baths. But I found it unusual in three ways. First, the whole place is made of a golden, almost Cotswold-coloured stone, which gives it a buttery glow. Second, there's been no attempt at a geometric city plan. The hill was too steep. So roads circle up it, creating a most un-Roman spiral plan. Third, it was almost empty. For vast parts of our visit we were alone but for site workers and their donkeys, and were free to scramble up or over any ruin we fancied. It wasn't hard to imagine that we were the first discovering a lost city after a thousand year sleep.

Several buildings are particularly well preserved and dramatic. The capitol has been rebuilt to its full height, though not re roofed. Not only does this provide a picturesque focal point for the whole site, but it also means the capitol is one of the few places in Dougga where there's any shade. Thus we paused here for a picnic lunch, perched on bits of broken pediments beneath the empty niches where Jupiter, Juno and Minerva once stood.

Another temple nearby is not so complete, but interesting in its unique structure. It stood in a semi-circular walled enclosure, and you get a perfect sense of the gracious proportions of the space. The theatre has been extensively rebuilt and has a full complement of seating as well as comprehensive remains of the stage. There's enough of the forum areas to paint a vivid picture of commercial and civic life, and the warren of residential areas was fascinating. I'm so glad we did this after visiting the Bardo, as multiple places are identified by the mosaics that were discovered there.

By far the greatest thrill of Dougga was that sense of discovering the unknown. We tramped between sites over fields covered with scrubby brush and burnt out thistles, strange white snails clinging to the dead foliage in such profuse amounts they seemed like flowers. We reached other sites through olive groves. Hobbled donkeys with no masters in sight munched on the wild thyme and rosemary growing amongst the stones. This was just so far from your usual regulated, high traffic tourist site. There was no guidebook in English, so we followed the entries in our general guidebooks and pieced the stories together as well as we could. It was a wonderful journey of discovery.

The shorter route back to Tunis still took 2 hours thanks to hitting the city at rush hour. We didn't linger at the hotel, however, but rather changed and headed for a local restaurant, Les Bon Vieux Temps. Great views, a mix of French and Tunisian specialties and a location close enough to dash to and from the hotel without minding the rain that has returned.

I started with the marinated seafood salad and went on to the stuffed squid, both dishes that could have been served in any Sicilian restaurant. More reminders, should you need it, that Palermo is a hell of a lot closer to Tunis than it is to Rome. I finished with perhaps the best lemon sherbet I've ever had (the Arabs did invent the stuff, after all), the perfect balance to the spices of the meal and the heat of the day.

Tomorrow we head into Tunis. The only chance to shop in the main souks before we catch our 4pm transfer down the coast to the beach resort half of the trip.

Mighty Carthage now a leafy, seaside suburb

We were up early to take a stroll around Sidi Bou. Our objective was to catch the town before tourists and with good light. This is a photographer's paradise; it's hard to go more than a few feet without unother perfect composition hitting your eye. We eventually ended up on a little promontory looking down on the town beach and harbour, and down the coast at neighbouring Carthage, our objective for the day. The light was indeed spectacular, and at 8am there wasn't a tourist in sight.


Back at the hotel, we let our new friend Abdullah serve us breakfast next to the pool. A Tunisian breakfast, at least at the Dar Said hotel, is a Continental one: a pot of strong black coffee and jug of hot milk; a basket of breads including croissant and pain au chocolat; butter and jans, including fig; plates of meat and cheese; yogurt; soft boiled egg. It's quite enough to set you up for the day. Good thing, too. We were going to need our energy.

Carthage has lived many lives, most notably as the capital of the Punic kingdom and home of Hannibal who almost brought down Rome before it became a world power. Later, it emerged from the ashes of Roman conquest as a new and sophisticated imperial city, one of the largest in the Empire. Perhaps its most surprising incarnation is its modern one, a leafy and exclusive suburb of Carthage. To see the ruins you have to walk through palm tree-lined avenues bordered by walled villas. It all felt a bit like LA, frankly.

Seeing Carthage means walking. A lot. This was a big town and the main sites are spread out. It's also very hilly; culture and a work out at the same time.

We started on Byrsa Hill, where the Romans built their Acropolis-like forum on the remains of the Punic city centre. There's not a lot to see beyond foundations, but the spectacular views give you a sense of just what a great location this was for a city. And you can just make out the outlines of the ancient harbour, once one of the world's most sophisticated; now apparently a series of lakes giving some of those posh villas a bit more water in their view.

There's a small museum up on the hill that gives the history of the city and shows some of what was unearthed here. The models are most helpful, letting you get a better sense of what all these bare foundations underpinned. My favourite sight here, however, was two sarcophagi, each topped by life sized effigies, one male, one female. I looked closely at this woman who lived 400 years bc. She wore an obviously Egyptian skirt, beneath a very Greek blouse and hair style. Her funerary monument was Etruscan in tradition, yet she was burried in North Africa. And I laughed, thinking of our world's obsession with this "new" concept of globalisation. This 2400-year-old woman could tell us that there's nothing new under the sun.

Next to the ruins on the hill you find the slightly dilapidated, Moorish, yellow hulk of the Cathedral of St. Louis. (Turns out the namesake of my home town died here during a seige in the Crusades.) The church has been deconsecrated and is now used as a concert venue, so I didn't get the chance to get inside to hunt amongst the monuments for proof of the family legend that a 19th c Ferrara was a ptiest who had something to do with the bishop of Carthage.

A 20-minute walk, downhill then up again, brought us to a ridge covered with the remains of Roman villas. And sandwiched, a bit incongruously, between the sprawl of the President's palace on the coast and the massive mosque he's constructed just inland. The villas will be a dissappointment to anyone who's seen Pompeii, Herculaneum or Ostia. There's just not a lot here besides foundations and a few signs showing where a particular mosaic now in the Bardo once stood. But the views are magnificent and you do get the sense that the residents of ancient Carthage, just like their modern descendents, had it good.

Another stroll, about 15 minutes downhill, brought us to the Antonine Baths. These were once amongst the biggest in the Empire. There's a model here that shows how the massive complex spread out along the sea front: any modern city would lust after such a well situated and comprehensive facility. But once again, a lot of imagination is required here as only foundations remain. At least in this case, foundations are vaults and corridors that tower above your head. With underpinnings this impressive you can grasp, a bit, at what it might have been. Despite the overall size you're still going to get a better sense of a baths complex at the Baths of Diocletian in Rome, or out at Ostia. But there you won't have the sound of pounding surf and the sparkling sea vistas.

So my verdict on Carthage: very hard work for very average ruins within a particularly alluring setting. As a fan of all things Ancient Roman I had to do them, but the ruins we saw at Dougga and El Jem were finer.

We hiked up hill to the Carthage train, and further up to return to the hotel from train station. Sidi Bou is not recommended for people who can't walk up and down hills. By the time I staggered up the stairs to the hotel, beneath the clouds of fragrant jasmine, I could hear the pool calling my name. We all collapsed there for a few hours, dozing like the hotel's wild cats in the sun.

Later, refreshed, dressed and made up, we were transformed enough in both energy levels and appearance to head out for a very special dinner at Dar el Jeld. This is mentioned in every guidebook as the best restaurant in Tunis, and it delivered on expectations.

The setting is fantastic. It's in a converted mansion near the souks of the old city. There's only one subtle sign; you have to be directed to the big, nail-studded door and then knock to gain entry. Once inside you go through a procession of reception rooms before emerging in what was the main palace courtyard and is now the dining room. Brightly coloured tiles covered the walls and the lighting was low, kept subtle by candles burning in wall sconces around the room. A musician played haunting strains on an Arabic stringed instrument while waiters in local costume seemed omnipresent when serving diners' needs.

Unlike most places we've been to, the maitre'd had a thorough command of English, so we didn't have to rely on our French patois to get through the menu. After an explanation of the local specialities, we opted for the mixed hors d'oeuvres to start. This was more what we expected when we ordered meze last night. There was a variety of small, fried, stuffed dough parcels; a cold, marinated seafood salad; slices of hard boiled egg on a bed of something like ratatouille; slices of a cheese somewhere between ricotta and bufala mozzarella on a salad of diced tomato, cucumber and onion. For mains, I had a plate of lamb couscous of great delicacy, the meat literally falling from the bone. Hillary had lamb as well and Lisa opted for kabkabou, a local specialty that prepares a whole fish in tomatoes, olives and capers. (No denying we're just 80 miles south of Sicily.) All this was washed down with a couple of bottles of vieux magot, Tunisia's best red wine.

We split assorted pastries for dessert; almonds and pistachios abound. The maitre'd, who by now had warmed to the charms of three single girls (waiters always love us) brought us a creme caramel/puddingy sort of thing covered with ground pistachios to try, on the house. Tasty, but the savouries were better than the sweets.

All in all a fantastic dining experience, with great food and wine, attentive service and super atmosphere. All for about £30 per person ... the most expensive dinner we were to eat in the country.