Bloomberg in Bermuda

I was assured by the Bermudian taxi driver that "my Mayor" slips unobtrusively into Bermuda at unexpected times throughout the year to stay in his exquisite and very private waterfront home in Tucker's Town. How he knows that is uncertain.

Of course, golf and the lack of the sirens that we fellow New Yorkers experience are the real reasons for taking a short, one and a half hour flight to the island of Bermuda from New York City. No one bothers Mike there, and no one cares that he is a billionaire in a land of immensely wealthy residents.

My recent trip there was filled with the usual amenities. Perfectly endless sunny days since early Spring. They are experiencing a drought that has not at all affected the exquisite oleander or hibiscus, which are exploding with vibrancy in sharp contrast to the pastel-colored buildings of the picturesque surroundings. The blue hue of the ocean is ridiculous. A painter would never attempt to copy that color to canvas for fear of being called a bad artist. It couldn't be--but it really is--that blue.

The greens of the best golf courses, Mid Ocean and Tucker's Point, are a tad beige in spots. Only slightly off, as thousands of gallons are pumped daily onto the courses. This is a challenge in itself, since the tray rooftops are structured to collect the rainwater from every house for purposes other than drinking. This is a charming necessity, as there are not simply not enough sources of water on the island.

So it is not surprising that my dream last night included both Bermuda and Mike Bloomberg in an exquisitely visual, multi-pixilated frame with Dolby sound. There I was, sitting at the pool deck of the exquisite Tucker's Point Hotel, sipping a tall Dark & Stormy, or as I would call this non-alcoholic version, a Dark & Rainy. There, coming from Mid Ocean from a rollickingly good day of golf was Michael Bloomberg. He approached. We exchanged smiles. He spoke.

"Good day," he said as he smiled. I wasn't sure if that was a formal salutation or a statement about his golf game. "Yes, yes. Of course." I struggled with small talk. But we warmed up to some genuine dialog when I threw in a New York reference or two to Derek Jeter and the Yankees. I shamelessly sought his approval. After all, I voted for Mike Bloomberg three times, term limits be damned. I would carry him to the White House, if I could.

In my dream, and over several cool beverages, we became great and intimate friends in the purest sense of the word. Mike and I were just not attracted to each other in that way. But on a deeper level, we were soul mates who shared the solution to all of New York, if not Life's problems.

As dreams go, this progressed nicely. So much so that he shared with me that he was supposed to meet with his lawyer that very day to write his will and decided NOT to leave his money to his family. No, he thought he would leave it to me instead! And then, he said, "In fact, I'm not even going to wait until I die. I'm going to give you money now."

Fast forward to my return home. I am at my ATM machine and discover my balance is $26 billion dollars! What a guy!!! So I withdrew $100, because somewhere in my subconscious I knew that Mike would KNOW what I was spending. But it really didn't matter how or why. There was plenty of room in my checkbook to donate to his inevitable run for the White House.

Gold Cup Races in Style, Like the Rest of Barbados

There is something irresistible about the pounding track, warm sun, cool drink and the viewing of the white-clad Queens Guard in full dress uniform mounted on horseback that sets the heart racing as well. For, after all, this is Barbados. The British influence is ubiquitous.

It is, however, quite different from say, Ascot, especially when swaying Caribbean music accompanies the Barbadian Police Band and Red Plastic Bag (yes, that is the famous Bajan Regae Rap singer's name) is on the parade grounds singing Ragga Ragga. Full throttle. Ecstatic fans singing with passionate enthusiasm along with him. Colorful dancers swaying sensuously beside him. All waiting for the most prestigious event of its kind in Barbados...the Gold Cup Races.

Name one other island in the Caribbean where you can find such a racetrack. Nope. None. This is an impressive course that is in the heart of an historic area of downtown Bridgetown, the capital of Barbados. People-watching is part of the fun. All the locals are ensconced in the private boxes on this occasion wearing Sunday church attire, especially with Eliza Doolittle hats.

I attempted to put $20 on the sixth horse in the sixth race, my husband's superstitious good luck thing. But, unlike Belmont, there was one ticket collector near the part of the special stands we were so graciously directed to as VIPs. The gentleman was overwhelmed by the queue, the enthusiasm of the bettors, and the heat. I never placed my bet. Got closed out just as "Border Secret," the sixth horse in the sixth race blew past all the others for the win.

My colleagues were an astute group of Canadian incentive buyers, who looked like professsional gamblers all. They were elegantly dresssed and speaking the parlance of worldly bettors, tossing around such words as "Trifecta" and "paramutuel" leaving me quite out of the loop. I decided to pool my money with theirs to increase the chances of a big win. We had about 60 different combinations for Win, Place and Show. I was, indeed, familiar with these terms, but had never personally known the joy of experiencing any part of the winning process.

Terry, a tall, gray-bearded fellow was the leader to whom we all entrusted our money. Smoothly and with meticulous care, he became the guru of the group. He advised us by not picking silly or cute names (we females seem to think "Preach to Me" or "Pure Temptation" had enough gravitas to surge ahead of all others). No, Terry carefully put together all the right combinations based on his reading of their past history. What a concept! With a wad of our cash, he placed the bet for the Gold Cup ultimate race for us all.

Keeping council with himself, Terry imagined what he would do with his win...possibly in the tens of thousands. Erika wanted new shoes with her winnings. Terry wanted to buy the swim up bar at the Colony Club and move to Barbados permanently. I was somewhere in between. A small, low-maintenance beach shack where I could write my blogs, perhaps.

The Gold Cup race was the culmination of hope, joy, apprehension and greed. I was in up to my picture hat. And lo and behold, the exhilaration was complete when we won...$97.00 out of all the possible configurations. We gave the money to a local charity for children with wheelchairs.

I know there was one moment when Terry looked crestfallen, but another surfaced when we realized that the fantasy had a life of its own for the fifteen minutes it lived. We had a blast. Probably would have gotten out of control if we had won big time. When I asked Terry if he would tell his wife about all this back home, he said, "What happens in Barbados stays in Barbados." That's about right, at least this year.

Summer Shortcuts

Today I am reminded of simpler times when the sun is seductively warming the streets of New York and the more informally attired workers are moving a bit slower than usual. I never grew up in New York City, but I am a native New Yorker by way of Staten Island. Not many people took us seriously in the "forgotten borough" even in those days. Or especially in those days.

I did work in New York City as a temporary secretary, moving from place to place throughout the Wall Street area. It was very exciting stuff between college semesters. I would take the venerable Staten Island Ferry every morning, and it really did seem like a cruise ship with accompanying balmy breezes on the outer deck where I invariably sat in the morning and evening.

There are a lot of tourists speaking multiple languages filling these decks now. I don't recall a single foreign accent when I joined my fellow commuters on the elegant mahogany boats painted red outside and that departed at 7:10 AM during my summer forays between semesters. I do remember the uniform of the day for men: seersucker suit, buttoned-down shirt, tie, and the Staten Island Advance or the New York Times tucked under one arm. For women, no navels were in sight. White gloves finished off my discrete dresses, but this was more my Catholic school discipline showing. I do remember my impeccable white gloves touching the pole in the stifling, un-air conditioned subway, where it was unthinkable to remove them, no matter how hot the temperature rose. Come to think of it, that was a good thing.

For the most part, we are happily beyond men wearing suits and ties in the hazy, hot and humid summer months, though Wall Streeters did seem to favor $4000 Armanis just until about a year ago. That would cause scornful looks today, as young executives refuse to wear anything approaching the Gordon Gecko look now. Either that, or they are unemployed and are wearing shorts and tee shirts on the way to the gym.

On a positive note, the Staten Island Ferry terminal has undergone a serious transformation recently. It is immaculately clean with stunning views of the downtown skyline of Manhattan, all soaring glass and sleek silver. The terminal also houses two beautiful 1000 ton aquariums with rare tropical fish. A playful touch. Nice.

It is very surprising to me that Staten Island remains financially independent enough to dismiss any need for visitors to subsidize the expense of the Ferry. If it were up to me, I would make every tourist pay at least $1.00 for the round trip fare. Whoever heard of a free boat ride anywhere in this world? It's not as if the tourists ever venture forth to see the Greenbelt hiking trails, the Tibetan Museum, or all the great restaurants. Nor do they go to my favorite, the Boardwalk. I always head there with my mom and Tess, her rescue dog, when I visit Staten Island as a Manhattanite who never quite lost her ties to this historical and cultural island.

After the Verrazano Bridge arrived and dominated the commuter scene, you couldn't play "Who Do You Know?". This involved mostly giving an Italian, Irish or Polish name to someone and finding out the six degrees of separation between you and them. I don't ever remember getting on the Staten Island Ferry without seeing someone I knew in those days. It was that kind of an island, and that kind of a nautical adventure.

So while Staten Island thrives in new and exciting developments, I am left with sweet memories of a simple childhood that smacked of sophistication just a boat ride away, but also provided a countrified aspect that has gone the way of the old red ferryboats.

I attended an evening seminar last week that featured a well-known economist who is often featured on CNBC. It was an impressive gathering of real estate moguls, bankers, captains of industry, and entrepreneurs in general. I was honored to be invited as one of the boys, since there was a disproportionate number of women present. Not to worry. I am not intimidated by this type of event that inevitably begins with a networking cocktail high above Manhattan with outstanding views of other, equally impressive skyscrapers which used to be filled with employees.

Which brings me to the tone of the evening. A bit of unease pervaded the room. Smiles that were a little less confident than one is used to, with a touch of wariness upon introduction. Though I didn't see any resumes, I did meet some well-dressed people who are out of work.

None of us wants to hear that someone has been laid off, especially if that person comes home to dinner in your house every night. Inevitably though, we all have heard of, or experienced someone close to us who has been "made redundant." Sounds like buying more than 10 items on an express line. Oops...sorry, you have to go to that other line.

There is an excellent book about this sort of thing by one of the best mystery writers of this generation (said by the WSJ). The book is called The Ax and it is by Donald Westlake. It was written in the 1990's last recession and concerns a middle management guy who is fired and decides the only way to get the job he really wants is to kill the competition...several layers of resumes stand in his way. Not an easy task. While the subject matter is macabre, the premise is brilliant and the writing is extremely amusing.

On a bright note and one to increase optimism for the ending of our current recession is a small article that appeared in the New York Times the other day. Ariston Florists, a high-end shop on West 17th Street, boasts a 10% increase in the sale of roses in this recession.

"My customers say a rose means reassurance," said Mr. Barbagianis, owner of the florist. "They are looking for basic beauty. They want something that expresses love and happiness, that reminds them of good times in the past--and, they hope, good times to come."

This is a sweet story, and shows how sensitive we tough-minded New Yorkers really are. I didn't see any roses at the economist's seminar, but there was a strange comfort in knowing that we are all in this together. People I know are reaching out to say they need help, and those of us who are still OK are sincerely trying to help with leads or referrals, or just trying to give moral support.

I intend to buy a rose from the Korean grocer on the corner from time to time. He needs to keep his job,too, and it will be a reminder to wait for the good times to come, one sniff at a time.

Chastened, but Not Bowed Luxury

The Resort at Pelican Hill on the Newport Beach Coast in California has been creating expectations that one could find very difficult to satisfy. Fantasy is a very private affair, thank you very much. This promise of "perfection" made me a bit skeptical throughout the process of the resort being built over the last two years. The pre-opening collateral material was awesome. No, sensational would be more accurate. It was the promise of something that was ego-driven by a multi-billionaire owner, and he obviously got there by himself being a perfectionist.

I can tell you that they weren't kidding. This is the most amazing resort built from scratch that I have seen in years, and it has all come together and opened in October 2008. Yes, just prior to the Great Depression of 2008.

So, what do you do when you have so much money sunk into a resort that would have been just perfect for AIG, Lehman Brothers and Merrill Lynch? You soldier on as if nothing is wrong. California with a touch of the flower child still.

I just wanted you to see this for yourself. Room rates are not astronomical, especially for groups. Tom Fazio has "perfected" the 18 hole course that was in existence prior to the resort being built. Ocean views and Catalina Island frame the course.

Intriguing, how these things have a life of their own. It is the best of times. It is the worst of times. I am betting that the Resort at Pelican Hill will flourish. The group market has already confirmed much more subdued meetings with lower rates than the hotel would have charged in good days. Astonishing how sometimes your imagination can actually work within a budget!

Escapism Never Felt this Good...Sanctuary Cap Cana, Dominican Republic

Mercifully, this past week I escaped both the battering winds of an untimely November plunge in temperature and the equally plummeting economic freefall. Things were looking up--how could they not?--when I arrived at the Sanctuary Cap Cana in the Dominican Republic to a gentle breeze and a sunny 86 degrees. A symbolic rise in temperature and spirits reversed my New York CNBC-inspired gloom. I was back!

The Internet has gleefully published articles lately about the challenge of real estate everywhere, notwithstanding the Caribbean. I do not know why there is such euphoria about distressed areas. I had read an article about the sorry state of tourism that was e-mailed to me by well-meaning colleagues recently about the Cap Cana area. None of this was in evidence at Sanctuary Cap Cana, which is as beautiful as ever, and poised on the brink of peak season to welcome very savvy guests. The Island Spa will be open this December, and a canopying zip line has been introduced from the Farallon cliff at Cap Cana. So much for "distressed." Maybe...de-stressed was what they meant.

True, there were few people in evidence as it is off-season, but the staff is as alert and gracious as ever. The resort is in pristine condition, and the beauty of the setting cannot be improved upon for anyone who knows the Caribbean and harbors expectations that all one needs is easily reachable from several major cities by direct flights.

My visit was brief, but I did manage to carve out some quality time at lunch at the Blue Marlin restaurant. It is truly one of the most natural and beautiful settings in which to experience the freshest seafood. The small fishing boats go out every morning a few yards from the restaurant and return with National Geographic-like picture-perfect fish that discretely wind up as the "special" at lunch and dinner.

The Chef in charge of the Blue Marlin has had experiences learning his craft world-wide at five star hotels from the Caribbean to the Middle East. Walim hails from Jakarta, and his creative touch is focused on the use of local ingredients, including the delicate grapefruit juice blend that includes capers and a touch of lemon and herbs. This Walim-secret-sauce is served on the side and enhanced the grilled grouper that day that made the dish "pop" or sing, or at least seduce the taste buds with a delicate aftertaste. Sabroso!

The waiters--Ortega and Luis--are natural emisseries of international good will by virtue of their training and gracious attention to service. This is not an act. Ortega said he practices his English every day with the guests because he wants to speak "perfect" English and make the meal a very special treat. The Blue Marlin protrudes over the sea, and service, setting and Walim's creations truly bring perfection within reach.