Psychophant's Rants
31.10.05
The Italian Trip: Start
As we had a week holiday time remaining each, we decided to try to check the new direct connection to Italy. So we just reserved two cheap flights from Zaragoza to Bergamo and back, trying to avoid the crowds of All Hallows day.
Later, we started to argue about the schedule, or rather to compromise about the schedule. In the end, one night in Milan, three in Venice, and the last one in Bergamo before returning home. The flights were cheap, but the rest was not. So as we expected this to be some kind of romantic trip, and our fifth wedding anniversary is only a few days away, we decided this was our anniversary gift, which meant a different approach to budgetting and quality.
It is a pleasure just to leave home at 8 and be in Milan's downtown at noon, less time than it takes to get to Barcelona. Unfortunately I lost a very precious item in that bus to Milan. I left my moleskine notebook, with close to one year of travel reflections, addresses, insights and doubts. I still hope someone notices the address and the promised gratification. That has hampered a bit my notetaking, as I have some ten loose leaves with notes and small details. But as usually I do not refer to them while writing, using them more in the check-up phase, to avoid mistakes and see what important events I have forgotten.
So, we got to Milan, and then took the subway to the hotel, after buying our train tickets (suspiciously cheap) for Venice the following day. All the trip had been arranged by internet, with friendly recommendation for Venice, so we were wondering how good our discrimination had been.
I had chosen Antica Locanda Leonardo (a self defined "Boutique Hotel") because I liked the location and the photos. The building was undergoing restoration, as a good part of Milan is, probably related with the Winter Olympics in Torino next year. But as all the rooms faced a peaceful internal courtyard, they were quiet and peaceful. The room was comfortably old-fashioned, except for the bathroom, something to be appreciated. And the hosts really loved their small palace and sharing the city with their guests. The owning couple seemed to be a Japanese classic singer (educated in Europe) and her Italian husband/agent, now close to their sixties and living of their investments. That meant the hotel was nice rather than efficient, and that they liked to talk with the customers...
It is close to Santa Maria delle Grazie, where Leonardo's Last Supper was, before it was restored and moved to a neighbouring building. Thanks to Dan Brown the Italian government is making quite a lot of money. You have to make a reservation for the visit, the area is open for ten hours and you get 25 visitors (only) every fifteen minutes. So a thousand people a day, roughly, with week-ends booked solid for months. We had no great interest in the picture (I feel it is some kind of fetishism, when you are not good enough to appreciate small nuances between images and the real thing, to make an effort to see the real one), and we were short of time, so instead we focused on the church itself, a very interesting building, half demolished at the end of the XVth century to make the great Renaissance architect and theorist Bramante show what he could do. The result is like two different churches, on the inside, but I confess it works quite well from outside. I usually prefer the Gothic flamboyance to the classic simplicity that followed, but it is a light and balanced simplicity.
From a church split in halves we went, through the living streets and attractive shops of Milan to one of the best examples of syncretism in a religious building, Il Duomo. Unfortunately the front was undergoing restoration, but you still can see the gothic skeleton, draped in classic flesh and marble, and with baroque sumptuousness and excess at times. Even the more modern additions, such as the big bronze doors, from this century, meld flawlessly with the rest. The advantage of having an Art school whose main aim the last five centuries has been to make sure all changes and additions to the building fit with the previous ones.
Words, or even images, do not make justice to these buildings. So I will not even try, except to comment on moods and feelings. How can you focus on the sensory overload of thousands of sculptures, hundreds of pictures, or breathtaking dimensions?
Yet, I preferred, to actually spend time in, La Galleria, the XIXth century glass roofed shopping gallery that goes from Il Duomo to La Scala. Made for humans, rather than God. And more variety to see and do.
We had some problems, this first day, to switch to Italian meal times. Actually, we just did not make it, so we had a late lunch in an open air terrace, and a very late dinner in La Galleria itself, after walking again around downtown to see the city alight. So no gastronomic pleasures, just salad and pasta, with a good dose of strong coffee.
We had an unexpected pleasure in seeing an open air photographic exposition, Wisdom, opening the way to the Sforza castle, a break on the standard castle concept and part of a big park.
The walk through downtown had the added interest of playing "Spot the fascist building", and it certainly is easy enough. Not bad, some of them, but take the typical officialist building and add a few extra turns of screw.
As we had limited objectives for this first day, and although I had never had the opportunity to visit the tourist attractions, I usually travel to Milan a couple of times a year, we knew how to handle the city and the public transport. After 6 visits, I finally could walk through the heart of the city, rather than the outskirts. A gratifying feeling, filling up an image that was so clearly incomplete.
We were in no hurry in the morning, so we reserved a train at 11:00 am for Venice. ¶ 2:29 PM 0 comments
As we had a week holiday time remaining each, we decided to try to check the new direct connection to Italy. So we just reserved two cheap flights from Zaragoza to Bergamo and back, trying to avoid the crowds of All Hallows day.
Later, we started to argue about the schedule, or rather to compromise about the schedule. In the end, one night in Milan, three in Venice, and the last one in Bergamo before returning home. The flights were cheap, but the rest was not. So as we expected this to be some kind of romantic trip, and our fifth wedding anniversary is only a few days away, we decided this was our anniversary gift, which meant a different approach to budgetting and quality.
It is a pleasure just to leave home at 8 and be in Milan's downtown at noon, less time than it takes to get to Barcelona. Unfortunately I lost a very precious item in that bus to Milan. I left my moleskine notebook, with close to one year of travel reflections, addresses, insights and doubts. I still hope someone notices the address and the promised gratification. That has hampered a bit my notetaking, as I have some ten loose leaves with notes and small details. But as usually I do not refer to them while writing, using them more in the check-up phase, to avoid mistakes and see what important events I have forgotten.
So, we got to Milan, and then took the subway to the hotel, after buying our train tickets (suspiciously cheap) for Venice the following day. All the trip had been arranged by internet, with friendly recommendation for Venice, so we were wondering how good our discrimination had been.
I had chosen Antica Locanda Leonardo (a self defined "Boutique Hotel") because I liked the location and the photos. The building was undergoing restoration, as a good part of Milan is, probably related with the Winter Olympics in Torino next year. But as all the rooms faced a peaceful internal courtyard, they were quiet and peaceful. The room was comfortably old-fashioned, except for the bathroom, something to be appreciated. And the hosts really loved their small palace and sharing the city with their guests. The owning couple seemed to be a Japanese classic singer (educated in Europe) and her Italian husband/agent, now close to their sixties and living of their investments. That meant the hotel was nice rather than efficient, and that they liked to talk with the customers...
It is close to Santa Maria delle Grazie, where Leonardo's Last Supper was, before it was restored and moved to a neighbouring building. Thanks to Dan Brown the Italian government is making quite a lot of money. You have to make a reservation for the visit, the area is open for ten hours and you get 25 visitors (only) every fifteen minutes. So a thousand people a day, roughly, with week-ends booked solid for months. We had no great interest in the picture (I feel it is some kind of fetishism, when you are not good enough to appreciate small nuances between images and the real thing, to make an effort to see the real one), and we were short of time, so instead we focused on the church itself, a very interesting building, half demolished at the end of the XVth century to make the great Renaissance architect and theorist Bramante show what he could do. The result is like two different churches, on the inside, but I confess it works quite well from outside. I usually prefer the Gothic flamboyance to the classic simplicity that followed, but it is a light and balanced simplicity.
From a church split in halves we went, through the living streets and attractive shops of Milan to one of the best examples of syncretism in a religious building, Il Duomo. Unfortunately the front was undergoing restoration, but you still can see the gothic skeleton, draped in classic flesh and marble, and with baroque sumptuousness and excess at times. Even the more modern additions, such as the big bronze doors, from this century, meld flawlessly with the rest. The advantage of having an Art school whose main aim the last five centuries has been to make sure all changes and additions to the building fit with the previous ones.
Words, or even images, do not make justice to these buildings. So I will not even try, except to comment on moods and feelings. How can you focus on the sensory overload of thousands of sculptures, hundreds of pictures, or breathtaking dimensions?
Yet, I preferred, to actually spend time in, La Galleria, the XIXth century glass roofed shopping gallery that goes from Il Duomo to La Scala. Made for humans, rather than God. And more variety to see and do.
We had some problems, this first day, to switch to Italian meal times. Actually, we just did not make it, so we had a late lunch in an open air terrace, and a very late dinner in La Galleria itself, after walking again around downtown to see the city alight. So no gastronomic pleasures, just salad and pasta, with a good dose of strong coffee.
We had an unexpected pleasure in seeing an open air photographic exposition, Wisdom, opening the way to the Sforza castle, a break on the standard castle concept and part of a big park.
The walk through downtown had the added interest of playing "Spot the fascist building", and it certainly is easy enough. Not bad, some of them, but take the typical officialist building and add a few extra turns of screw.
As we had limited objectives for this first day, and although I had never had the opportunity to visit the tourist attractions, I usually travel to Milan a couple of times a year, we knew how to handle the city and the public transport. After 6 visits, I finally could walk through the heart of the city, rather than the outskirts. A gratifying feeling, filling up an image that was so clearly incomplete.
We were in no hurry in the morning, so we reserved a train at 11:00 am for Venice. ¶ 2:29 PM 0 comments
23.10.05
The power of words
I saw yesterday "The secret life of words", the new film from Isabel Coixet. I wonder why I have never ranted about her previous film, "My life without me", when it is a film that moved me so deeply. Anyway, I am giving one copy of that film as a present every year, because I cannot really explain the why. Even if, as I mentioned in the previous rant, it is almost impossible others will see the same things I do.
Coincidentally, a friend had written to me about Inge Genefke only a short time ago, so I should have been more ready for the shocks. Because, besides telling a story of loneliness in an oil platform, crewed by those who want to be left alone, of love and intimacy among strangers, or the power of food in being a bit happier, it is mostly a way to show the horror of war and torture in a way that reaches our jaded, overloaded imaginations. Calling the oil platform Genefke was a nice touch, because in a way the workers there are also walking wounded, trying to find their place in a world where they do not fit.
The images are loaded with meaning, beauty, power... But the horror is shown with words, because after all the media have made sure images just do not affect us in that way. And love is shown with words, and small gestures. Because gestures and words are what our daily communication is based on, what we trust.
The cast is small but superb, and it is the small stories, the humanity of it all, what keeps the main story manageable, what keeps it on track.
Now I have said too much, which in a way makes it easier to see it like I did, rather than as most viewers do. Because I am one of those, maybe more guilty, who do not have the excuse of being unaware, being uninformed, just being caught in a day-to-day life to worry about something far away.
She manages to reach us, where we felt we were unassailable. And yet she offers at the same time, joy, hope, comfort.
More a wake up call than a life changing film. But a must see film anyway.
Against my custom, two links:
La vida secreta de las palabras
International Rehabilitation Council for Torture Victims ¶ 10:03 AM 0 comments
I saw yesterday "The secret life of words", the new film from Isabel Coixet. I wonder why I have never ranted about her previous film, "My life without me", when it is a film that moved me so deeply. Anyway, I am giving one copy of that film as a present every year, because I cannot really explain the why. Even if, as I mentioned in the previous rant, it is almost impossible others will see the same things I do.
Coincidentally, a friend had written to me about Inge Genefke only a short time ago, so I should have been more ready for the shocks. Because, besides telling a story of loneliness in an oil platform, crewed by those who want to be left alone, of love and intimacy among strangers, or the power of food in being a bit happier, it is mostly a way to show the horror of war and torture in a way that reaches our jaded, overloaded imaginations. Calling the oil platform Genefke was a nice touch, because in a way the workers there are also walking wounded, trying to find their place in a world where they do not fit.
The images are loaded with meaning, beauty, power... But the horror is shown with words, because after all the media have made sure images just do not affect us in that way. And love is shown with words, and small gestures. Because gestures and words are what our daily communication is based on, what we trust.
The cast is small but superb, and it is the small stories, the humanity of it all, what keeps the main story manageable, what keeps it on track.
Now I have said too much, which in a way makes it easier to see it like I did, rather than as most viewers do. Because I am one of those, maybe more guilty, who do not have the excuse of being unaware, being uninformed, just being caught in a day-to-day life to worry about something far away.
She manages to reach us, where we felt we were unassailable. And yet she offers at the same time, joy, hope, comfort.
More a wake up call than a life changing film. But a must see film anyway.
Against my custom, two links:
La vida secreta de las palabras
International Rehabilitation Council for Torture Victims ¶ 10:03 AM 0 comments
19.10.05
That book I loved
I cannot help myself. I always try to get others to read the books that have molded me, those that have moved me or impressed me. And of course, I like to read those that affected others similarly.
And yet, it is always in some way a disappointment. Which is just logical, as we are talking about something that rocked my world (or rocked their world). The chance of that happening requires either a masterpiece or an enormous chance. Because most of the reason something becomes a core part of our own image or just finds a shelf in the side wings of our mind is opportunity. To be at the right place at the right time.
I find it is also a matter of resonance. The way a writer works sets a certain pattern in my mind, and just the pattern is enough to make me enjoy the work. That is why I tend to get everything by an author I enjoy, for those sparks of joy, or those full volumes of joy, at times.
Even when I become friendly with someone who shares one of those core influences (I am focusing in books here, but that applies as well to music, cinema, or even documentaries. Those pieces of external information that we integrate in our complex being) there will be differences. I share the Alexandria Quartet with a friend. But she got to it ten years before I did (we are roughly the same age). That colours from the perception of the work to the emphasis, whether it is in the characters or the location. Afterwards she read Cavafy, while I read more Durrell. She wanted to understand the city, I wanted to understand the narrator. Differences. She travelled to Orient, I to Provence.
And yet, that builds a common ground, a sharing place. The feeling that you understand a part of what makes the other tick. Sharing that is why I am so keen to read what others really like. Why I lend so easily the books I love.
It works, in a way. But it is dangerous. What do you do if you dislike someone's book? Or worse, if you find it boring. That taints the image as well, and if you are sincere, it will taint their view of yourself. Fortunately, if you are close there is not so much chance of that, but I still remember the horror when you find that the defining book of someone's life was The Sword of Shannara. Not to dish the book, but a book I despised from the beginning.
Then you have your own changes, something that can be tracked by those books that climb in rank, and then fall down. Such as The Lord of the Rings, lording it for a couple of years before slowly slipping down. Some lasted only the time between a read and a reread, when you discover your memory of the book is much better than the book (Neverending Story comes to mind). Most get at a certain level, and then can only go down as you read more books. But a few get to raise up with time, as you learn something, you become wiser, or more cynical, or just fall in love. Or you just get a different edition (as when I finally read Rostand's Cyrano in French).
It is a part of all bibliophiles, the books we have loved. And a way to get back to a past time, when you were spurned in love, reading Brideshead Revisited. Or alone in a foreign country, discovering really Moby Dick.
Here are a few books that have, at one time or the other, topped my reading experience. I really think all of them are worth the time of reading them. I put the title in English, because this is the language I am using, but many were read in different languages.
Rudyard Kipling, Stalky & Co.
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
Roger Zelazny, Lord of Light
Aléxandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers
C.W. Ceram, Gods, Graves and Scholars
Jose Luis Sampedro, La Sonrisa Etrusca (I fear it has not been translated to English)
Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited
Nikos Kazantzakis, Zorba the Greek
Jack Vance, The Dying Earth
Miguel Delibes, Five Hours with Mario
Lawrence Durrell, The Alexandria Quartet
John Irving, The Hotel New Hampshire
Milan Kundera, Immortality
Gene Wolfe, The Book of the New Sun
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
Antonio Muñoz Molina, El Invierno en Lisboa (tightly competing with Beltenebros, from the same author)
Connie Willis, Bellwether
Haruki Murakami, Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World
Iain M. Banks, Use of Weapons
Steven Brust, Emma Bull, Freedom and Necessity
Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude
Michael Swanwick, Stations of the Tide
Tim Powers, The Stress of her Regard
Julian Marias, Tomorrow on the Battle Think on Me
Aamin Maalouf, Crusades through Arab Eyes ¶ 1:52 PM 0 comments
I cannot help myself. I always try to get others to read the books that have molded me, those that have moved me or impressed me. And of course, I like to read those that affected others similarly.
And yet, it is always in some way a disappointment. Which is just logical, as we are talking about something that rocked my world (or rocked their world). The chance of that happening requires either a masterpiece or an enormous chance. Because most of the reason something becomes a core part of our own image or just finds a shelf in the side wings of our mind is opportunity. To be at the right place at the right time.
I find it is also a matter of resonance. The way a writer works sets a certain pattern in my mind, and just the pattern is enough to make me enjoy the work. That is why I tend to get everything by an author I enjoy, for those sparks of joy, or those full volumes of joy, at times.
Even when I become friendly with someone who shares one of those core influences (I am focusing in books here, but that applies as well to music, cinema, or even documentaries. Those pieces of external information that we integrate in our complex being) there will be differences. I share the Alexandria Quartet with a friend. But she got to it ten years before I did (we are roughly the same age). That colours from the perception of the work to the emphasis, whether it is in the characters or the location. Afterwards she read Cavafy, while I read more Durrell. She wanted to understand the city, I wanted to understand the narrator. Differences. She travelled to Orient, I to Provence.
And yet, that builds a common ground, a sharing place. The feeling that you understand a part of what makes the other tick. Sharing that is why I am so keen to read what others really like. Why I lend so easily the books I love.
It works, in a way. But it is dangerous. What do you do if you dislike someone's book? Or worse, if you find it boring. That taints the image as well, and if you are sincere, it will taint their view of yourself. Fortunately, if you are close there is not so much chance of that, but I still remember the horror when you find that the defining book of someone's life was The Sword of Shannara. Not to dish the book, but a book I despised from the beginning.
Then you have your own changes, something that can be tracked by those books that climb in rank, and then fall down. Such as The Lord of the Rings, lording it for a couple of years before slowly slipping down. Some lasted only the time between a read and a reread, when you discover your memory of the book is much better than the book (Neverending Story comes to mind). Most get at a certain level, and then can only go down as you read more books. But a few get to raise up with time, as you learn something, you become wiser, or more cynical, or just fall in love. Or you just get a different edition (as when I finally read Rostand's Cyrano in French).
It is a part of all bibliophiles, the books we have loved. And a way to get back to a past time, when you were spurned in love, reading Brideshead Revisited. Or alone in a foreign country, discovering really Moby Dick.
Here are a few books that have, at one time or the other, topped my reading experience. I really think all of them are worth the time of reading them. I put the title in English, because this is the language I am using, but many were read in different languages.
Rudyard Kipling, Stalky & Co.
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
Roger Zelazny, Lord of Light
Aléxandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers
C.W. Ceram, Gods, Graves and Scholars
Jose Luis Sampedro, La Sonrisa Etrusca (I fear it has not been translated to English)
Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited
Nikos Kazantzakis, Zorba the Greek
Jack Vance, The Dying Earth
Miguel Delibes, Five Hours with Mario
Lawrence Durrell, The Alexandria Quartet
John Irving, The Hotel New Hampshire
Milan Kundera, Immortality
Gene Wolfe, The Book of the New Sun
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
Antonio Muñoz Molina, El Invierno en Lisboa (tightly competing with Beltenebros, from the same author)
Connie Willis, Bellwether
Haruki Murakami, Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World
Iain M. Banks, Use of Weapons
Steven Brust, Emma Bull, Freedom and Necessity
Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude
Michael Swanwick, Stations of the Tide
Tim Powers, The Stress of her Regard
Julian Marias, Tomorrow on the Battle Think on Me
Aamin Maalouf, Crusades through Arab Eyes ¶ 1:52 PM 0 comments
15.10.05
The Atlantic
In my last trip to Hamburg I have enjoyed one of those old style luxury hotels, the Atlantic Kempinski.
Facing the outer Alster, including a private pier, the hotel still has the Kaiser presiding the main hall, as he did one century ago. And the frescoes with the glories of the German merchant fleet, led by HAPAG. It still looks old fashioned in the sheer number of people you see working there. An usual view in the American system, but faced with fixed minimum wages, unions and welfare benefits, a clear sign of luxury in an European hotel is a big staff. The European system has the advantage that tip-hunting is not a necessity of life, just good manners, keeping things at a relaxed and civilized level.
Another sign of a big staff were those small details that you only notice now when they happen, rather than their absence, such as having the room set for the night (with delicious chocolate truffles on the pillow). Or big slippers and a big bathrobe, once the service decided the standard set did not fit me. In this health conscious time, the complimentary mineral water set well with my muscle relaxing hot bath.
Yet, the room was typical 1909, for the good and the bad, with only small modern details. The high ceilings were good, the antique bathtub, charming (if slippery), the white sanitary tiles not so attractive, the ill-fitting doors a bit annoying, and the flooring in clear need of replacement.
The common areas were superb, from the comfortable leather armchairs of the lobby to the Mediterranean style central courtyard. The restaurant frightened us a little, as we had already taken off our ties. So we decided to go walking around, keeping the hotel restaurants, tempting as they were, in reserve.
On a sudden impulse we dined in the City Hall's cellars, a nice restaurant, where I had to try the seaman's labskaus, a recipe I often do on my own (as my wife does not like the red beets). Quite good for an autumn evening, even better after leaving most of the plane meal. A mush of potatoes, beef and beets, topped by two fried eggs and accompanied with pickles and herring.
Feeling warm and full inside, with some help from the Duckstein beer, we walked back by the lake side. Maybe it was the happy feeling, but it did not feel strange to see Chinese Dragon Boats training in the Alster, impulsed by the drums and the cries of the rowers, disappearing in the grey twilight.
The hotel bar drew us on, helped by a sensuous voice caressing Calling You with a supporting piano. I did not explain to my companions why that is now a German song. Instead, I lost myself in the cocktail list (they serve the White Russian unmixed in layers in a Martini glass, Louis). Finally, as a private homage to the Zeiss Ikon logo in my room key, I had a Gibson. I have to get a bottle of Noilly Prat, as it makes all the difference.
Once the singer, the only one of the staff who was not a sharp young thing, finished with a request (Cheek to Cheek, and she did it with more languor than Ella Fitzgerald), we also left for our rooms. We had to start early.
The pillow was horrid, but that is more of a general German failing. The bed creaked, and that was a problem for something like 5 minutes. Then the investment in good food and drink paid off and I slept like a baby.
Breakfast was good as well, but not exceptional, but the service made up for it. And the espresso macchiatto was at Italian standards. I skipped the herrings, remembering how distracting they had been my previous visit to Hamburg, and focused in hot food and cheeses. Which was a mistake because we did not skip lunch, as I feared, but that is another story, as we had already left the Atlantic by then.
It is a pity when you do not profit from those great services a luxury hotel provides. But that hour at the bar was just what I needed. The heady attraction of reaching a state beyond money. ¶ 1:21 PM 0 comments
In my last trip to Hamburg I have enjoyed one of those old style luxury hotels, the Atlantic Kempinski.
Facing the outer Alster, including a private pier, the hotel still has the Kaiser presiding the main hall, as he did one century ago. And the frescoes with the glories of the German merchant fleet, led by HAPAG. It still looks old fashioned in the sheer number of people you see working there. An usual view in the American system, but faced with fixed minimum wages, unions and welfare benefits, a clear sign of luxury in an European hotel is a big staff. The European system has the advantage that tip-hunting is not a necessity of life, just good manners, keeping things at a relaxed and civilized level.
Another sign of a big staff were those small details that you only notice now when they happen, rather than their absence, such as having the room set for the night (with delicious chocolate truffles on the pillow). Or big slippers and a big bathrobe, once the service decided the standard set did not fit me. In this health conscious time, the complimentary mineral water set well with my muscle relaxing hot bath.
Yet, the room was typical 1909, for the good and the bad, with only small modern details. The high ceilings were good, the antique bathtub, charming (if slippery), the white sanitary tiles not so attractive, the ill-fitting doors a bit annoying, and the flooring in clear need of replacement.
The common areas were superb, from the comfortable leather armchairs of the lobby to the Mediterranean style central courtyard. The restaurant frightened us a little, as we had already taken off our ties. So we decided to go walking around, keeping the hotel restaurants, tempting as they were, in reserve.
On a sudden impulse we dined in the City Hall's cellars, a nice restaurant, where I had to try the seaman's labskaus, a recipe I often do on my own (as my wife does not like the red beets). Quite good for an autumn evening, even better after leaving most of the plane meal. A mush of potatoes, beef and beets, topped by two fried eggs and accompanied with pickles and herring.
Feeling warm and full inside, with some help from the Duckstein beer, we walked back by the lake side. Maybe it was the happy feeling, but it did not feel strange to see Chinese Dragon Boats training in the Alster, impulsed by the drums and the cries of the rowers, disappearing in the grey twilight.
The hotel bar drew us on, helped by a sensuous voice caressing Calling You with a supporting piano. I did not explain to my companions why that is now a German song. Instead, I lost myself in the cocktail list (they serve the White Russian unmixed in layers in a Martini glass, Louis). Finally, as a private homage to the Zeiss Ikon logo in my room key, I had a Gibson. I have to get a bottle of Noilly Prat, as it makes all the difference.
Once the singer, the only one of the staff who was not a sharp young thing, finished with a request (Cheek to Cheek, and she did it with more languor than Ella Fitzgerald), we also left for our rooms. We had to start early.
The pillow was horrid, but that is more of a general German failing. The bed creaked, and that was a problem for something like 5 minutes. Then the investment in good food and drink paid off and I slept like a baby.
Breakfast was good as well, but not exceptional, but the service made up for it. And the espresso macchiatto was at Italian standards. I skipped the herrings, remembering how distracting they had been my previous visit to Hamburg, and focused in hot food and cheeses. Which was a mistake because we did not skip lunch, as I feared, but that is another story, as we had already left the Atlantic by then.
It is a pity when you do not profit from those great services a luxury hotel provides. But that hour at the bar was just what I needed. The heady attraction of reaching a state beyond money. ¶ 1:21 PM 0 comments
10.10.05
Fiesta
Zaragoza has its main local holidays centered around the 12th October, Mary, Virgin of the Pillar. That means that for roughly ten days people party much more than usual (and that is quite a lot). As well, it is not a young people activity, as most of the people take part, as there are plenty of activities for all the age groups.
Generally, the population grows from seven hundred thousand to a million. Considering that close to two hundred thousand people go away during the holidays (more those that are close to the nightlife areas, as it can be unlivable), half a million people come to town just to have fun.
These days I am closer to the ones who leave (even though fortunately our quarter is quite quiet once the Techno pavilion closes down at 1 am) rather than the ones who enjoy the fiesta, as a change from ten years ago.
When I was younger, a typical day during the holidays would mean checking the daily activities to see what was attractive that day. Phone other people to check what they were doing, meet at 6 pm, go with the crowds, see some exposition or street theatre, start with a few beers (the local brewery supplies close to a million liters of beer every day, plus all the other brands...), have some tapas (standing as everything is crowded) or a sandwich, go to a free (at that time I could afford usually just one paying gig during the holidays, as there are many other expenses) concert, sometimes catch a second one, and then hit one of the nightlife areas, with
more drinking and dancing, till seven in the morning, where you crowd with many late nighters to get a hot chocolate with churros, a typical after hours breakfast. Then the reckless go to play with some cows at the bull ring, but that is a dangerous activity, made worse if tired or/and drunk. Go to bed, get up for lunch. Rinse, repeat.
These days things have changed, so the activities depend on the friends I go out with.
The main group of friends just meet at the house of one of our friends who live in the main nightlife area, and we have a long dinner with drinks, going out only after 1 or 2 am, when crowds are starting to thin a bit and you can order and maybe get a small personal space for dancing. But usually before 4 we are tired of the people, the pushing, the overpowering stench of tobacco and spilt beer, and leave back home.
If I go with the artist crowd, then we get access to backstage in some expositions, access to the VIP stand-up comedy tent, or follow one of the street theatre groups till the end up their show and go for a few drinks. It is nice because you get preferential treatment in some bars and usually you can escape the crowds. But they are a competitive bunch of show-offs, so you better have a thick skin and a good sense of humour. And they also end early (again, 3-4 am), as they have to work also the next day. I usually go once, as that exhausts my tolerance for spectacle and artsy talk.
Finally, one night I usually go with my old gaming buddies, who have also left their respective partners, and we drink to excess, get nostalgic, promise we will meet more often, and in general try to behave as if we were young. Depressing actually, so we limit it. And it is the only day I get a hangover, so one is enough.
It would be good if a windstorm blew the trees in front of our apartment bare. Then we could see the fireworks without stepping out. ¶ 3:06 PM 0 comments
Zaragoza has its main local holidays centered around the 12th October, Mary, Virgin of the Pillar. That means that for roughly ten days people party much more than usual (and that is quite a lot). As well, it is not a young people activity, as most of the people take part, as there are plenty of activities for all the age groups.
Generally, the population grows from seven hundred thousand to a million. Considering that close to two hundred thousand people go away during the holidays (more those that are close to the nightlife areas, as it can be unlivable), half a million people come to town just to have fun.
These days I am closer to the ones who leave (even though fortunately our quarter is quite quiet once the Techno pavilion closes down at 1 am) rather than the ones who enjoy the fiesta, as a change from ten years ago.
When I was younger, a typical day during the holidays would mean checking the daily activities to see what was attractive that day. Phone other people to check what they were doing, meet at 6 pm, go with the crowds, see some exposition or street theatre, start with a few beers (the local brewery supplies close to a million liters of beer every day, plus all the other brands...), have some tapas (standing as everything is crowded) or a sandwich, go to a free (at that time I could afford usually just one paying gig during the holidays, as there are many other expenses) concert, sometimes catch a second one, and then hit one of the nightlife areas, with
more drinking and dancing, till seven in the morning, where you crowd with many late nighters to get a hot chocolate with churros, a typical after hours breakfast. Then the reckless go to play with some cows at the bull ring, but that is a dangerous activity, made worse if tired or/and drunk. Go to bed, get up for lunch. Rinse, repeat.
These days things have changed, so the activities depend on the friends I go out with.
The main group of friends just meet at the house of one of our friends who live in the main nightlife area, and we have a long dinner with drinks, going out only after 1 or 2 am, when crowds are starting to thin a bit and you can order and maybe get a small personal space for dancing. But usually before 4 we are tired of the people, the pushing, the overpowering stench of tobacco and spilt beer, and leave back home.
If I go with the artist crowd, then we get access to backstage in some expositions, access to the VIP stand-up comedy tent, or follow one of the street theatre groups till the end up their show and go for a few drinks. It is nice because you get preferential treatment in some bars and usually you can escape the crowds. But they are a competitive bunch of show-offs, so you better have a thick skin and a good sense of humour. And they also end early (again, 3-4 am), as they have to work also the next day. I usually go once, as that exhausts my tolerance for spectacle and artsy talk.
Finally, one night I usually go with my old gaming buddies, who have also left their respective partners, and we drink to excess, get nostalgic, promise we will meet more often, and in general try to behave as if we were young. Depressing actually, so we limit it. And it is the only day I get a hangover, so one is enough.
It would be good if a windstorm blew the trees in front of our apartment bare. Then we could see the fireworks without stepping out. ¶ 3:06 PM 0 comments
7.10.05
Memories, once again
This week has not lent itself to introspection and recollection. My wife is focused on her Russian tortoise, Little A’Tuin, to levels that would worry me if I did not know a few pet owners. I have stopped research till I get the paperwork under control, but the paperwork still wins (and sales still go on). And I am quickly making headway in my birthday book pile (roughly 200 pages a day).
And yet I have been recalling a couple of memories. Both probably related to the tourist trip we are preparing to Italy in late October.
The first one comes from 1990, my first trip to Scotland, a trip I took with a good friend. It was a classic backpack, youth hostel, cheap transport trip. But in 1990, there was only one cheap way to get to Edinburgh from Spain, by coach. So first a grueling 24 hour trip to London, and there, half asleep in Victoria Coach, hunt for the Edinburgh coach, and then some seven hours more in a bus. We left at 6 am and got to Edinburgh at 6 pm the following day. And that was close to 200 euro each, in today’s money (including the return, in the same body breaking way). Certainly it is pleasant that as my body gets unused to this kind of treatment, traveling becomes easier. But there is a certain something lost in the act of travel itself.
You made friends in those trips, and maybe that is something I miss, the easy friendship of shared hardship. And hard was that July, so hard that the inverse also happened and our friendship did not survive untouched. We learnt things of the other that normally would never have appeared, and although we are still friends, the earlier closeness was buried probably in a squatter’s house. But that is another story, and has nothing to do with cheap travel, except that we lodged there to save money.
The second memory is also quite far away, June 1994. And this returns always that I travel to Italy, or like now, plan to do so. I was serving my draft period in the Spanish Air Force, and I got a special release to attend a long scientific meeting (I had not yet finished my Ph.D. Thesis) in Castiglione della Pescaia. A nice town in the coast of Tuscany. I confess I did not follow really the meeting, all of a fortnight long, but I made friends with some students from Siena, so much that I went very close to make my post-doc stay at Firenze (where the coordinating material science laboratory was).
In the end, I had to return or become a deserter, and after some reflection a post-doc in Firenze would have killed my scientific career, both due to the poor quality of the receiving group and being sure I would have yielded 10% of my capacity.
So I ended up in Bordeaux, learnt French rather than Italian, and went quite nicely with a 50% of my capacity in use. Ah, le joie de vivre, the joy of life. ¶ 8:13 PM 0 comments
This week has not lent itself to introspection and recollection. My wife is focused on her Russian tortoise, Little A’Tuin, to levels that would worry me if I did not know a few pet owners. I have stopped research till I get the paperwork under control, but the paperwork still wins (and sales still go on). And I am quickly making headway in my birthday book pile (roughly 200 pages a day).
And yet I have been recalling a couple of memories. Both probably related to the tourist trip we are preparing to Italy in late October.
The first one comes from 1990, my first trip to Scotland, a trip I took with a good friend. It was a classic backpack, youth hostel, cheap transport trip. But in 1990, there was only one cheap way to get to Edinburgh from Spain, by coach. So first a grueling 24 hour trip to London, and there, half asleep in Victoria Coach, hunt for the Edinburgh coach, and then some seven hours more in a bus. We left at 6 am and got to Edinburgh at 6 pm the following day. And that was close to 200 euro each, in today’s money (including the return, in the same body breaking way). Certainly it is pleasant that as my body gets unused to this kind of treatment, traveling becomes easier. But there is a certain something lost in the act of travel itself.
You made friends in those trips, and maybe that is something I miss, the easy friendship of shared hardship. And hard was that July, so hard that the inverse also happened and our friendship did not survive untouched. We learnt things of the other that normally would never have appeared, and although we are still friends, the earlier closeness was buried probably in a squatter’s house. But that is another story, and has nothing to do with cheap travel, except that we lodged there to save money.
The second memory is also quite far away, June 1994. And this returns always that I travel to Italy, or like now, plan to do so. I was serving my draft period in the Spanish Air Force, and I got a special release to attend a long scientific meeting (I had not yet finished my Ph.D. Thesis) in Castiglione della Pescaia. A nice town in the coast of Tuscany. I confess I did not follow really the meeting, all of a fortnight long, but I made friends with some students from Siena, so much that I went very close to make my post-doc stay at Firenze (where the coordinating material science laboratory was).
In the end, I had to return or become a deserter, and after some reflection a post-doc in Firenze would have killed my scientific career, both due to the poor quality of the receiving group and being sure I would have yielded 10% of my capacity.
So I ended up in Bordeaux, learnt French rather than Italian, and went quite nicely with a 50% of my capacity in use. Ah, le joie de vivre, the joy of life. ¶ 8:13 PM 0 comments
5.10.05
Happy Birthday to me, to me
I want to thank all the people who wished me Happy Birthday yesterday. Some will be mailed but most will not. And due to several different reasons I will not acknowledge it in the places where they were offered.
Thirty-all is my new age. I think it represents quite well how I am feeling, on the brink of some minuscule but meaningful change. The thirties are ending, and something different will take its place. The twenties were the years of fun and learning, on all senses (some things I started late). The thirties have been when I have truly lived, rather than living in some secluded temple of knowledge, with parties every Thursday, Friday and Saturday. A place where money was scarce, but there was even less need for it.
Now it is time rather than money what is scarce. But there are many other changes. And it is still changing.
Birthdays are also a time for presents. This year I had made things difficult because I gave no hints of what I might want, mainly because I did not really feel the need or desire for anything. Quite unusual in my consumerist self. Is it a sign of a less materialistic change, or just because I have all I need? I would prefer it was more towards the first, both because that seems closer to enlightenment and because it will make life less cluttered. And a sign is that I have had the laptop's screen broken for six weeks and I still have not repaired it. Last year the same
happened (those screens are fragile, and my thumbs clumsy and strong) and the following day it was off via UPS. Other signs are that I have not changed the music line-up in the i-pod shuffle since the laptop broke (and I have not installed i-tunes in any other computer), I have bought no computer games in three months, and I have not bought anything besides books on my own since we went to NYC.
Only books seem to entrance me. And that may be based on their immaterial content rather than their material nature.
So, how have people coped with this strange mood?
My wife has been practical. She disapproves on many of my clothes choice, so she has got me a brick red jacket and some bizarre olive corduroy pants, that to her merit fit both her and my preferences. A mechanical pencil for my moleskine notebook, a black shirt so that I can dress in full black again and a weird cooking implement to keep me in the kitchen.
My brother proposed last year we stop giving gifts on fixed dates and instead just gift when we feel like it. I suspect he wears his years (one less than mine) worse, even though he is in better shape. So no birthdays for him.
My parents went the practical way. A tourist guide for Italy (where we go in three weeks), a book of low calorie recipes by a famous cook, and good wine. All useful and with an implicit message. They are getting better at last, or maybe I am old enough to merit useful rather than fancy gifts.
My friends got a more haphazard result, although it maps quite well with the closeness. From a useless (specially now) USB light for a laptop to a portable radio (I do not like listening to the radio). On the other hand a well chosen set of spirits glasses or recent books by Spanish writers, as they know I am a bit behind on them.
Finally, my virtual friends have rather decided to expand my mind, and maybe bring back memories. As it is a relationship built up with words, words are a good gift. And as music is the other main exchange product, that makes it very appropriate as well. I think it is the right step, things I would not have got on my own, to show me other possibilities. Risky, but what are friends for but to push us in the right direction?
I still wonder what is the message behind Vampire's Kiss... ¶ 1:48 PM 0 comments
I want to thank all the people who wished me Happy Birthday yesterday. Some will be mailed but most will not. And due to several different reasons I will not acknowledge it in the places where they were offered.
Thirty-all is my new age. I think it represents quite well how I am feeling, on the brink of some minuscule but meaningful change. The thirties are ending, and something different will take its place. The twenties were the years of fun and learning, on all senses (some things I started late). The thirties have been when I have truly lived, rather than living in some secluded temple of knowledge, with parties every Thursday, Friday and Saturday. A place where money was scarce, but there was even less need for it.
Now it is time rather than money what is scarce. But there are many other changes. And it is still changing.
Birthdays are also a time for presents. This year I had made things difficult because I gave no hints of what I might want, mainly because I did not really feel the need or desire for anything. Quite unusual in my consumerist self. Is it a sign of a less materialistic change, or just because I have all I need? I would prefer it was more towards the first, both because that seems closer to enlightenment and because it will make life less cluttered. And a sign is that I have had the laptop's screen broken for six weeks and I still have not repaired it. Last year the same
happened (those screens are fragile, and my thumbs clumsy and strong) and the following day it was off via UPS. Other signs are that I have not changed the music line-up in the i-pod shuffle since the laptop broke (and I have not installed i-tunes in any other computer), I have bought no computer games in three months, and I have not bought anything besides books on my own since we went to NYC.
Only books seem to entrance me. And that may be based on their immaterial content rather than their material nature.
So, how have people coped with this strange mood?
My wife has been practical. She disapproves on many of my clothes choice, so she has got me a brick red jacket and some bizarre olive corduroy pants, that to her merit fit both her and my preferences. A mechanical pencil for my moleskine notebook, a black shirt so that I can dress in full black again and a weird cooking implement to keep me in the kitchen.
My brother proposed last year we stop giving gifts on fixed dates and instead just gift when we feel like it. I suspect he wears his years (one less than mine) worse, even though he is in better shape. So no birthdays for him.
My parents went the practical way. A tourist guide for Italy (where we go in three weeks), a book of low calorie recipes by a famous cook, and good wine. All useful and with an implicit message. They are getting better at last, or maybe I am old enough to merit useful rather than fancy gifts.
My friends got a more haphazard result, although it maps quite well with the closeness. From a useless (specially now) USB light for a laptop to a portable radio (I do not like listening to the radio). On the other hand a well chosen set of spirits glasses or recent books by Spanish writers, as they know I am a bit behind on them.
Finally, my virtual friends have rather decided to expand my mind, and maybe bring back memories. As it is a relationship built up with words, words are a good gift. And as music is the other main exchange product, that makes it very appropriate as well. I think it is the right step, things I would not have got on my own, to show me other possibilities. Risky, but what are friends for but to push us in the right direction?
I still wonder what is the message behind Vampire's Kiss... ¶ 1:48 PM 0 comments
