I just came back from a week in France with my family, celebrating a milestone birthday for my mom. Spending a week in the serenity of southern France does something amazing to a New Yorker’s way of life – it slows it to an almost unrecognizable leisurely pace.

The day before I left for France, I found myself acting more impatient than ever, a trait I’m not proud of. I was silently annoyed with the woman on line in front of me at Starbucks who couldn’t decide what drink to order. New Yorkers are often blamed for this on-edge attitude and there I was, in the flesh, exemplifying the negative stereotype of agitation New Yorkers get a bad rep for. A vacation couldn’t have come at a better time.

As expected, while in Provence, I was in sensory overload; the smells, tastes and sights were all incredible. I took a cooking class at a French chef’s private mansion that dated back to the 17th century. I sampled wines at a local vineyard. I wandered, sans map, around small, mountainous villages just for the sake of exploring. I ate fresh breads and cheeses, and held back from calorie counting. I lost myself in a local marketplace amidst spices and handmade bars of soap. I found a skinny, stray cat and brought it sliced meat. I sat down for a two-hour lunch in the town of Cassis, a gorgeous waterfront village, and absorbed the scenery of passersby and anchored boats bobbling along the sea’s surface. I fell asleep every night to the sounds of frogs croaking in the lily pond outside my window. I hiked 10 miles between two villages, not because I had to (there was a shorter bus route) but just because I could. In the heart of Provence, I found myself losing track of time, even losing track of what day of the week it was. I was in a complete state of relaxation, unrestricted by scheduled meetings or project deadlines.

Life is too short not to enjoy it to the fullest. Too often we get wrapped up in the chaos of professional commitments and we lose sight of how to maintain a healthy balance of work and play. This vacation reminded me of the importance of finding that balance – that once in a while we all need to take a moment to stop and smell the roses, or the lavender, as the case may be.

Traveling in France not only made me reconsider my outlook on life, but as a painter, the trip was so artistically fulfilling. I have been oil painting since I was eight years old. Oil is a complicated medium for someone that young to pick up, but even at that age I knew what the “real artists” painted with and I wanted to produce works of art just like theirs. I took oil painting classes for seven years, painting scenic views and portraits that would soon decorate my entire home. In college, I transitioned to watercolors, which is an easier medium to work with and take from place to place. Post-college, I unfortunately hadn’t made it a high priority to paint — not by choice, but because work and personal obligations had kept me busy. While in France, I felt inspired to pick the paintbrush back up again.

So now I am back from my vacation, trying to fall asleep in the city that never does sleep. I wake up earlier and walk twice as purposefully to get to work on time. And no, the frogs don’t sing me lullabies and the scenery isn’t nearly as captivating, but the artist in me has learned to appreciate the colors and the beauty of New York City.

Written by: Missy Krowne

On August 27, 2005, just over five years ago, I woke up to a text message: “If you need a ride, call, but get out today.”

Before I could even process what was happening, the phone started ringing off the hook. Some were offering rides, others looking for them, many were panicking, and no one was prepared for what was coming: Katrina.

I made it four years as an undergraduate at Loyola University New Orleans without a hurricane making landfall. We had scares, but the next “Betsy” everyone worried about never came. After graduating and spending a year volunteering at a homeless shelter in Washington State, I returned to New Orleans for grad school. That lasted about a week before Katrina literally turned all of our lives upside down.

I had my uncle’s car that Saturday morning, so I didn’t need a ride. I grabbed my roommates and left. Thanks to some tips texted to me, I took US 90 instead of I-10, avoiding deadlock traffic and arriving in Lafayette, Louisiana in a few hours. We spent the night safe with friends. Like others, we assumed the storm would turn and we would resume life in the morning.

Everyone knows what happened next. The world watched as Katrina’s winds lifted cars, smashed windows, and reaped the standard havoc of a Category 3 hurricane. Newscasters said the damage wasn’t bad and it wouldn’t be long before we all went back and rebuilt. Then came the heartbreak, a heartbreak that can’t be described but is shared by so many. The levees broke.

Charles Kuralt once said of New Orleans, “’Unique’ is a word that cannot be qualified. It does not mean rare or uncommon; it means alone in the universe. By the standards of grammar and the grace of God, New Orleans is the unique American place.” As a transplant from Connecticut, I had come to love this unique American place. I made lifelong friends, and even picked up a bit of an accent (I still say y’all). But five years ago I found myself watching my beloved home away from home become increasingly alone in the universe in a way Kuralt never imagined.

In this tragedy I was lucky. I got out early, had the help of friends, and after about five nights of staying in random places (have you heard of Texarkana?), I caught a flight to D.C. and landed an internship with political strategist James Carville. Eventually I was cleared by FEMA to return to the city and I cleaned out my house. I was looted and I’m glad I was looted. They took clothing and a bunch of food. Someone camped out on our porch seeking refuge behind storm shutters. Returning to my house, I thought about how lucky I was and I hoped those missing supplies helped the person who needed them.

Just how lucky I was became all the more clear as I made my way through the city streets to check on friends. The National Guard was everywhere; my campus was literally a military base. Entire homes were leveled and the streets were piled high with debris.

As broken as we all were, there was one other indescribable feeling running through everyone I met. Although we had been beaten down by this disaster, we bonded through hope. Neighbors I never knew were helping each other out, sharing stories, and talking about the future. True, some would be leaving permanently, but many were staying and all believed the city would survive. We were going to be ok. It was intensely emotional, incredibly personal, yet entirely inspirational. I made a decision that trip to return to New Orleans to finish my masters as soon as I could.

I returned to New Orleans in May of 2006. It wasn’t easy leaving the world of politics, but Carville eased the transition by coming down and giving the commencement address to my alma mater’s “Katrina class.” A Louisiana native, he knew what we were all thinking. I sat front row, and when it ended I mingled with friends from my undergrad years. What I had experienced months earlier was stronger than ever. These graduates, so full of hope and ambition after experiencing such loss, mirrored the hopes and ambitions of everyone I met over the following year living in post-Katrina New Orleans.

I lived there through August of 2007 when I graduated and returned to my family in the northeast. I started work here at DKC shortly thereafter. I’m lucky that I get to pursue my passion for helping others in the public affairs area – and all the more I’m intrigued by the power of stories and how stories helped many of us get through that difficult time.

At DKC I’ve worked on incredible projects such as Theater of War, a program that reaches out to military veterans and their families through the arts to break through the stigma of PTSD, and many of Ken Burns’s recent films. I’ve even travelled the country with Ken Burns and Dayton Duncan to develop a dialogue on our National Parks, a dialogue that hit home during a trip to Florida where a major topic was protection of marsh lands that help protect against hurricanes.

I miss the Big Easy. It is surreal to reflect on the evacuation and realize that five years have passed. Clearly, I loved my time in New Orleans before the storm and I came to truly appreciate the city and the friendships I made as Katrina kicked us out and spread us across the nation during the storm.

Many lessons were learned through those experiences, but what has shaped me most is the strength and hope of everyone I met living in New Orleans after the storm. The cameras had left, we were again alone in the universe, but we were rebuilding and we looked to a better future while reclaiming the history and culture that continues to make New Orleans the unique American place.

Posted by: Daniel Roberti, Senior Account Executive

January 2, 2009, 7:24 AM.  I was on top of the world. In reality, I was on the roof of Africa, having just reached the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro. This was truly one of the most spectacular, exciting, exhilarating moments of my life.  And what a way to start the New Year.

My friend Karla and I hatched this crazy plan a few years earlier, after watching the documentary “An Inconvenient Truth.” We talked about seeing the glaciers that cap Kilimanjaro before they disappear, which experts predict could happen within the next two decades.  What began as a casual conversation over dinner ultimately turned into planning the trip of a lifetime. It took months of training to prepare (I definitely had my work cut out for me — Karla was a long distance runner with two marathons under her belt; I had never before belonged to a gym) and one “practice” hike at Bear Mountain in NY to break in our new hiking boots. Experienced hikers we were not.

At 19,340 feet, Kilimanjaro is fourth highest of the Seven Summits (behind Everest, McKinley and Aconcagua), and the world’s tallest free-standing mountain. But while it’s a long haul and physically demanding, the climb doesn’t require any technical skill or mountaineering experience — which was a good thing, since we clearly had none. The biggest challenge is the altitude, which can cause everything from headaches, shortness of breath, dizziness and fatigue, to pulmonary or cerebral edema in the most extreme cases. The best way to prevent high altitude sickness is a slow ascent, a concept we would have no problem embracing.

We arrived in Tanzania late at night on December 28, and were picked up early the next morning to head to the Marangu Gate, where we were met by our guide and a team of porters (and a fantastic cook) who would accompany us up the mountain. We couldn’t believe all of these people were there just for the two of us, but we were happy to do our part to support the local economy.  After packing up our bags and getting outfitted with walking poles, headlamps and a few other necessities, we were on our way. The total trip would take six days — four and a half up and one and a half down. Those first four days were tough, but very manageable, and we were so excited by the entire experience — from the incredible scenery to the people we met along the way — they seemed to fly by.

January 2 was a different story. We woke just before midnight to set out for our summit attempt from the campsite at 15,000 feet.  There was an arctic chill in the air that went straight to my bones.  The majority of the climb was in total darkness, save for a little circle of light from our headlamps illuminating the path directly in front of us. Later that morning, as we retraced our steps on the way down, I would realize how grateful I was that I couldn’t see anything beyond a few steps in front of me.  In daylight, I saw just how steep and seemingly endless the trail was. In the dark, I convinced myself I had only a few more steps to go. Even as my breathing was becoming more strained, with the altitude really starting to take its toll, I just kept willing myself to go one step further, to make it around one more bend of the switchback trail. Each time I put one foot in front of the other, I was one step closer to the top.  It was the most obvious, simple thought, but for some reason it kept me going.

In my mind, I was composing an email I couldn’t wait to send to my family and friends a few days later.  If asked, I would have said that I didn’t really care if I made it to the summit; I just wanted to enjoy the experience and give it my best shot. But the closer I got, the more singular the goal became.  And the thought of that email propelled me forward, even when I wasn’t sure I had the physical or mental fortitude to go any further. Not only is hiking in freezing temperatures at over 18,000 feet physically demanding, but hiking in the dark staring at nothing but the footsteps in front of you for hours and hours on end can be mind numbing.

Just when I thought I really couldn’t go any further, our guide shouted that we just had a few more feet until we reached Gilman’s Point, where our route met the crater rim. After hiking for a solid 6 hours, we were now just an hour and a half from the summit. With the steepest part of the climb behind us, we gave our legs a brief rest and then made the final push to the top.

The sun started to rise shortly after we left Gilman’s Point, giving us our first glimpse of the glaciers – the impetus for this crazy adventure. As we walked around the crater rim, we marveled at those glaciers, grateful we had the opportunity to see them while they’re still around.  They are absolutely majestic, and being so close made it easy to see why they had captivated Hemingway, immortalized in his short story.

Those last hundred feet as we approached the summit, Uhuru Peak, felt like sheer euphoria (mixed with a tinge of high altitude loopiness). It seemed as though we could see all of Africa from our vantage point, and we were simply in awe of what we’d just done.  It was easily one of the best moments of my life. Standing on top of that mountain, I felt fearless, determined, like I could do anything I set out to do. That is something I think will stay with me always.

After a short celebration, it was time to begin the long descent. And two days later, I sent that email. It read simply: “We Kilied It!”

Posted by: Karen Silberg, Account Supervisor