Have a Wonderful Weekend.

Have a wonderful weekend. What are you up to?

I am so, so tired! It's been a week chock full of rehearsals, meet-ups, reviews, and friend dates ... I've been feeling like I've had to be "on" all the time. Which is fine, but just a little intense!

When I rehearsed on Monday night for this concert I'm performing in next weekend with the Royal Orchestral Society at St. John's Smith Square, I played through two pages worth of extremely difficult passages (this was after a full day at work, and it was Mahler Symphony no. 1, for goodness sake!) without blinking. ONCE. As soon as the conductor put his hand down, my eyes started watering and I looked like I was crying. Great look!

Are you around next Saturday evening? If so, I'd love to see you there. The venue is beautiful and just a stone's throw from Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. You can still purchase tickets here (or even at the door!).

p.s. I'm probably the only blogger you know who just had to look up Rebecca Black's lyrics for "Friday" after writing a blog post about Mahler. Judge away.

London Rush Hour: You Stress Me Out

Yesterday, for the first time in nearly four years, I found myself on the tube at rush hour. Since then, we'd been spoiled by our bus-dependent postcode in Islington. Walk in one direction, and the buses would take us to the City, to London Bridge or Waterloo. Walk in the other, we'd reach the West End (without traffic) in 20 minutes or less.

But on this particularly muggy evening, I found myself sandwiched in a Jenga puzzle arrangement of commuters: a woman's plentiful rear end nestling comfortably against my stomach (so much so that I was practically spooning her), a man's hair brushing against my wrist (as I was holding on to an overhead rail), and my behind most definitely touching that of another woman's behind me. Getting intimate with strangers definitely hadn't been part of my plan that evening.

'Breathe,' I reminded myself silently. I tried to channel all the yogic calm I'd amassed over the hours spent in various Vinyasa flow classes. But then the train lurched to a stop and the driver came on, apologizing for the delay and explaining that there were two trains in front of us waiting to clear before we could pull into the station.

That's when I felt my breath begin to quicken and become shallow, my heart beating just that much faster. We'd stopped for merely a couple of minutes, but those minutes of being the slice of ham in a human sandwich felt like fifteen minutes. I knew my mind was playing tricks on me, I knew I was panicking for no reason, but I felt trapped - underground, hot, and surrounded by silent, stony-faced commuters. There was no room to move, to even fidget - no place to go. Momentarily, it felt awful. Luckily, the rush of another train roaring past the tunnel provided a cooling breeze that gave us all some welcome relief.

Rush hour in London means every woman for herself: elbows are jutted out, pushing is not uncommon, and if you're not in front of the door, well, then, you're not getting on. I used to commute on the tube every day. At first, you're polite: you let people on first, you step aside for people who are rushing, you apologize for someone else's elbow knocking into your head. But then you quickly realize: you need to be on that train first (because you're tired and you don't want to stand), you don't want to step aside for anyone else because you're late for work, you don't apologize for knocking your elbow into someone's head because ... she was in your way. Yes, that "you" was "me". Not all of the time, but most of the time.

I hate this mentality. I hate it because I'm an active participant in this kind of rush hour madness. Any etiquette or kindness or courtesy I have is completely eroded in the face of a crowd lurching forward to tube doors.

But mostly, I hate this mentality because it fosters a kind of nagging anxiety that doesn't go away - not even when I've regained my composure above ground. It's pervasive and all-consuming. And to think that this is how the majority of us in the city start and end our day? It's a crazy thought.

By the way, this is what the entrance to Oxford Circus tube station looks like at rush hour:

Whether you're sitting in traffic or squeezing yourself into an impossibly small subway car, what's your commute like? What are your coping mechanisms? Do you struggle with anxiety? I'd love to hear.

Good Eats: Pix Bar, Covent Garden

On Saturday, John and I wanted to visit the Made.com showroom in Soho but ... it took us some time to get there.

One stop to Leyland for a hacksaw (don't. even. ask.), two test-drives on a Brompton bike at the Brompton showroom, and a supermarket sweep in Nisbets (glass carafe and six French-made wine glasses for under £10 - YES.) later, we made it to Made.

And promptly collapsed on a sofa.

... but not before dropping in to Pix-Bar in Covent Garden for some much-needed nourishment. Totally, completely by accident. But the best kind of accident! Both because we were hungry and also because it's awesome.

The premise is simple: select your own tapas. YES, really. Long skewers cost £2.95, short skewers are £1.95. At the end of your meal, place your skewers in the little jar provided and pay for what you've eaten. Like Yo! Sushi without the conveyor belts. And without the sushi.

But this isn't just any tapas: the flavor combinations were inventive and unique. Think seared tuna, caramelized onions or smoked duck breast topped with a quail egg. And because we were sitting right in front of the bar, we had plenty of opportunity to mull over the options and try what we wanted.

I'm a sucker for the classic standby of Spanish tortilla - it's filling and comforting, as omelettes always are! My eyes also turned into love-hearts at the sight of the seared tuna atop a caramelized onion bruschetta (I know I'm combining cultures here, have mercy!). John and I shared a double-skewered slider of chorizo and cheese (which I couldn't get enough of!) and I helped him polish off his beer. Those of you who know what a lightweight I am can probably now understand why our arrival to Made.com called for an all-out sprawl on one of the showroom couches. No shame there.

We finished off with a delicious churro dipped into a milky chocolate sauce and I sat back in satisfaction - so happy that we (ahem, John) found this little place. Lesson learned: sometimes, detours end in the best discoveries!

Pix Pintxos is perfect for a light bite with friends or after work drinks. Think about it: yummy tapas whilst enjoying your glass of wine, rather than the same, boring pub standard of lightly salted chips (that's crisps, for all you Brit folk!). It's small, but there are more tables in the back, and hopefully (fingers crossed), rising temps in London means we'll be able to dine al fresco soon.

Wishful thinking? Who, me? 

Travel Link-Up: My Favorite Souvenirs

When Kara and Deborah arrived in London, our talk turned to shopping frighteningly quickly. "I want to get a shirt that says 'London' on it!" proclaimed Kara. I didn't hesitate to tell her exactly what I thought of that with my cutting reply of, "Ew, NO. You don't." (We're close enough that I can say stuff like that to her ... I think.)

She ended up getting a powder blue, featherweight Smythson journal at Fortnum & Mason instead. Much better.

I had to look up the word 'souvenir' before writing this post. Of course, I know what a 'souvenir' is, but what's the etmology of the word? What is its roots? According to the dictionary, a souvenir is a "token of remembrance; a memento". It's a French word derived from the Latin, 'subvenire', or "to come to mind". Not to get all Oxford don on you, but isn't that lovely?

To come to mind.

Though I've left my days of tacky keychains and fridge magnets behind, I still keep an eye out for souvenirs on my travels: a locally made straw bag in Vietnam, perhaps, or a hand-blown glass bead worn as a simple necklace in Santorini.

The following souvenirs I'd like to share with you are all tangible items that make the memories of places I've travelled to come to mind. When I look at them, I can close my eyes and remember exactly where I was, what I was wearing, how I felt, and the noises around me. I'm there again.

Pierre Hermé, Avenue de l'Opéra

Two years ago, John had a meeting in Paris, so we decided to make it into a long weekend, taking the Eurostar after work and arriving just in time for a carafe of red wine and steak frites. It was so nice. It was December, so we spent the following day Christmas shopping in Le Marais and admiring the Christmas windows at Printemps and Galleries Lafayette. Before I left, I wanted to take some macarons home with me: instead of stopping by Ladurée (which we have here in London), I dropped into Pierre Hermé instead (this was before the Covent Garden location opened!) and filled this sweet little box with macarons. Funny story: I selected a "truffle" macaron, confusing it with chocolate truffles, rather than the mushroom variety. Imagine my surprise when I bit into the pungent confection! Not my favorite combinations, I must admit.

Pierre Marcolini, Brussels

Not to be confused with Pierre Hermé, Pierre Marcolini is one of the most famous luxury chocolatiers in Brussels (and it's also now available in London!). When I visited the shop with Udita in February, we sipped thick, rich hot chocolate as we browsed the gorgeous chocolates. I loved the keepsake box by designer Olympia Le-Tan so much, Udita bought it for me when I wasn't looking, and filled it with beautiful macarons, which we enjoyed during the train ride back to London. This box reminds me of the short, but very sweet (literally and figuratively) trip with my best friend - our first international trip together. Like the little box from Pierre Hermé, it's perfect for keepsakes.

Barneville-Carteret, Normandy, France

That smooth stone in the background is a reminder of my first trip with John to his aunt's seaside summer home in Normandy. When we weren't grilling fresh mackerel on the BBQ and eating our weight in strawberries and double cream, we spent our days lying on the beach and reading aloud to each other from ... the final Harry Potter book! Ha - I have a hard time admitting that even now. It can be our little secret! I was still studying at York then, and John was working in Paris, I think, so it was a welcome relief from our time spent apart. It was the last trip his dear Uncle Chris (whom I was close to, and who had first introduced me to the wonders of London) took with us before he passed away from cancer. When I hold that flat, smooth stone, it fits perfectly in the palm of my hand - it feels safe.

Galle Fort, Sri Lanka

Shortly after we arrived in Galle Fort, it began to pour with rain. Mind you, it was about 30 degrees (Celsius!) outside, so it felt hot and sticky ... and wet. We ducked into a shop, where I found these vintage postcards, which called Sri Lanka by its colonial name, "Ceylon". I loved the colors of the prints so much, I bought four of them and framed them when I got home to London, intending to display them as a set of four. These remind me of our life-changing visit to Sri Lanka, where I visited a place that I never wanted to leave, and was left with memories like: eating the freshest papaya for breakfast, gently swaying in a hammock under a palm tree, and the screensaver-esque beach views.

Fifth Avenue, New York, New York

One of the most indulgent trips I've ever taken was to New York City - not because of the destination (well, that too), but because of the nature of the trip. John (again) had a meeting there and suggested that I join him for a long weekend. His meeting wasn't confirmed until Wednesday, so I bought my plane ticket on Thursday and got on the plane on Friday. Crazy, right? We stayed at a gorgeous hotel in Midtown Manhattan, right on Fifth Avenue. On Monday, while he had meetings, I met a friend for coffee and spent way too long in Bergdorf Goodman and Sephora, trying on Prada heels and testing out the new (at the time) Christian Louboutin nail polishes. I felt exactly like Rebecca Bloomwood from Confessions of a Shopaholic (minus the credit card debt!). Finally, I ventured into Lord & Taylor, where I ended up buying these adorable, gold-trimmed loafers with patent and snakeskin leather detail. Sadly, London sidewalks have wrecked them only eight months later, but I still love them - and they still remind me of a time when I felt carefree and very, very spoiled.

What comes to mind when you look at your favorite souvenir? How do you feel when you look at it? What do you remember? Let me know in the comments below!

Or, if you're feeling inspired, write your own post and add it to the link-up widget below.

London Link-Up: The (Superficial) Reasons Why I Love Living in London

When my friends visited me in London a few weeks ago, something extraordinary happened: I saw London through their eyes (as a visitor) rather than my own (as a resident). Curious, they asked questions about everything - from how to flag down a bus to the CCTV cameras on the street - and suddenly, everything felt new to me again. I stopped marching around on autopilot and started looking up, down, and all around me.

It was a beautiful, refreshing experience.

More than anything, however, showing my friends around the place I now call my "hometown" instilled a sense of pride that I hadn't felt before.

Here are a few (unapologetically superficial!) reasons why:

London is stunning in the sunshine.

While a glimpse of the sun can be rare (it's England, after all), when it comes out - there's no denying that the city is at its aesthetic best. I'd forgotten about this gorgeous view of Southbank from the corner of Westminster Bridge. Of course, why else would I ever visit the overcrowded, busy corner on a "normal" day?

We have some of the most incredible architecture in the world.

This is one of my favorite ways to see St. Paul's: on the way up in the elevator at One New Change (there's a fantastic rooftop viewing platform at the top where you can get a panoramic view of the city - not many people know about it!). I love the reflection of the cathedral against the dark, plated glass of the modern shopping center. I'm an architect's daughter: whenever my dad visits, he's in full sketch-mode heaven!

Our museums are free and open to the public.

I'm almost embarrassed to admit that I work near the British Museum ... as well as the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery. Why? Because I hardly ever visit, despite them being very nearly literally on my doorstep. But I popped into the National Gallery with Kara during her last few hours in London and found it magical to sit in front of John Donne's portrait for a few minutes in silence - taking in the fact that we were surrounded by original pieces of artwork dating back hundreds and hundreds of years.

London is breathtakingly beautiful from above.

 
I remember my dear friend Kara getting teary eyed as we sat down for brunch at Duck & Waffle - the spectacular views (and food!) there can be so overwhelming! Whenever I visit a new city, I love to see it from above - whether that's from a rooftop bar, or at the tippity-top of a museum or landmark. It gives you a terrific sense of scope and I love the way the traffic crawls along like tiny insects down below.

The city is rich with history and tradition.

Where else can you finish reading Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall, attend the stage production, and visit the place where Thomas Cromwell was executed - all in the same day? As an American, this is a biggie for me (even though, of the two of us, John's the real history buff!), particularly since I'm from the West Coast, where everything is still relatively "new". I used to marvel at the history of my East Coast college (founded in 1837), but then I went to study abroad at Oxford and, well, I couldn't even begin to grasp or to comprehend the legacy of the buildings, the colleges, the whole city, for that matter.

We have gorgeous green spaces (both indoors and out!).

One comment that surprised me the most from Deborah and Kara was just how green London seemed to them. Although I didn't get a chance to take them to any of the amazing parks in the city, they  commented on the pretty tree-lined streets of where I currently live and the fact that so many people keep their front yards (or "gardens") pristine and pretty with roses and box hedges. Or even just the fact that, driving around the City, buildings had hanging plants and floral displays embedded into the facades and doorways. It's something I take for granted, but I am so glad that London has its pretty, green spots. It's a welcome relief to escape the urban, concrete jungle of highrises and buildings for picnics in Green Park or a stroll around London Fields.

These snapshots only touch the surface of why I love living in this amazing city. Despite the negative comments I often receive in the US when I reveal that London is my now-hometown, it's a place that I am so damn lucky to have enjoyed for so many years - particularly in my early 20s.

What do you love about the place where you live?

This post was part of the new London Link-Up hosted by London-based bloggers Lauren and Amy. Head over to their blogs to read more about what makes London so special to them!

Blogging: When Private Becomes Public

I recently changed the settings on my Instagram profile from private to public; previously, users would send a follow request and I'd vet that person, depending on whether or not I knew them (whether IRL or through blogging or another social channel), and either accept or decline the request.

Initially, I'd decided to make my photos private for a variety of reasons: I used to post photos of my baby niece and family members when I'd visit (which I feel uncomfortable about sharing without limits), and I was too lazy to make a personal account for my "personal" photos and another for my "blog" photos. After all, this blog is ... well, personal. And since the majority of my photos on Instagram are an extension of this blog, I felt that I wanted (and was ready) to share, in order to widen my audience.

Which brings me to the question at hand: when does revealing personal information become revealing too much personal information?

Over lunch with my friend Jodi the other day, she mentioned something that stuck with me - something that I've been thinking of since we met. "I really admire how willing you are to share so much of yourself on your blog," she said, in between bites of her ham and cheese croissant. I smiled outwardly, but panicked on the inside. Do I share too much? Do I overshare? 

I'm a sharer. Always have been, always will be. Despite the cautioning of my parents, the emotionally-repressed Chinese culture I come from, the stiff-upper-lip attitude of the British society I entered into ... I'm a talker. This doesn't mean I share everything, of course. I'm selective.

But I've always been a firm believer that - in order to gain someone's trust (or interest, even), you have to be prepared to make yourself (even the smallest of iotas) vulnerable.

Like many other bloggers, I visit my Google Analytics page regularly. Not obsessively, but curiously. I'm interested to see which of my posts "speak" to readers - and which they tend to gloss over or ignore. 

The most popular posts? Not the ones about new restaurants or shoes or fancy candles or trips to the beach, but rather, the posts about grief, about dread, about homesickness, or about expat life. These posts are honest; they're authentic, they're raw, and they're real. (Not that the ones about new restaurants and fancy candles aren't, but you can only be so real, raw, and authentic about pork belly and Diptyque, you know what I mean?)

And so, this is my conundrum: I've always wanted to write for magazines. I've got a lot on my mind and I want to say it. But I'm so afraid to make what's private public. I can write about almond milk lattes, no problem, but when it comes to real writing - all that dark, scary, often unhappy stuff that brings out the best writing in me - I'm scared. I'm scared to make myself that vulnerable; to share too much.

So, if you write, or you blog, where do you draw the line between what's private and what to make public? I'd love to know.

Sunshine and Stuffed Hot Dogs @ Foodies Festival, Syon Park

Hello! How was your weekend? We had a long one here in the UK (and in the US) - John was watching the cricket at Lord's on Saturday and I tried to catch the last of Chelsea in Bloom (and totally failed, as it was raining and half of the floral displays had clumps of dirt trying to cling on for dear life), but on Sunday, we managed to squeeze in a few hours at the Foodies Festival in Syon Park before John had to leave for Helsinki on a business trip. I was super lucky and managed to score two tickets to the festival via a contest that Yelp was running on Twitter, so we made the hike from North London to the beautiful park in West London. I hadn't let anything pass my lips that morning, so by the time we reached the festival at 1 p.m., I had a major case of "hanger" - you know, hunger-induced anger (sorry, John!).

The vibe at the festival was buzzing - with families (and dogs!) abound. Despite the presence of a Pimm's tent, I had chicken drumsticks for eyes by this point, so I charged about aimlessly in search of the most filling, outrageous meal I could find ...

 ... which eventually arrived in the form of this truffle mac 'n cheese hot dog from Gourmet Griffin.

Handing out double-stuffed hot dogs from the window of a vintage 1966 Bedford camper van just might be the classiest version of a food truck that I've ever seen.

After wrangling with the unruly macaroni and cheese (with perfectly al dente pasta, I'll add!) and smashing down the delicous herbed pork sausage sandwiched between the brioche bun, my blood sugar levels still hadn't quite been restored, so I went charging around again in search of our next conquest, all at the same time yelling at John for not giving me enough time to take the photos I wanted (helpful, and not at all rude, right?).

After making a couple of loops around the festival, we finally settled on a stall that had quite an exciting looking menu (sadly, we missed out on the rainbow fries, but I'm still intrigued!):

The Wandering Bun's pork belly bun with Thai mayo and slaw filling looked downright mouthwatering. I watched them put together two of these famous buns before deciding that I needed one ASAP (sidenote: check out the sheer intensity of the mayo-squeezing down there ... I mean, I seriously need to adopt that level of concentration in the kitchen, rather than the haphazard aim-and-misfire method that I typically employ).

But the bun itself ... oh my goodness. Some seriously intense flavors, with an interesting tangy, chilli kick! That crunchy slaw was epic, btw.

But I skipped a step. In between "courses", I'd stopped by The Brownie Bar to ogle their selection of brownies. Question: when asked to choose between over 30 different flavors, including salted caramel, millionaire, lemon meringue blondie (!!!), and s'mores ... which would you go for?? I almost always pick salted caramel anything, so went with that in this instance.

We also bought one of these incredible brownie-stuffed cookies ... yep, you read that correctly: a brownie within a cookie.

It just had to be done. The brownie was lovely and gooey, encased by a soft and chewy chocolate chip cookie. Must. Find. Recipe.

By now, my blood sugar levels had satisfactorily restored themselves, but I couldn't help purchasing a little tub of toffee waffle hazlenut ice cream from Simply Ice Cream, which is based in Kent.

Throughout the day, there were food demonstrations being given by top chefs and cocktail-making masterclasses ... all which looked interesting and fun. If we had more time (and - let's be honest - had I been in less of a mission to quell my hanger), I might have sat down to participate. But I was too busy stuffing my face with brownie-cookies (or, "brown-kie", as someone suggested over on Instagram?) instead.

Honestly? I would have liked to see a few more adventurous recipes and items on the menu at the Foodies Festival - some were pretty run-of-the-mill items, such as hog roasts and paella. I think we're pretty spoiled with the food markets near us in Dalston/East London e.g. Broadway and Netil Markets in London Fields and Sunday (Up)Market near Brick Lane/Spitalfields.

What's the best food festival you've ever been to? I really liked Smorgasburg in Broolyn, which is self-described "flea food market", rather than a festival, though I've been to Bite of Seattle in the past, which was a lot of fun too (not to mention, free!).