- You can't answer the question: "Where are you from?"

- You speak two or more languages but can't spell in any of them.

- You flew before you could walk.

- You have a passport, but no driving license.

- Your life story uses the phrase "Then we went to..." five times (or six, or seven times...).

- You don't know where home is.

-You sort your friends by continent.

-Your second major is in a foreign language you already speak.

- You realise it really is a small world after all.

- You feel that multiple passports would be appropriate.

-Your high school memories include days when school was canceled due to tear gas, riots or bomb threats.

-You get back to the States and serously cannot remember the currency exchange.

-You think VISA is a document stamped in your passport, and not a plastic card you carry in your wallet.

-You automatically take off your shoes as soon as you get home.

-Half of your phone calls are unintelligible to those around you.

-You go to Pizza Hut or Wendy's and wonder why there's no chili sauce.

-You know the geography of the rest of the world, but not the geography of your own country.

-You have best friends in 5 different countries.

-It takes 24 hours to reach home in a plane.

-You can only call your parents at 8am and 8pm.

-Your high school football team had to play against itself- if it even had one.

-When you were in middle school you could walk into a bar and order a drink without being questioned.

-You got to go home twice a year- that's if you were lucky.

-You are a pro packer, you have done it so many times.

-When you return to the States you are overwhelmed with the number of choices in a grocery store.

-You are never content in one place, be it city, state or country for long. You're a mover.

-You never had a job until you finished college.

-Class reunions are not held at your old school. Not even close.

-Police, imported from a different country, guard your school carrying machine guns.

-You know everyone else in this group, because he/she went to school with one of your friends.

-Your passport has more stamps than a post office.

-You carry converters because you actually realise there are different types of outlets.

-You constantly feel the need to catch up with TV programmes, actors and songs you are not familiar with.

-You don't think its strange that you haven't talked to your best friend in a couple years, because you know you will always have a unique bond.

-You wake up in one country thinking you are in another.

-You don't even bother to change your watch when traveling.

-You hate subtitles because you know there is someone that can make an accurate translation- you!

-You have little or no contact with the locals but are best friends with people across the globe.

-You speak many broken languages at once when you are drunk (my favourite!).

-You start introducing yourself followed by your country of origin.

-You've had to change your passport because it's full, not because it's expired, and this several times during your school years.

-Paying a cop is not considered a bribe.

-You've only dated people from other countries.

-You're scared of going 'home' because you haven't been there in so long, and have changed so much, that you think people might not like you anymore.

-You have more than one driving license, none of which are valid at home, that, or you still can't drive.

-You greet people by bowing or kissing them on both cheeks.

-You and your siblings know different languages or at least studied different ones.

A condensed and slightly edited list lifted from the pages of Facebook (other sites are available). Although my arm was nearly quite literally twisted to 'stay connected' in this way and join the 21st century, I am pleased to have rediscovered so many old chums. So there you are.

I don't drive. Don't be shocked. I lay this fact before you boldly and with not a trace of shame. Having always lived in large cities where owning a car was almost a liability, I never took up the habit. Thing is, here in Miami Beach taxis don't behave as they ought. Here, one is obliged to phone first and then wait three quarters of an hour. Nothing like New York where they fly, like migrating birds round every streetcorner, waiting to be summoned by an outstretched hand. As I never really venture too far from home, and no less than ten buses go up and down the street just outside my door, I've become a 'bus traveler'. Paul has too. He who in his native Belfast zipped all over town in a snappy little roadster savouring his independence and no doubt singing at the top of his voice to the radio, has adapted marvelously. Together we've decided not to keep a car here, primarily because we can't be arsed, and generally speaking, with buses and taxis (when they finally show up) we make do.

I take buses. And I am indistinguishable from the others around me, my beach brothers and sisters, all of us in shorts, flip-flops, sunglasses, with Ipods strapped to our heads. As far as bus travel goes this ain't bad: breathtaking views of the beach and gorgeous towering blocks whizzing by and palm trees and sun and tanned bodies all help to make that trip down the shops a pleasure. But the other day I heard my name- in its unabridged form no less, addressed to me as the S bus careened down Collins Avenue, and I panicked. I felt as though my cover had been blown. Who was this person accosting me? Who knows me here? Well, I knew exactly who he was, didn't I?

If I think really hard (or read the archives of this blog) I can remember the parties and galas and lunches that comprised my life in New York. But it seems a lifetime ago (before Paul rescued me and gave shape and meaning to an otherwise paltry and idle existence). I can see the expensively augmented faces of the celebrated hostesses and the feted artists and overdressed, overpriveleged denizens of society who gathered at one sumptuous apartment or another to sigh and groan and pick at their plates, and ask each other what on earth So-and-So was thinking. The man leaning over me on the S bus had come straight from that world, just taking a few days away from the stresses of the city, you know, pausing only to change from his ubiquitous black to a tropical white ensemble and rejoiciing that at last he'd discovered the onetime 'celebutante' who'd suddenly dropped out of sight what was it two years ago now? , 'well what a stroke of coincidence this is...'

Naturally I denied it. Told the unfortunate gentleman (whom let's face it, I never liked) that he was quite mistaken. Without another word I turned my attention back to the splendour outside the window, the Chris Moyles podcast on my Ipod and my thoughts as New York receded to the back of the bus.

Think he believed me?

But as you can see, my heart wasn't in it...

Sheesh! Look at that, will you.

It snowed, it rained. I mean, the weather was just awful.

Well, perhaps you might like it here.

But it was Fashion Week and so I wrapped myself in wooly things, girded my loins and tried to enjoy my time in the Big Golden Delicious. I saw some things, met some people. I'll tell you all about it later...

Why not grab a good novel and spend an hour at the beach today? Such is my new daily regimen since we came to Miami and I honestly can't remember how I got on before. Several friends have popped over from the UK recently, and we've had some jolly dinners and lazy days. And I didn't obsess over guestroom decor and menus and sightseeing excursions. That's what living at the beach has done for me.

Paul's much happier too...

And we love watching the neighbours...

*my thanks to frank-o-fyle, who remembers.

Not a soul on the beach today, and all those poolside chaise longues have been packed away. Tropical Storm Noel is steadily making his way north from Cuba where already he's caused quite a bit of mischief. Winds here are gusting at 50 miles an hour and Paul is beside himself.

Me, I'm not bothered.

...of our 'backyard'.

Look, I know it's been a while since I've posted anything, in fact, I confess I've not even peeked in to see what you've all been writing. I am truly sorry for that. I am on my knees at this very minute praying for your pardon. The fact that I am actually sitting in a comfy chair sipping a latte with no intention of ruining the crease in these trousers should in no way dispel that forgiving mood I can tell had already enveloped you. This is me apologising. But really, we've been busy, Paul and I. I can chart it all back to that holiday we took in March (why, it was only three or four posts ago). You see, we'd got fed up with winter. Oh, it was a long one, and brutal- it never would end. And so we flew out of bleak New England (like the proverbial bats) and washed ashore on sunny Miami Beach. I can tell you it changed our lives. And ultimately, the course of our life.

We have decided to make this place our home. And so here we are, and here we shall stay. Eternally on holiday.

New York City
In case you missed it.

photos courtesy of Sartorialist

...that tiptoes in. It pauses, overcome by shyness, like a grandchild at the door, peeping in, ducking out of sight, giggling in the hallway. "Heather!" I want to cry, "I know you're out there. Come in!" And April slips into our arms. The maples do not come forth in green; they are flowering red, soft as slippers, in tassels like a jester's scepter. The flowering almond is pink, absurdly pink, little-girl pink, as pink as peppermint and cream. The apples display their milliner's scraps of ivory silk, rose-tinged. All the sleeping things wake up- primrose, baby iris, candytuft, blue phlox, the Scotch heather that had seemed dead beyond resurrection. The earth warms- you can smell it. feel it, crumble April in your hands...

From the writings of James Jackson Kilpatrick

There are two basic ways to make chicken stock. One method uses the leftover bones from a chicken carcass and vegetables, and takes several hours of slow cooking. The second method uses chicken backs and wings, braising them first, and takes about 1 hour to prepare. We prefer this second method as it yields a more rich, delicious stock. But the first method can be a great way to not let good bones go to waste.

Make chicken soup. Drizzle a bit of olive oil in your dutch oven (a large stock pot will do) and throw in some bits of chicken until brown on both sides and cooked through. Add stock to cover and all the chopped carrots, onions and celery you care for. Throw in some green beens, potatoes, peas, what you will, a bit of salt and pepper and a bay leaf while you're at it. Simmer for at least an hour and serve over rice. This is my own recipe and I confess, it's always a hit. With only a few modifications (bacon drippings instead of oil and a cup or so of wine along with the stock) this delicious soup becomes Coq au Vin.

Say goodbye to the winter blahs and jet off to sunny Miami Beach and rediscover (or introduce yourself) to this jewel of an isle studded with towering palm trees and paved with white sand. Where even in this, the deepest of winter, the temperature remains steady at 'balmy', and the views are absolutely gorgeous.

Start planning now to replace all those platform and high-heeled wedgies you've been collecting. This season all the talk is of simpler things and flats. Artsy ballet slippers and metallic thongs. Kitten heels and trainers worn with knee-length skirts. I know, I'm as gutted as you are. But this from Balenciaga's spring line made me smile.

March 2007

Oh, will you look at that, a new year has dawned while I had my back turned. And it seems to be going rather nicely so far. Paul arrives in just two days' time and my happiness is assured. Now if we could only do something about this effing cold...

Happy (belated) New Year!