As a regular contributor to Forbes, Huffington Post and other publications, I travel often to visit glitzy hotels and spas. Writing about luxury experiences and lifestyle anywhere in Europe and beyond, I draw on what I’ve learned from having lived in London, Seoul, Buenos Aires, and Washington D.C..
When I’m not reviewing swanky hotels, Michelin-starred restaurants for work, I spend most of my travel time with my family discovering the world’s hidden gems.
I don’t ever want to forget about those times when we shared naughty late-night ice-cream sitting on a church doorstep in Menorca while listening to the bells ringing at midnight, when we walked along the old train tracks by the woods in rural Sweden spotting humongous creepy crawlies on the wet ground, and when the kids had their first meal at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Sicily feeling grown and proud.
But equally precious are the moments when we celebrate the beginning of the weekend with our candle-lit Friday dinner talking about highs and lows of the week or when we start Sunday with our signature banana pancakes or challah French toast.
Having my mental closet full of these memories is real luxury as a parent.
Fox On The Wall was created to share my experiences with modern families who want to explore the world in style, savour life, live in the moment and find beauty in all corners of life with children.
Also, I wanted to leave a personal record of my family’s times in foreign places or special moments at home. While I can’t make the years go by more slowly or the children grow up less fast, at least I’ll always have these dear memories that I can cling to.
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear, he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.
(“To Any Reader” by Robert Louis Stevenson)
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