Seeing:

I’ve been holed up in Honolulu for Christmas and New Year’s.

Again?

Yes.

You’d be remiss if you thought Honolulu was empty except for meaningless miles of white beach, like some tropical version of the moon.

Hardly.

On top of those miles of white beach… lie blanched, beached moons.

But seriously, Honolulu has a natural beauty that can’t be duplicated: the island happens to be novel yet near enough for Japanese tourists, making Honolulu home to sushi master chefs and consignment stores pimping half-off Hermes.

Oh, and some interesting architecture, like the Vladimir Ossipoff-designed Liljestrand house, which House Beautiful dedicated a cover and 53 pages to in 1958…

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Reading:

I take it all back; Major and I could live here, “here” being not necessarily New York, but inches away from the lobby library of the Christian Liaigre-designed Mercer hotel…

Hating:

After turning 25 for the third time — yes, I know I look young for 21 — I’m wise enough to realize I don’t know everything. But I do know more than the millions crammed into the isle of Manhattan, people who apparently don’t — or do? — appreciate that their city makes its own gravy. Mhmmm, I’ve become one of those Los Angelenos who loves visiting to New Yawk City, but wrinkles her nose at the idea of living here.

Arts, drive, and straight talk culture a certain quality of life — but not like 365 days of 72°F and sunny.

Life has a constant, casual joy, knowing that if I actually step out of the controlled climate of my Porsche that my bed-head, burgundy bobbed hair won’t poof into a poodle’s.

Years ago in a conversational stream of consciousness I wondered if humans who needed to be near the beach were like amoebas trying to return to the ocean. But now, it’s like, so totally clear what’s important in life? And that’s sunshine, blinding white smiles, and wearing five-inch Giuseppes all day and only walking in them five feet.

Forgive me if I’m grumpy. I think I need a matcha green tea, almond milk latte…

Seeing:

While I was in Paris, I saw Ralph Lauren’s car collection at the Louvre. Each car was so perfectly restored that a few featured confident, historically accurate imperfections. Ralph Lauren is a genius marketer because he’s tells you a story that he’s not one at all — just a storyteller.

Writes the Wall Street Journal about Ralph Lauren’s car collection at the Louvre:

“I ask him if this epic collection of automobiles might be seen as merely part of the larger Ralph Lauren brand’s image machine. Why? Well, because the exhibit’s catalogue (in French only) is on sale in Ralph Lauren boutiques, for one thing. Because I’d overheard a lot of rag-trade business being discussed at the gala, and not so much about cars. And because not infrequently Mr. Lauren’s great cars—notably the Atlantic and the ‘Count Trossi’ SSK—have appeared in advertisements with himself as a model, further blurring the line between man and brand.

‘It’s not a machine,’ he reproves me, in a beautiful, rich whisper. ‘Why is it a machine? You’re cynical… Everything I do and everything I love I put into this company and I have done it with integrity…. I didn’t buy the Bugatti because I thought it would be great for my ads. Now, I have used the cars in my ads because they’re part of the world I’m designing…’ “

Staying:

Cannes was nice, Nice was nicer, but cruising the coast to Monaco was my favorite part of tripping through the Côte d’Azur, and was worth unpacking and packing for a few hours’ sleep at the Columbus Monte-Carlo Hotel before an early a.m. flight to Paris.

Probably the best value hotel in Monaco, the Columbus Monte-Carlo is really a hillside away from Monte Carlo, but balling-on-a-budget rates, crisp interiors, and lying in bed while seeing the sun rise and set the Mediterranean on pink fire before it cooled to a millions of pieces of broken blue mirror more than makes up for that…

Enjoying:

Everything about private members’ club Soho House London is more subtle than its US left-coast cousin, Soho House West Hollywood: the hidden-in-plain-sight front door, the bubbles and squeak breakfast, the napping members…

But not that water-closet wallpaper, by Jonathan Yeo. Even though Jonathan Yeo’s naughty wallpaper has winked at me at every Soho House I’ve been to, it’s even saucier across the pond.

Click for detail shots of Soho House wallpaper by Jonathan Yeo, and get Soho House London wallpaper for your iPhone 4…
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Hating:

A few days ago when it started raining in Dublin, I ducked into Marks & Spencer and got gouged for €20 for this mini umbrella with a case. At least it’s the size of my sunnies, and it’s saved me a few times in gloomy London.

But I’ll love this Marks & Spencer mini umbrella with case more in France in a few days, where in 72°F-and-sunny Cannes I can leave it in my hotel room…

Listening:

I’ve got to be the only English Lit major in Dublin during Bloomsday festivities who hasn’t read the novel being honored, James Joyce’s Ulysses.

I’ve also got to be the only person in Dublin whose drink of choice is matcha green tea.

Still, tonight I’m going to St. Stephen’s Green to listen to Irish opera stars’ live performance of hallmark songs from Ulysses.

Stephen’s Green, now Ireland’s best known Victorian park, was once home to hangings, burnings, and whippings, which circles us back to my college experience, and how I felt while sitting through Creative Writing 101…

Hating:

It rained cats and German Shepherds during my spring week in Sydney, which is as typical as 25° F in hell/Los Angeles.

I’ll just have to go back sooner than later to enjoy a city usually as sunny in disposition as its dwellers.

Still, I managed to walk seven hours at a time, and found things worth the wet…

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Going:

I scored the last tickets to see the Rippon House, part of the Sydney Open, a biennial tour of architectural icons, secret places of public spaces, and award-winning contemporary homes.

The Rippon House was built in 1969, designed by Gerry Rippon and engineered by the firm behind the Sydney Opera House. “Although located on a busy suburban street with neighbours on three sides, the house still gives the feel of being buried in the bush – to the point where only three trees were reluctantly removed when it was built.” Sounds lovely.

I wonder if there’s a mirror on the bedroom ceiling…