Still recession-stunted, London Christmas season leaves time for culture, close friends

Last year I bemoaned the advent of the grim Christmas season. (see 20.12.08) This year, well into recession, everyone knew what was coming. There were no big media parties, a few quiet lunches with agencies and a handful of special events that mixed business with pleasure. (Pure pleasure, this year, was bad form in the workplace.) Nobody moaned, we expected it. And we made plans accordingly. Meaning that I fit in more culture, and more non-work social stuff, than I'd seen in many a December.

On the cultural front, I spent time with Mexican rulers at the British Museum and Indian ones at the V&A. Moctezuma (a more authentic pronunciation, evidently, than our standard Montezuma) at the BM dove deep into a ruler most of us know only as the guy who was on the losing end to Cortez. Indeed, by the end of a very enjoyable wander, I had come to believe that the man was a sophisticated leader cursed with a lot of bad luck. Certainly the impressive range of artifacts, including sacrificial altars, inlaid masks and intricate gold work showed that he ruled over a cosmopolitan, if violent, society.

For really impressive gold ... and jewels, and bling in general, however, you had to go across town to the V&A's Maharaja exhibit. There were lessons to be learned here about the political history of India but, frankly, the main draw was gasping at expanses of solid gold, precious gems the size of eggs and furniture made of ivory and precious materials. These guys made the crowned heads of Europe look frugal and drab. An extraordinary show, sparking great fantasies of what might be possible with a few spare billion.

I satisfied the urge for luxury a bit later with a delightful night at the Threadneedles Hotel. (www.theetoncollection.com) This former bank turned into a luxury pied a terre is in the heart of The City. One assumes it's packed by wealthy bankers during the week, but on weekends this stretch of town is empty. Meaning that they offer their extraordinarily expensive rooms at deep discount packages. Prices still put this in "special treat" category, but had at least they dropped into my value-for-money range. We attended a Christmas Ball nearby, so stayed here on a Saturday night. Our package included a welcoming platter of Christmas treats and mulled wine, and a generous breakfast in their elegant restaurant the next morning. The room was huge and filled with every amenity, from giant TV to iPod dock to California king bed to a table on wheels in the bathroom stacked with design and luxury lifestyle magazines. I spent a very happy Saturday afternoon soaking in the giant marble tub trying out the whole range of bath salts provided. Perfect in every detail ... including the quiet and efficient service ... this is one of the best hotel experiences I've had.

After that expenditure, I could breathe a sigh of relief that others were footing the bill for Christmas meals. The PR agency celebrated at Levant, last reviewed 30.05.08. I found their set Christmas meal disappointing; certainly not the expansive feast of my last visit. But still a tasty outing into culinary novelty, in exotic decor, with belly dancers for entertainment. A more sophisticated outing, perhaps, was our case study agency's choice of Fino, a tapas bar and Spanish restaurant at 33 Charlotte Street. I'm a big tapas fan, and all the other places I've been to in London have that down home Spanish holiday feel, with painted tiles and hams hanging from the ceiling. Fino is bright, modern and elegant, with a menu that takes tapas into fine dining. (There are Spanish main courses as well; we had some of the requisite suckling pig.) I was particularly delighted with their octopus. A hard dish to get right, done perfectly here. Our internal team lunch at the end of the month was at an unusually quiet Yo! Sushi just across from St. Pauls. Dependable and fun, with the conveyor belt zipping options by you.

Meanwhile, One Aldwych demonstrated that hotels can manage fine dining while serving large groups. I attended a fascinating lunch hosted by the publishers of Time/Life/Fortune during which we talked about the state of the media market and where electronic "readers" like Amazon's kindle were taking us. They gave us a preview of an electronic version of Sports Illustrated made for this technology, a beautiful and exciting format that will have me signing up for many of my favourite magazines online when it comes into standard usage. Meanwhile the fillet steak was succulent and the discovery of Argentinian Familia Zuccardi's Malbec was the highlight of my day. I could have drunk a great deal of this rich wine with its explosive fruit notes, but I was carrying on conversations with both the editor in chief of Time and the US editor of Fortune and knew I needed to stay a sober, gracious, intelligent representative of my employer. A shame. It was great stuff.

My finest holiday season dining experience, however, was neither in central London nor footed by a business account. A group of friends met up just before the holiday break at the Princess Victoria in Shepherd's Bush. This place gets cited a lot as one of London's best gastropubs, and is frequently mentioned by famous foodies as a hangout. (Actor Dominic West recently named it as his favourite pub, though we didn't see anyone famous on our visit.) The massive old Victorian interior has recently been subjected to a big restoration, making it bright, clean and functional while maintaining period features. The wine list is as big as the architecture, impressing all of the oenophiles at our table. And the menu, specialising in British traditional and locally sourced, has a wide range of options. Luckily the diners were both close friends and fans of sharing, so everyone was getting little tastes of everything. Delicate seafood, weighty fillets served as rare as requested, the sticky toffee pudding of fantasy ... everything was great. My only complaint would be the noise levels. Those big rooms get a lot of people crammed into them, and those high ceilings only served to ricochet the sound. I'd like to make a return visit on a weeknight, when a more peaceful atmosphere prevails.

But that won't be for a while because now, holiday in the USA beckons.

Trio of restaurant discoveries is Paris' Christmas gift

One of the greatest delights of London life is the fact that places that, from America, are “trips of a lifetime”, become quick and familiar weekend getaways.

Paris comes with an enormous cultural legacy. If you haven’t been here before, or are not sure of repeat visits, it’s almost impossible to relax under the burden of required trips to museums like the Louvre, the Gare du Nord or Musee de Cluny and visits to architectural blockbusters like the Eiffel Tower, Versailles and the Place de la Concorde. But when Paris is easily accessible … the equivalent of a trip to Memphis or Chicago from St. Louis … you can cross a threshold where you’ve done the major sites and no longer feel compelled to pursue the tourist round. It’s then that you can simply wander, window shop and dine, free from cultural guilt.

Which is exactly how the Northwestern Girls spent their recent pre-Christmas weekend. We were concentrating on food, wine and whatever holiday shopping made sense given the punishing strength of the Euro. It was a blissful and relaxed weekend, though the exchange rate made it frightfully expensive.

Our base was the Hotel St. Louis – Marais, long my favourite landing spot in the city. I love this part of town, with its gracious 16^th century architecture, classy boutiques and quiet back lanes. Though adjacent to the Seine and within walking distance of most major sites, it seems quieter and less overrun with tourists than other parts of town. The Hotel St. Louis is an old townhouse with less than 20 rooms. It’s gracious, charming and has a bit of historic flair. Think B&B rather than amenity-rich hotel, however. We shared a junior suite on the very top floor. (There’s no lift here, so be sure you have the energy for long flights of stairs before booking.) The exposed timbers, cathedral ceiling and lofted gallery gave the room great interest, while the three beds (one main, one in the loft, one tucked under the sloping eaves) and modern bathroom made it wonderfully convenient. At 160 euro a night for the room, not bargain basement prices, but certainly fine value for money when split between three.

It was a great weekend for wandering. We stumbled onto an outdoor market in the Marais, filled with local producers who'd brought cheese, preserved fruits, foie gras, wines, etc. in from the countryside. Foie gras, in fact, was to be a theme of the weekend. Not only did we indulge in restaurants, but we kept stumbling into specialty shops offering samples and holiday deals. In fact, the French grasp the idea of free samples in a way still alien to the English; by lunch on Saturday we'd been offered five types of foie gras, chocolate truffles and a wide variety of wines, all gratis. How civilised. Our rambles over the weekend took us around the Place des Voges, through the M

arais, around the Saint Germain des Pres and down the main street of the Isle St. Louis. Good window shopping, as there seem to be more independent boutiques left in Paris than in London these days. But there were few bargains, so we bought little. It was only at the very end of the weekend that we made it over to the "Grands Magasin", the huge department stores with the famous Christmas decorations. Impressive lights, and window displays far better than anything in London, but still not a patch on Marshall Fields' State Street extravaganzas.

Shopping was nice, but it was eating and drinking (and the accompanying conversations) that made the weekend. Find No. 1 was Roger la Grenouille (28,Rue des Grands Augustins), a classic neighbourhood bistro in the heart of Saint Germain des Pres. If you remember enough French to know that grenouille means frog, you won't be surprised to learn that the place specialises in frogs' legs, with one normal menu and one of froggy delights. Hillary was the adventurous one, starting with a pile of legs cooked with small tomatoes, pine nuts and olive oil. Very tasty and, yes, pretty much just like chicken. I, however, was compelled to go for the trio of foie gras, featuring one slice duck, one goose, and some foie gras creme brulee. Our main course orders encompassed prawns, scallops and beef, all cooked to perfection. I can't imagine returning to Paris without coming back here.

Tied for second place were our restaurants for Saturday dinner and Sunday lunch. Saturday found us at Vins des Pyranees (25 rue Beautreillis), a bistro just around the corner from our hotel in what was once a wine importer ... ergo the name. The place came highly recommended and the menu was classic hearty cuisine; French comfort food. Yes, the French can elevate steak and chips to an entirely different meal than the equivalent in most other countries. Embrace the simplicity and enjoy. My one criticism would be the crowd. There were enough people packed cheek-by-jowl in here for me to wonder about fire regulations. Probably due to it being a pre-holiday Saturday night, but not a place to do if you're looking for a quiet, romantic meal.

For Sunday lunch, after discovering that two of our choices were closed, we literally stumbled onto Le Grand Colbert. ("Look, that place is open. It looks nice. Hey, it's in the guidebook. Hey ... it's famous.") Turns out Colbert (2 Rue Vivienne) is one of the city's classic bistros, patronised by many famous people over the years and listed as an architectural landmark. Its interiors are worth the trip alone: tall ceilings, Pompeiian wall paintings, gleaming brass fittings, impressive lamps with globes of frosted glass. You could almost forgive an average meal. Fortunately, the food doesn't disappoint either. We ate off the set menu, making this one of our more reasonable outings. The offerings are simple, majoring on grilled meats and fish, and very nice oysters, but the preparation and serving is done with flair.

French food has a lofty reputation, but it's easy to get bad meals in Paris. I know. I've had them. This time, I got lucky, and now have a short list for all future trips. Who knows. I may even get back inside a museum next time.

There's nothing like an American Thanksgiving

I can't remember the last Thanksgiving I spent in the States. It was certainly at least five years ago, and as many as 10. Given the holiday's close proximity to Christmas, traveling back for it is usually impractical if you have big yuletide plans. But this year, given the "carpe diem" motivations of my mother's illness ... and the ability to do my job from St. Louis for a couple of weeks ... a proper American Thanksgiving made sense.

I indulged in all the critical elements of the holiday. Food. Shopping. Getting up the Christmas decorations. Starting the Christmas baking. Catching up with old friends and extended family. The weather being particularly fine, I was even drafted into raking leaves at my childhood home. I may have grown up and moved on, but those damned oak trees are still carpeting the place in a thick layer of brown which must be removed. It wasn't fun when I was 13; it's not much more entertaining now. But at least I can justify it as exercise needed to stay in all the new clothes in smaller sizes that I just bought.

The highlight of the trip was the Thanksgiving meal itself. This is not a given. I am an only child of divorced parents, without aunts, uncles or cousins in town. The biggest family meal I can put together is for three; rarely does that add up to the festive expectation set by movies. Thus it was a delight to be included as extensions of the Edgar family, where five children of my generation, all married with their own progeny, and random extensions like us pushed the guest total to near 30. The kitchen was a merry production line, laughing children ran laps around the house, wine flowed and there was enough food to feed an army. The patriarch of the family has this event down to a science, clearing out the sitting room and filling it with a huge, medieval-style, c-shaped banquet table.

I was reminded, as I watched the menu coming together, of just how laden with sugars and fats this traditional meal is. Sure, the roast turkey is healthy. But we put it with cranberries and sweet potatoes that could both be desserts, potatoes lashed with cream and butter, and a green bean casserole that masks the vegetables with cream of mushroom soup and deep fried onions. And that's before you tuck into the pecan pie or piled whipped cream on the pumpkin pie. It's a weight watchers nightmare. But damn, it was good.

All this food is, of course, traditionally followed by shopping. My dad played his usual role of wingman, carrying bags and catching up with me between shops. The malls were crowded but not excessively so. I found parking even at midday. The sales were good, but not jaw dropping. Still, I managed to find enough at Dillards, Macys and Coldwater Creek to do all the wardrobe replenishment I needed.

I augmented the holiday routine with one special night out. Kemoll's has been one of St. Louis' finest Italian restaurants since it opened in 1927. (Yes, Italian. Despite the name. In the '20s, people had difficulty with tricky names like "Camuglio", so the family anglicised it to Kemoll.) Their deep fried artichokes, toasted ravioli and variety of veal dishes have marked many a St. Louisan's special nights, including mine. Last year, Kemoll's moved into the 40th floor of the Met Life building, once of the city's highest, thus adding amazing views of the riverfront and arch to the great food.

I have to admit to some flashbacks with the appetizers ... in my high school days this was the American Bar Association, and the venue for my junior prom. It was not the most pleasant of evenings, as my badly-chosen date ignored me in the early hours, then ended up snogging a classmate in my car at the after-dance party. While I was not damaged for life, it was certainly traumatic, and hadn't left me with fond memories of that room. I'm delighted to report that a fine dinner with some excellent wine, in the company of my mother and the adopted sister who's been a best friend since we were three, banished all those nasty ghosts.

As did the idea of a perfectly-chosen date waiting for me back in England. When I introduce him to St. Louis, I'll be treating him to a romantic dinner here.

Bookends of Cinque Terre offer depth beyond picture book villages

Portovenere and Levanto are the towns on either side of the string of five picture postcard fishing villages known as the Cinque Terre. And while the five may draw tourists from around the world, it's the bookends I'd recommend as the anchors for any extended exploration.

Portovenere is an exquisite little town on a tip of land at the entry into the bay of La Spezia. The views from the tip of the peninsula are extraordinary. To the north spreads the steep terraces, bays, mountains and crashing surf of the Cinque Terre coast. To the west stretches the open Mediterranean. South lies series of islands encircled by the boats of sailors who love to test their skills by circumnavigating them, while back east the view takes in the town, the remarkably lovely bay and the Tuscan coast. All can be viewed from the porch of an ancient Romanesque church gripping the cliff's edge.

It's no wonder that the Romans called this place the "port of Venus", its heart-stopping beauty is a natural inspiration for love. (Sadly, the man I wanted to be seeing it with was back in London, sharing via Facebook photo postings. There's modern relationships for you.) The Romantic trio of Byron, Keats and Shelley loved the area and their legacy has given the local water its alternative name of the Bay of Poets. At the same place from which I described the panoramic view you'll find a place called Byron's grotto, a dark and brooding hook of black slate cascading down into the boiling surf, from which the mad, bad and dangerous to know celebrity used to take his regular swims.

Portovenere is a small place, easily covered on foot as long as you don't mind a climb. It ascends steeply, with three parallel streets stretching its length. The buildings are classic Italian riviera: tall, gracious and painted in festive colours. The lowest street runs along the harbour, lined with restaurants and a few shops. The middle lane, perhaps two stories higher, is lined with shops and charming restaurants, and terminates at the promontory with the church and Byron's grotto. Higher still is an even narrower path, this one mostly residential, that leads to a hilltop church and, even higher, a late medieval castle. It is a marvelous place for a wander and, when exhausted from all the climbing, you can retire to the port for a fine meal. We followed an Italian colleague's recommendation and settled in to Elettra, with a glass-walled dining room hanging over the harbour. Terrible service, but fantastic food. If I were anywhere within 90 minutes of Portovenere I would make the trip if only for their trofie in creamy clam sauce, without doubt the finest single dish I had on this trip.

On the northern end of the Cinque Terre is Levanto. Probably only 30 minutes by speedboat (if we'd had one), it's more than an hour from Portovenere by car because you either need to navigate the hairpin-rich, hair-raising coastal roads or go through the industrial port town of La Spezia ... home of the Italian navy and its museum ... and up the motorway.

We chose to base ourselves in Levanto this trip and were delighted with our choice. As with everything on this coast it's a pretty place, in this case filled with fanciful 19th architecture of the wealthy holiday retreat variety. There's a wide, curving beach of striking greenish-black sand, a colour derived from the local stone that features as the black banding in all the striped medieval churches around here.

We stayed at the Villa Margherita, a delightful place I will definitely book again should I return to this area. The family-run B&B (descendants of the people who built the place in 1906) is set in lovely gardens, has sweeping views over the valley in which Levanto sits and is just a five-minute walk from town centre and beach. The rooms are high, airy, comfortable and spotlessly clean, though not particularly luxurious. We were within the main house; should I ever return with The Man I'd opt for the apartments that open onto the garden, which are a bit more expensive but clearly newer and more picturesque. A continental breakfast is served in a pretty dining room that doubles as the guest lounge, and the place has both parking and free wireless. It's a real find along this coast, where other options seemed to be either extremely basic, or hugely expensive.

Levanto itself proved a wonderful base for exploration. Unlike the Cinque Terre towns, it has an abundance of restaurants, most of which are very reasonable and all of which dish up local specials like pesto and seafood. There are also a handful of lovely gift shops and galleries that appeal to the shopping tastes of the tourists, and some lovely winding lanes to explore. Turns out Levanto was actually quite a big port in the Middle Ages, though the river that once enabled this has long since silted up. However, it does mean there are a couple of good churches from that time period, a striking (and still privately owned) castle and a big market loggia. The most interesting artifact from this era is a recently-uncovered wall painting that experts believe was a form of advertising, immortalising on the outside walls the faces of the people who drank at the establishment within. The faces are clear, individual and remarkably human, building a tangible bridge across the centuries.

Like the rest of the Cinque Terre, Levanto was exceptionally quiet outside of tourist season, with many shops and restaurants closed. I suspect that all of these places would be a completely different experience in the summer; perhaps uncomfortably so. The owners of the Villa Margherita suggest a return in either May or October. It's certainly on my wish list.

Back in Italy, thank God, and ready to discover the Cinque Terre

We have established on this blog that I am never going to work for the French tourism board, despite last year's fabulous outing in Burgundy. My heart lies further South. And yesterday, with every mile I left the border behind me and drove down the Italian Riviera, my heart soared. The colours were brighter, the mountains higher, the people more cheerful, the words on the radio more comprehensible. (Just.)

Although I've never been to this part of Italy, I couldn't help thinking: It is good to be home.

My colleague Tania and I have three days, roughly, to relax, explore and unwind after the grueling marketing event we've just completed. Last year we swore we should take advantage of our presence in the region and stay the weekend. This year, we carried through. We've come down to Levanto, a charming small town on a lovely, c-shaped bay. A port in the Middle Ages, its feel these days is more of a late 19th century beach resort of the type Puccini or Rossini might have retired to when trying to lift composer's block. It's certainly punctuated by some extraordinary architecture, notably the mock castle that sits next to our more traditional B&B. While the Middle Ages have mostly faded, there's a picturesque real castle above the beach, an exquisite little church in striped green and white marble with a remarkable Gothic rose window, and some recently revealed caricatures of 13th century residents that experts believe served as an advertisement for the tavern that once operated behind those walls.

Levanto turns out to be a perfect base for exploring the area. It's about 20 minutes off the autostrada, an hour from both Portofino and Portovenere (both top destinations) and linked by local roads to the five famous villages of the Cinque Terre. But unlike the Cinque Terre names, Levanto is big enough to have a variety of restaurants, a bit of nightlife, some interesting shops, a mix of B&Bs and parking. There's also a beautiful sand beach of quite a remarkable blackish-green colour, which would be a big draw in the summer. It took us about 4 hours to get down here from our starting point at Nice Airport and almost every minute of the drive was filled with exquisite views. (If you were coming here directly, it would make more sense to come from Genoa, Pisa or Milan.)

We devoted our first full day to exploring the Cinque Terre, making it to two of the famous five. Vernazza is known for being the most beautiful and certainly ticks all the boxes. Tall houses in festive colours, a fleet of small fishing boats pulled up in the town square, ancient church tucked between harbour and cliff, defensive tower above, remarkable views to each side. Frankly, it's not a village ... it's a stage set. We managed to get here for some remarkable weather, thus a good bit of our sightseeing was actually spent stretched out on slabs of black slate jutting into the Med, contemplating the pounding of the surf and the beauty of life.

One surprise is just how tiny this is, and in fact, all, of the Cinque Terre are. The tourist bit of town (and, really, most of the town itself) is just one street that runs about 200 yards down a steep valley before turning out into the square and harbour. There are a handful of shops, a few restaurants and a few B&Bs. Given the fact that about half of everything was closed at this time of year, you had to work hard ... or laze on sunny rocks ... to find much to hold your interest beyond an hour. If you find yourself here, do take time to go into the church. Its ancient Medieval foundations, its sombre gloom and its location right on the water are wonderfully evocative of the past trials this village must have undergone when it had to harvest its living from the sea and the steep hills, rather than the tourists. Also noteworthy is a shop called Gocce di Byron, selling locally made perfumes and beauty products, and a jewelery and clothing shop just to your left when you enter the town with the train at your back that has a great variety of stuff at reasonable prices.

A warning: Vernazza's car park is 800 yards up a very steep road from the village itself. Part of the charm of the Cinque Terre is that there's no motorised traffic within them, but it makes sightseeing here challenging if you're not accustomed to exercise. Bring good walking shoes and be ready for a workout.

Our second village was Monterosso which, to be brutally honest, was a lot more attractive viewed from above than when walked through. Its location in a wider valley than Vernazza means it's spread out more and has a bigger population. It has a fine beach but, unfortunately, that's been separated from the rest of the village by train tracks, so you don't get the architecture-on-water punch of Vernazza. The shops tend to be of the tacky beach item variety (with the exception of one clothing place that had some beautiful knit items). There's another Ligurian-style striped church, and another photo-worthy defensive tower on a hill, but on the whole Monterosso wasn't worth much time.



It is most notable, therefore, for a fantastic restaurant in the hills above it. Highly recommended by my Terroir Guide to Liguria, La Ciliegie sits 200 metres above Monterosso and has remarkable views up and down the coast. It's a family run place where La Nonna (the grandmother) whips up delicacies in the kitchen while you watch through a huge hatch. We were the only people in the place in this deep off season time, until a bunch of family and friends trooped in to join us. Nonna was cooking, then popping out to join the party. I was vexed at myself for letting my Italian get so rusty, because we clearly could have joined this gang and had a fabulous time. I did manage to understand that the maker of our lunch time wine was sitting with them, and they were delighted with our presence. We started with a plate of little tarts made of cheese, pastry and seasonal wild greens. Then on to a massive, steaming pot of spaghetti with clams and mussels so fresh they had to have been pulled from the sea that morning. Next came a platter of local anchovies, both deep fried whole and filleted, breaded and fried. Fantastic. And, you will not be surprised to learn, we were far too stuffed to take them up on their offer of dessert.

With eating like that (and did I mention the local wine?) it's a damn good thing there's so much walking down here. On to Portovenere tomorrow.

Hotel Splendid shows a warmer, simpler side of Cannes

One of the nicer perks of being a European executive is the location of our regional trade shows. Americans tend to get shipped out to Las Vegas. We find ourselves in Cannes. Believe me, even if you're not a fan of the French, there are far worse places to spend a hard-working week. Especially in early November.

It's Gartner IT Symposium week once again, thus I've been sparkling with exuberance for my employer, working the crowds and blogging and twittering for all I'm worth back on to the corporate web site. The majority of my time has been spent in the basement of the unlovely Palais de Expositions, a lump of '60s era concrete that does this gorgeous stretch of coast an extreme insult. Except that its vast size and great functionality means that I tend to get down here for one reason or another every year or so. And for that, I owe its brutalist architect a vote of thanks. Because every morning, before reporting for duty, there's a chance to take a brisk mile-and-a-half walk around the bay-side promenade known at the Croisette.



This part of the world has been famous for the quality of its light for centuries, but especially since the Impressionists flocked here. There is no arguing with that. In the early morning as the sun crests the horizon, everything lying beneath seems sharpened and defined, yet also softened in a pastel glow. Quite a trick. The buildings of Cannes ... subtle pink, the lightest mustard yellow, rich cream ... sparkle with the same lustre as the inside of a clam shell. The skies behind are a delicate, watercolour blue, and stretching away beneath them are green mountains punctuated by vivid white escarpments of limestone. It is remarkable, soothing, and a scene to make even the greatest philistine wish he could paint. Because no camera will ever really capture the subtlety of these colours and the calm they evoke.

Of course, subtlety ends with the fading of the morning light, and certainly does not carry through to the shops or residents of the town. This place was "bling" long before anyone thought of the term. We may be in a recession, but the shops along the waterfront still bear the names Hermes, Gucci and Prada, and carefully made up mutton dressed as lamb carry tiny dogs wearning those same brands in handbags that cost my take home pay for the month. That's the part of Cannes I find distasteful, and try to avoid as much as possible. Fortunately, the shops on the main street just one back from the beach, the Rue d'Antibes, are filled with stylish items for more normal prices. I only got one quick shopping break from the show floor, but it was a good one.

I have no great finds to report on the restaurant front. As with previous years, we've rolled into spots that were convenient and available. Food is average and prices are shocking: 23 euro for a small and unexceptional main of prawns provencal (I've had better in London) and 8 euro for a glass of wine was typical. Undoubtably, they can get away with these prices because everyone is either on expense account or too rich to care. Certainly I can't imagine anyone ever coming here on his own money.

Our best meal by far was 12 miles up the coast in Cap D'Antibes, where an Italian friend (yes, the same one who initiated last year's giddy dash to Monte Carlo for pizza) found a small Italian place run by immigrants who delivered the quality and flavours we would expect over the border. Great value, fantastic pizza and ... to the boys' delight ... TVs tuned to the Milan-Madrid football game. Next year, Enrico is considering an outing to San Tropez, so we can complete a Trifecta of pizza on this snooty coast.

Worth noting by name, however, was the Hotel Splendid. The team divided vehemently on this. We are used to staying 100 yards up the Croisette at the Majestic. Which is, granted, a testament to the gold-gilt luxury that Cannes does so well. I've had exceptional rooms here with exquisite views, and been amused to drink in the over-the-top bar, decorated like a 19th century Parisian brothel, watching prostitutes work the convention crowd who look like they've been around since Picasso took his first painting trip down here. The Splendid didn't have a prostitute in sight. No red velvet, gold gilt or oversized statues. It did have a cozy lobby, friendly staff who actually recognised you as a guest and a resident cavalier King Charles spaniel. The rooms were homey, French country blue and white, and came with a welcoming bowl of fruit and a sachet of fresh lavender sewn up in a Provencal-print bag. Breakfast came with the room rate (as opposed to the 30 euro or so we'd rack up in addition before), featured eggs as well as the standard Continental fare and could be consumed on a sunny terrace overlooking the yacht harbour.



Don't get me wrong. I like my luxury. But luxury without charm leaves me cold. This place had a warmth that the Majestic will never match, despite its four stars. The Splendid is still almost 200 euros a night, so don't expect a bargain. But if I were forced to stay in Cannes on my own money, I'd book here.

Why the recession may be the best career enhancer possible

It's human nature to believe the grass is greener over the fence. Particularly when it comes to jobs, and most especially when you're in marketing and communications. Because of what we do and the exposure we have, we always tend to see more problems than does the average employee, and thus always imagine that our colleagues in other companies have things much better.

Thus I was both shocked and deeply honoured when a colleague at Accenture asked me to speak at a meeting of their marketing communications team. I have always held them up as a paragon of marketing, and couldn't figure out what I could actually tell them. But it turned out our problems are not so different, and my experiences seemed to resonate.

So here comes one of those rare blog entries in which I actually talk about my job.

I have been a crisis magnet in my professional life. From joining the world's largest defence contractor the year the Berlin wall came down to signing on with the UK's largest telecoms and IT specialist PR agency just before the .com crash, I have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And as nice as a quiet life may be, what I told this group was: What doesn't kill you really does make you stronger. We should all actually give thanks we're living through the biggest financial trauma in a lifetime, because those who make it out the other side will be sharpened, toughened and generally much better at what they do than they could have ever become in soft and happy times.

Survival, however, is challenging. Especially in marketing and communications functions that are often the first to feel the axe. How to hang on? These were my four top tips.

Be better value than others

In a big corporation, rising up the ranks often means doing less as you oversee more. Never lose your practical skills and your ability to roll up your sleeves and actually do the job. I define the basics of marketing communication as the ability to be the intermediary between the business and the public; the ability to be a thorough and pesky reporter; and the ability to write well. Beyond that, we should all constantly be looking for new skills to add to our portfolio. In this way, when teams start shrinking, you're the logical one to stay.

You can manage and do. You're cheaper than an agency, but can deliver most of the same stuff. You can interface with executives, but drop back to the coal face to deliver the basics. That makes you great value for money. It may not be glamorous (and, in fact, there are many of us in this recession who've fallen back to doing jobs we did a decade ago) but you'll stay employed and win the respect of your management. You might even have fun. There's a joy in the tactical production of communication activity that's never going to be matched by meetings, spreadsheets and corporate politics.

Take advantage of change

A crisis is actually a great time to try new things. I find that companies are actually much more open to risk in tough times. I'm currently fronting a web-based television show that I never would have done in fully funded days; we would have insisted on a "professional" presenter. I'm now not only having a great time, but saving bucket loads of money. (If you have any interest in enterprise IT, go to You Tube and search for me, and you'll see what I mean.)

A decade ago as another employer was going through tough times, I realised what we needed was a "Do It Yourself Toolkit" so that the few, and often unskilled, team members left in communications after mass job cuts would have a clear guide to how to do the tasks required. This turned into an award-winning initiative, and something I sold to other companies when I went to the agency side. Again, something simple and pragmatic that wouldn't have been attempted in fat and happy times. There are always opportunities for clever people to benefit from a crisis. You just have to find them.

Think like a business person, not a communicator

It's easy for communications people to talk themselves into an ivory tower. We are the guardians of reputation, brokers of objectivity, creators of stories that go beyond the mundane details of daily business. All true. But if we don't temper that idealism with the cold, hard fact that we exist to help sell stuff ... we're signing our own death warrant.

Consider yourself part of the sales force. Hold the sales guys' hands. Work directly with customers whenever you can. This doesn't mean you should abandon subtlety and big picture, merely that you need to temper it with reality. Some of the best work I've done at my current company has involved packaging marketing activities for the sales force. We'd publish a media partnership, then I'd provide sales with very specific instructions of what to do with it. Down to writing the letter for them to forward to their customers, and providing the cheat sheet they can use at the customer conversation to link the editorial to what we have to sell.

Being a business person means thinking about the bottom line. We're all used to arguing that marketing communications needs to be well funded to make an impact. But if the business is going through challenging times, is that a fair argument? If your personal finances are skint, do you splash out on new clothes and parties? No, probably not. You find a way to stretch what you have. That's what a good business person does with communications in tough times.

Most importantly, you have the courage of your convictions with executives. Communications people have a long tradition of being biddable, friendly team players who do whatever it takes to make the senior executives happy. (Perhaps a consequence of a field that was once dominated by nice girls doing a few years' work before marriage and children?) Giving people everything they want is never a recipe for long term success. You need to do what's right for the business. And if sometimes that means disagreeing with a senior executive ... you have to do it. In the long run, you'll get more respect and be considered more valuable.

Always have an escape path
Hopefully, you'll never have to use it. But it's madness not to always have the CV fresh, connections running across the marketplace and an eye open for new possibilities. You never know when the axe will fall, the company will be acquired or a new boss will decide to swap out the team. Being unemployed through no fault of your own is a reality of the modern world, you need to be ready for it.

I've worked for several very large corporations, all of which have featured "lifers" who've never worked anywhere else, and have gotten so comfortable ... and typecast ... in their companies that they were virtually unemployable anywhere else. I remember watching a 30-year veteran of McDonnell Douglas, a very senior executive, weeping in public when he lost his job and wondered who would hire a 50-something man with no diversity of experience. I vowed this would never happen to me.

Network like mad. Always stay aware of what's going on in other companies. This is where agencies can be particularly useful. Never turn down a head hunter's call. Always keep that CV up to date.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing inherently bad about being with one company for many years. But in work, just as in relationships, it's always a boost to the ego to know that you're desirable, attractive and wanted by others. You can then make a decision to stay right where you are, loving it. And you'll be a better marketeer for being connected to, and wanted by, the rest of the world.

Of nine men, a comfortable bed and heartache

Get your head out of the gutter. Today's topic is baseball.

What a lovely season it's been. Thanks to my subscription to Major League Baseball's web streaming service, I've seen more games this year than in any since I've moved to the UK. The comfort of once again having the childhood sounds of the crack of the bat and the hum of the crowd in the background of a weekend garden was a delightful and consistent bit of stress relief.

Even better, of course, was the fact that my beloved St. Louis Cardinals romped over just about everyone they met, holding the lead in their division for most of the year. Pujols continues on his path towards being one of the greatest players of all time, the rest of the lineup was filled with star performances, we hosted the All Star Game and the front office spent the money needed in mid-season to bring in the added firepower needed for a pennant race. We wrapped our division championship with weeks to spare and I looked forward to the prospect of an October filled with sleepless nights, as I took my laptop to bed with me to catch live games in the wee hours.

Which brings us to Saturday night, when I snuggled into a massive pile of pillows with a big glass of wine at my elbow, laptop on my knees and a growing sense of doom in the pit of my stomach. Because, you see, this was a best of five series and my beloved boys were already down by two games. Yes, the victors that commentators had expected to sweep through this first round had already lost twice to the Dodgers. Saturday night's game was win, or go home.

They never should have been in this position. They were one out away from winning game two. The Dodgers sent a pop fly to left field. In 99.999% of games, that would have been it. The losers would have moved their heads on to the next match, the crowds would have been leaving for the car park. But Matt Holliday lost the ball in the lights and missed what should have been an easy catch. The Dodgers tied it up. And then, like scrappy terriers down a juicy rat hole, they hung on with determination until they beat us.

It is fantastically rare to see those kind of last-minute, come from behind victories. And if it hadn't been against my team, I would have been awed by the sheer beauty of it. As it was, I had to admire this as an example, once again, of baseball as metaphor for life. Winners ... TRUE winners ... never give up. No matter how grim things look, they keep playing is if they can win. They run to first base when it looks like they're going to get thrown out. They believe that every pitch can change the result. They know in the fibre of their souls that everything they do has the opportunity to make a difference. In the words of the immortal Yogi Berra, they believe that "it ain't over 'til it's over."

The Dodgers heads were in that place in Game 2. The Cardinals seemed to bend like poppies before a stiff wind. Saturday night was always going to be about attitude. Could the Cardinals come roaring back, or did the Dodgers already have the upper hand?

I suspect you already know the answer.

Through the magic of the internet I was there, live. More than 50,000 people were packed into that ballpark I know so well; no doubt I could have picked out familiar faces if I'd been watching on a wider screen. (It's a small town, especially when it comes to the corporate boxes and season ticket holders.) In addition to the game I had my Facebook account running, where fellow St. Louis expats were sharing game commentary from New York, Washington and other points abroad. I might have been alone but, in the virtual world, that bed was quite crowded.

All that good will we were channelling toward Busch Stadium didn't do much good, however. The nine men in red looked defeated from the first inning. If there is an aura that comes from thinking like a winner, the Dodgers had it. At 1am the score was 4-0 in LA's favour, and I had to go to sleep. I know that I wasn't thinking like a winner at that point. But I just couldn't lose any more sleep in advance of seeing another team dance in victory on the St. Louis turf.

So, congratulations to the Dodgers. And a lesson to us all. Never give up. Keep that terrier spirit. Know that you can make a difference, down to the very last second of the very last chance. Attitude is everything.

Final day of luxury and grand views etches dream of Africa onto my soul

Three years ago today, our final day in Africa. Here's the last report from that wonderful pre-blog holiday.

Hard to believe that anything could top yesterday, but today ... our last day in Africa ... was indeed even better. Was it the helicopter glide above Vic Falls? The open-sided riverside spa tent? The Zulu warriors dancing just for us? Or maybe the witch doctor who sold me a love potion? Taken all together, I can honestly say I have never had a day quite like it.

After five days of mad sightseeing and breakfast-to-bedtime programming, this was our day of freedom, rest and relaxation. In the morning we each had a choice of a handful of special activities. I was tempted by the swimming in a pool cut into the rock just at the edge of the falls, but the helicopter ride won hands down. Once the five of us and the pilot had taken to the air, we cruised down the Zambezi and then flew lazy circles over the falls. It is only from here that I got a true appreciation of this wonder of the natural world. Understood how the river widens into a marshy delta, only to cascade over a chasm into a slash cut deep in the earth. And then how that gash churns with water until, its force partially dissipated, it finds a fissure in the rock to continue its way across the continent. I had a small understanding of the majesty of this natural miracle when standing atop it, but that was nothing to the awe with which I held it once I saw its drama from this lofty height.

Quite overcome by the excitement of the morning, we sloped back to the Royal Livingstone for our spa treatments. I wasn't expecting excitement, but my heart skipped several more beats when we were directed down a river path to a series of square, white tents. No basement rooms and new age music here. Instead it's crisp white canvas and a view of the Zambezi. Hillary and I had booked in together. Our attendants welcomed us and closed the tent flaps temporarily as we disrobed and clambered on to our tables. Then it was flaps up again, so we could lie there in bliss as a 90-minute massage was augmented by the magnificent view of the river, the only sounds being the occasional chatter of monkeys and grunting of hippos.

Pummeled into complete relaxation, I think we each drifted off a bit by the pool before changing for our late afternoon boat ride. Leaving from our hotel's own dock, the boat resembled nothing so much as the flat-bottomed pontoons that filled childhood holidays at the Lake of the Ozarks. Except here they could cruise along next to elephants and alligators, and an engine failure could see us swept over the world's widest falls. The boat also featured a very large cooler of beer, and a bench for four on the roof. And thus I settled in with three colleagues to watch the world go by, drink in a magnificent sunset and get slowly and delightfully buzzed.

After a stop back in the room to switch into posh frocks and a bit of makeup, it was time for the final night's extravaganza. I almost didn't make it when I disregarded warnings about zebras and got too close to a pair outside our room while trying to take some photos. Irritation at my flash bulb saw one wheeling around in an instant to buck with fervour; luckily I scrambled away just in time. Relieved, I climbed on the waiting bus and wondered what was ahead.

We drove just 15 minutes or so into the wilderness that was part of the hotel property, pulling up in front of a large, oval, thatch enclosure. From its gateway surged a troop of Zulu warriors. Tall men, in magnificent shape, black as the night sky, waving lethal looking spears and shields while wrapped in little more than the odd animal skin. I think the girls on the trip found this bit to be quite exceptional. Their frantic dancing welcomed us into the enclosure, which was set up like a craft fair in a local market. There were artisans, cooks and craftsmen all showing off their wares. In one corner was a witch doctor. I'm sure there's a more politically correct word these days but, trust me, that's what he was. He showed off all the herbal remedies to be found in the bush and, in his bag of tricks, was a mixture of herbs which when smoked was supposed to make the one you loved dream of you with uncontrolled passion. The doctor hadn't been planning to sell any of his goods, but I managed to talk him into exchanging a bit of silver for his romantic spell. (He might have looked the part, but the medicine man's herbs, once deployed back in London, did absolutely nothing to change the behaviour of their intended victim.)

Eventually we settled down to a generous communal barbecue, and after that got back up to join a communal drumming lesson. Hillary, who's always fantasised about being a drummer, wasn't sure whether she was having more fun banging on her bongo or ogling the blonde, long-haired, off-the-beaten-track kind of guy who was running the session. Sadly for Hillary he didn't follow us as we left the enclosure and went back to the hotel, where a large tent had been set up for a band and an open bar. There were many tears and much wild revelry as we all prepared to part after six days of constant togetherness. (Typical. Once back to the light of the real world, even though I still work with most of these people, I've done little more than exchange the odd hello in a hallway.) We danced until the band went home. Until the sound system was forcibly shut down. Then, evicted, went back to the hotel bar where we sipped gin & tonics into the wee hours, watching the Zambezi slip by beneath a waning moon.

I suspect I will never have a holiday like this again. It was lavish, luxurious, exotic ... and a hell of a lot of fun. I now understand incentive travel in a way I never have before. As I leave Africa, my heart and soul belongs to the employer who rewarded me for my hard work and allowed me this magnificent experience. I'd like to think that my renewed morale and continued loyalty is a fine return on investment for their costs.

Beyond that, it's the magic of Africa that will now live in my soul. A continent I was never that keen to explore. A place haunted by strife, famine and bad news. And yet the reality I saw was of a magnificent place, filled with sweeping landscapes, majestic wildlife and some of the kindest, most welcoming people I have ever met. I am so thankful I won this trip because without it, I might never have gone to Africa under my own steam. Now? I can't wait to go back.

Chobe safari brings the big, the beautiful, the dangerous and the ugly breathlessly close

Three years ago today I came face to face with elephants in the wild. They were just one of many species that crowded the magnificent Chobe National Park, all far more magnificent than their cousins in captivity. A shame to let such a fine day remain unreported, just because it took place before the blog launched. And, frankly, it's a lot more interesting than what I actually did today.

Bring on the elephants, it's safari day. For many, including us, the highlight of our trip.

We started just after a substantial breakfast with a 45-minute drive out to the Botswana border on the Zambesi river. Over all that distance we saw nothing remotely resembling "civilisation". Just miles and miles of red earth and scrubby trees, without a wild animal insight. Not, we feared, the best start to a day of fauna-watching. We did, however, race by several traditional villages; clusters of thatched round huts with accompanying groups of goats, chickens, and the odd native trying to escape the heat of the morning in a puddle of shade.

That vision of a quiet, rural life evaporated immediately when we got to the border. It was a riot of people, traffic and colour. This is the major route between Zambia and Northern Botswana. There's only one ferry, which takes a maximum of two large trucks, so both sides of the border tailed back for miles with truckers. Sometimes they have to wait five days to get across. Thus it was no surprise, on a continent plagued with AIDS, to see massive bowls of free condoms on offer at the border station. Nor to see a little shanty town of tents spreading out from the border filled with basic shops, food stalls and a lot of women hanging around. The traffic delays had essentially created a rough and ready port town out here in the middle of nowhere.

Our brilliant tour operators had organised special passage for us. We made no attempt to bring our buses over; rather, we were fast tracked through passport control, then escorted to the riverbank where a fleet of excursion boats stood ready to bring us across. Traditional safari trucks awaited us on the other side. Three rows of seats, open at the sides but with a canvas top to try to keep off the blazing heat. I got to sit up front with our driver and guide, who was a cheerful and bright young man who seemed to know everything, and I mean absolutely everything, about this world. From the mating habits of elephants to Botswana's government to the effect of the Ma Ramotswe novels on tourism, he was a living encyclopedia.

The drive to Chobe National park took about 45 minutes, mostly over sand track. We saw a black sable antelope and a baboon on this part of the drive, but there wasn't too much out here. Primarily because there was no water in these grasslands and, as was soon to be proven to us, it's the water that draws the wildlife. Chobe, with its big, eponymous river flowing through it, is known as having some of the highest densities of wild animals of any game reserve in Africa, most especially elephants, and our reality certainly met that expectation.

We saw scores of the giants, some lumbering past just a few yards from the truck. There were many herds of impala, kudu and puku, all similar to deer. Warthogs were abundant, an animal so horrifically ugly that you start to think they're actually kind of cute. We saw water buffalo grazing in profusion on the riverbank, the outline of hippos in the water and all sorts of birds in the trees. The most spectacular was the lilac breasted roller, supposedly particularly beloved in Botswana because its vivid colours mimic the rainbow, and therefore promise rain. The most impressive sight was a leopard, crouched and alert for a kill. Unfortunately for our voyeurism, the herd of kudu he was stalking never got close enough for him to attack, so he eventually sloped off without a meal.

We were luckier carnivores, since our lunch at a magnificently appointed lodge on the river featured a buffet stocked with the meats we'd just seen rambling around the park in living form. I predict quite a stellar future for both warthog proscuitto and kudu fillet, if anyone can ever sort the import regulations.

After lunch we returned to the park for a river safari. Now we could get really close to those hippos and water buffalo, plus some frighteningly large crocodiles. The hippos may possibly have been my favourite animals of the day. They have real, quirky personality; adorable, placid and bovine when undisturbed, fast, angry and powerful, despite their huge bulks, when they are irritated. As they most certainly were when our boat drifted a bit close. I suspect the guides do this for effect, as there's a wicked glint in their eyes as they decide to share how these are the most dangerous animals in the park at exactly the time they're provoking one to snap its massive jaws at you.

It was a blazingly hot day but being on the river, with a breeze and a roof and a very large cooler of beer, kept things mostly comfortable. By late afternoon we had returned to land, this time to a different luxury lodge and trays of cool drinks. We dabbled our feet in a riverside pool for a bit of cooling down. We were very dusty and tired by this point, but happy.

It was probably another two hours ... back over the sand tracks, through the border crossing, another 40 minutes on Zambian roads ... Before finally getting to the place where we were having dinner. We ate under a huge thatched pavilion, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The barbecue was good, but it was so hot I'm not sure we enjoyed it as much as we might. It was the entertainment that was the highlight. As the tables were cleared and torchlight cast dancing shadows around the pavilion, we listened to a magnificent story teller recount the adventures of Livingstone, and Stanley's search to find him.

Fortunately, "the middle of nowhere" turned out to be about 20 minutes from the hotel. So, although exhausted, I had just enough energy to take a quick dip in the pool when we got back. Washing away the heat and dust of the day, floating on my back while gazing at the vervet monkeys in the surrounding trees, bathed by the sent of night blooming jasmine cascading from giant urns of the plants on each corner of the pool. Yes, indeed. A fine end to a fine day.

Zambia and Victoria Falls feel like the "real" Africa, with five-star luxury thrown in

Due to recession, family responsibilities and work pressures, there's no annual Northwestern girls' holiday this year. So that readers are not too disappointed with the absence of autumnal reports from exotic locations, I'm returning to my finest pre-blog holiday. Here's what we got up to three years ago today on the Dark Continent.

We spent most of the day in transit to Zambia, connecting through Johannesburg airport where there is an impressive, African-flavoured duty free. I'd like to come back here with a combination of discretionary income and some knowledge of gemology, both of which I currently lack. From my companions' exclamations and swooning, I gather the diamond prices are pretty damned impressive. I, however, was captivated by the tanzanite, a rare bluey-purple stone with a high sparkle that comes almost exclusively from the foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro. Lacking the cash flow necessary for gems, I went for a dramatic modern beaded necklace made by a craft cooperative of native women. (Worth noting that I've gotten a lot of wear out of that necklace. Still dreaming of tanzanite, however.)

We were on an internal African airline from there. Efficient, on time and comfortable, with a lovely in flight meal and staff that still believe in customer service. I had the shock of my day when I picked up my cutlery and encountered a metal knife. On a plane. Good lord! I dropped it in surprise. Then thought how lovely it was not to be hacking away with bendy plastic. I guess they're not concerned about terrorist flight-jacking here. What a refreshingly retro experience.

We arrived at tiny Livingstone airport, claimed bags and got passports stamped in the one-room terminal and scrambled aboard buses, happy for air conditioning since the temperature was far more extreme than at the start of our journey. This was instantly recognisable as a very different country, MUCH more what we think of as "Africa".

The ground here is deep red earth, supporting dry grasses, stands of scrubby trees and the occasional towering termite mound. It's not heavily forested; I don't think there's enough water for that. Each tree seems to have its own space, and even the tallest would barely graze the roof of a single-story home. There aren't a lot of flowers here, other than the odd bougainvillea, to relieve the palette of brown, red and green.

We saw as many dirt tracks as paved roads as we drove through Livingstone, the big town in this area. It looked a lively but seriously ramshackle place. A main street supports a few side lanes; no building topped three stories. A lot of the nicer stuff was from the first half of the last century but had clearly seen better days. We drove by the state broadcasting service, which occupied a series of bungalows with holes in the roof and broken windows. Though there were a lot of signs for activities clearly targeting tourists, I didn't see anyone wandering there but natives.

The people here are, on the whole, that shade of dark, dark black you rarely see in the United States, with complexions like smooth velvet. They are, on the whole, a very handsome people, tall and exceptionally dignified. I've noticed that the women in particular carry themselves with a remarkable confidence and elegance. They all seem to have perfect posture (yes, many were indeed carrying stuff on their heads), walk with their backs ramrod straight but with a generous sway to the hips. Even the really big women, of which there are many, look sexy. I wish I could master the movement! Many women still wear skirts of traditional patterns, and traditional headdresses, adding to their exotic beauty and making them a lot more interesting visually than the men, who are mostly in shorts and tee shirts.

It's inevitable, of course, that we're conditioned by the news media. As we drove through Livingstone and I saw groups of these central Africans sitting around, or the occasional soldier in camouflage, my head immediately drifted towards stories of military coups, genocide and famine. This is terribly unfair, as it is a reality completely divorced from anything actually happening here. Sadly, Africa has a lot to live down.

Our hotel, the Royal Livingstone, is in a national park along the Zambezi river. To tell you the truth, the tourists are probably just as fenced in and protected as the animals. But if I ever get put in a zoo, please take note that I would happily be incarcerated here. The place is just as amazing as its heart stopping rack rates. ( There's what you want on incentive travel ... a magnificent experience you could never afford on your own.)

The communal areas are jaw dropping. They're all African long houses with thatched roofs, towering eves and sides open to the breeze. Inside, lavish colonial decor (lots of huge teak and wicker chairs) sits beneath spinning ceiling fans and heavy chandeliers, while the sound of splashing water from papyrus filled pools in the courtyards soothes your ears. Staff in crisp, white, colonial era uniforms are on hand to anticipate and serve your every need.

Three main buildings all open onto wide verandas, then wide patios, then lawns sloping down to the Zambezi, where a giant deck filled with outdoor chairs, tables and daybeds provides a viewing platform for the wildlife and the not-so-distant mists of Victoria Falls. Because we're inside a national park, animals are a part of the decor. We saw a giraffe out front and zebras grazing by the pool. Small, grey vervet monkeys are in such abundance the hotel has to keep guards on duty in front of the building to prevent them from raiding bar and restaurant tables. As if on Disney-inspired cue, a pod of hippos stuck their heads above the water just as we strolled onto the deck, welcome drinks of fresh fruit juice just having been pressed into our hands. Is it possible that the plane crashed, I died, and this is heaven?

After an hour of getting settled into a room that looked like a Bombay Company photo shoot set, we walked down to Victoria Falls to get a look. This was a fair hike and it was both muggy and hot. Once you get there, you're scrambling up and down uneven stone paths with a drop of a couple hundred feet on your right and not much by way of guard rails. Clearly no health and safety officer has been inspecting this place. I stepped very carefully, painfully aware that this was not the place to be a clumsy oaf, as a trip and fall would send you plunging to a rocky death hundreds of feet below. Despite my contemplation of the afterlife an hour before, I really wanted to stay alive until I saw some elephants.

The falls are, of course, impressive, though they are at first tough to figure out. On your initial view you just see lots of deep chasms snaking through the landscape in various directions, with multiple small waterfalls cascading over cliff faces at different points. You don't have a sense of a river so much as a watery delta running up to the end of the known world and tipping over the side. It's the dry season now, thus the impression of many little falls. Evidently in the wet season that broad expanse of water deepens by geometric proportions, thus turning this rock-scape into the widest continuous falls in the world. The water then churns at the bottom of this gash in the rock, then eventually flows out through another deep gorge. In dry season you see the drama and depth of the stone, but less water. At the flood, the guides said it's so loud, and sends up so much mist, that it's tough to see anything. They say you should see both for the complete experience, and that our best view will be when we get up in the helicopters.

After a quick break we had an outdoor dinner on the lawns of the hotel, awed by a night sky darker than I'd seen in years. I'm not sure who was more entertaining, the monkeys in the trees who were clearly plotting to steal our dinners, or the jazz saxophonist sending a bit of mellow sophistication into the African night.