Part I: Strawberry Papaya or Pink Lady?

The Plaza New York

Growing up in Eastern Canada, I considered autumn one of the most beautiful times of the year. Trees with leaves turning shades of red, amber and gold lining the city streets. The crisp air and people walking at a slightly brisker pace, clad in shades of grey, camel and black, with cashmere scarves wrapped tightly around their necks. The food shops filled to the brim with displays of all things fall: pumpkins, gourds, pears, pomegranates and apples. The fond memory of climbing trees at our favorite orchard to pick MacIntosh apples to take home for baking pies.

Despite my love affair with the magical island of Maui, there are days when I miss those simple familiar fall rituals. When I lived in Canada, I used to start my day with a strong cup of coffee and a crisp apple cut into wedges. Since moving to Maui, I've made a steady diet of strawberry papaya for breakfast. Considered to be the sweetest, most flavorful of all papayas, this salmon-red fruit is a great source of vitamin C and A. But an unchanging diet, of anything, no matter how delicious, can become monotonous, and recently I have felt something lacking.

Resetting one’s life involves being bold, trying new things, changing it up. So I decided to book a ticket to the east coast to revisit my fond fall memories. What better place to see the autumn colors, fall fashion, culture, art, theatre than the “The Big Apple”?

I packed, pulling out all my cashmere sweaters from their plastic bags, my boots tucked away in the back of the closet and the soft leather gloves I had purchased in Italy. I used to be known as the girl who kept a packed oversized bag under her bed, ready to pick up and roam the world whenever the fancy struck. Yet, for the first time, I was feeling conflicted. After booking my roundtrip ticket with a stop in Toronto, an unsettled, anxious feeling settled in the pit of my stomach.

A few days later, I was still procrastinating about booking a hotel. I couldn’t seem to commit to the trip. “Stop over-thinking. Just do it!” my best childhood friend advised. To counter my resistance, she booked my hotel. “Just get on the plane. Shake it up a bit. You need to do this to gain a different perspective.” Despite the beauty, the spiritual energy and the tropical clime, Maui has proven to be challenging, limiting—and heartbreak happens, even here.

I took my close friends and family's advice and headed for the airport. I had packed enough clothes to make a permanent move, my luggage weighing in at three times my bodyweight. The moment I boarded the first leg of my flight, to Dallas, I found I could breathe again. The long layover at 5:30 a.m. at a chilly (A/C set to frosty!) Dallas airport gave me time to acclimate to cooler temperatures. What struck me, even in my groggy state after flying through the night, was the sheer volume of everything for purchase in this manufactured retail space: the over-abundance of food, clothing, electronics, sundries. It was my first a-ha moment of the trip: I had been living on an island and islands come with limitations. I walked over to Starbucks, ordered a coffee and grabbed an apple for breakfast.

A few dozen games of scrabble on my iPad, a quick read of the newspapers from Maui and Dallas, and we began our descent into New York. As I walked through the jetway, I felt a blast of cold air. I zipped up my leather jacket, wrapped my heavy pashmina around my neck and shoulders and braced for the cold. Lugging my luggage, now tagged “Heavy,” I waited outside in the taxi queue. Dazed, sleep-deprived and shivering, I yearned to be back in my warm Maui cocoon.

I arrived at the hotel with barely an hour to shower and dress in suitable fashion to join a friend in a trendy new upscale Madison Avenue resto. I quickly donned Paris-purchased black from head to toe, tousled my unruly golden mane, put on ruby red lipstick and ran out the door to hail a cab. As I walked into the restaurant, my phone pinged with a text from my friend, letting me know he was seated at the end of the bar. Why did he need to send me his coordinates when we were in the same place? I wondered. Then I looked up. Right! This is the upper east side of Manhattan, where people line up at the bar a dozen deep and wait in line for an hour or more to be, even with a reservation. My friend greeted me and we had a chance to catch up and enjoy a delicious meal. As I looked around, I took in the energetic, kinetic vibe around us. The evening ended with a hug and a thank you. I felt reborn, alive and excited to see what tomorrow would bring.

New York is such a walkable city and I soon discovered that my little boutique hotel was located in a less than convenient part of town. So, the next morning I packed and switched hotels. My bestie had worked her magic and before noon I was checked into The Plaza on Fifth Avenue, the best location for shopping and strolling through Central Park.

The Plaza had been my home away from home for months at a time in my 20s, when I was learning about fashion and business—and that anything was possible if you set your mind to it and worked to realize your dreams. (I had negotiated with the Swiss company, Fogal, to open two retail shops in Toronto, and part of the licensee agreement included luxury accommodation in Manhattan while training and gaining product knowledge.)

I checked in, took the elevator to the sixth floor and wheeled my carry-on bag down a wide beautifully decorated hallway. My key card bore an etching of Eloise, the beloved fictional child who has been “living” at The Plaza for 60 years, and when I entered my suite, I too felt like a princess. The suite was grand, its king-sized bed dressed in white hand-stitched European linens flanked by two antique night stands. The bathroom, fit for a royalty, was covered in miniature gold-and-white mosaic tile in floral and vine patterns.

Up next was lunch at Bergdorf Goodman with a special friend who had just moved from London to New York to study with a concert pianist legend and master. There is something inexplicable when you meet someone in midlife and instantly connect on a warm, intimate level—a kind of friendship that defies time and distance. We had last seen each another in Florence in the summer and vowed to meet every year for lunch or coffee in some part of the world. Serendipitously, we had both landed in New York at the same time. 

It must be karma, I mused ... That’s the Maui girl talking, I chided myself, not the pragmatic, critical-thinking east coast girl ... (continued in Part II)