Night flight from DXB via Amsterdam to Stockholm.
I am in the grey zone between midnight and day. Miraculously, sleep was achieved on the plane (due in part to colossal physical exhaustion and partly to alcohol) so I am not quite the walking dead that I would usually be at this hour...
In fact I have been awake for at least two hours or more - having consumed a fairly average airplane breakfast and the extremely good new Imogen Heap album "Ellipse" in that order... (I recommend the Imogen Heap album much more than the KLM breakfast.)
Airports are strange places at the best of times - sanitised microcosms (or not sanitised in the case of several airports I visit in Africa...) filled with transient life. Ephemeral in the extreme - and by definition.
But at this bizarre hour that is neither night nor day, the airport becomes a ghost town of parody.
As I walk through "airport land" I notice the different places on the ursatz Main Street that wants us to think we're in a small town somewhere - instead of in a series of concrete and steel tunnels in the middle of nowhere that lead to getting on a giant cigar tube filled with swine flu and other people's farts that will somehow defy gravity and other commonly held principals of physics and whisk us to another spot on the planet.
The Bombay Sapphire Bar - resplendent in blue and empty - for no-one, not even the Dutch, drinks gin at 5am.
The store selling sunglasses in the middle of the night when all is dark outside.
The flower shop selling both blooms and bulbs - because I needed to cultivate my own field of tulips...
The lounge playing softly piped elevator music - I'm listening to Daniel by Elton John right now. It could be worse (maybe) - it could be Daniel played on the pan pipes by Peruvian accountants on their away-day from the office...
Oh hideous plastic pastiche of life!
Oh charmless smile of a bored lounge receptionist waiting for her shift to end!
Oh nonchalant negligence of an immigrant immigration official employed only because they are an immigrant and for no other reason!
Oh sad man with laptop checking stock prices in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere when he should be considering the middle of his life and taking stock of that instead!
Somewhere between midnight and day I am nursing the mid-life blues in an airport in the middle of nowhere and with no middle ground to run to.
Worst kind of blues are the blues before sunrise... And one of the worst places to have them is the airport.
But things are looking up already - the Bee Gees are on the music system in the lounge - "Night Fever" the disco classic.
Of course this song belongs in a dark and smokey bar somewhere after the fifth cocktail at around midnight and something, as the girl with the glint in her eye and the moral dilemma in her head looks across at you and you both wonder what the next hour will hold..."Night fever, night fev-err..."
It doesn't belong in an airport lounge just before dawn sitting next to an anally retentive Japanese executive with his own pencil case and a middle European house frau wearing a trouser suit that would have been a good fit 5 years previously...
No, no. That needs Daniel on the pan pipes...
Oh well - only another 30 mins before I get on another fart filled cigar tube and head north to Sweden - land of fresh air, expensive everything, Abba and nice fish.
Oh My GOD! In the name of Mary Jesus and Joseph and all other things that are Holy...
They are now playing Renee & Renata's 80's hit "Save Your Love"...
Kill me now.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Under The Greek Summer Sun
I am in Greece for a long weekend which will culminate with the wedding of two friends who I happened to introduce to each other some years ago. I figured I ought to witness the outcome of my random act!
But before the wedding I am spending the days by the sea near Nafpaktos on the Messolonghi strait which Lord Byron famously tried to swim across.
I'm here to relax and get some much needed rest and I cannot think of anywhere better in the world to do it. I'm staying with old friends George & Nadia in their summer houses - built from stone and set up on a little ridge overlooking the sea.
The weather is hot by Greek standards but pleasant by Gulf measures and I am thoroughly enjoying the pace of life that rural Greece offers. I confess to missing Greece - I lived here for nearly seven years and am a fluent Greek speaker - and most of all the pace and approach to life.
Over some cold beer in a small square and later on over home made wine in a family run taverna in a village I discussed this "Greek-ness" with my dear friend George.
He thinks it's a matter of maybe 15-20 years before rural Greece with its chicken pens, goat herds, crowded churches and summer festivals - part Bachanalian part Christian - disappear in favour of industrialisation, urbanisation and in the name of progress. If this is true it will be a huge shame.
The gentle pace of life, the quiet celebration of simple things like breaking bread with friends and family and the occasional impassioned argument or outburst on a political or philosophical matter of little general importance are hugely appealing for someone who lives on a hamsters wheel in the commercial & material rat race that is Dubai or indeed any major global metropolis, East or West.
The Greek emphasis on hospitality, social integrity, community spirit and the family seem somehow "retro" in a world obsessed with credit, cashflow, consumerism and crisis. But not here.
Not that these things don't exist in Greece - they do. But they are not as important to people as they are elsewhere because there are still other things that matter. The same exact condition can be found in Turkey which is another reason I enjoy that country so much. I feel at home there just as I do in Greece...
This is still a nation where discussion - and sometimes argument - is commonplace among both friends and strangers. One of my greatest pleasures is talking and debating with friends at the dinner table and long into the night, fuelled by wine and intellectual curiosity. Philosophical positions are argued with rhetoric, dissected with hypothesis and analysis and synthesis - all Greek words and concepts - and may involve laughter, tears, joy and sadness the course of the evening. But you know you are alive. You know that your heart and your mind are both functioning. This vitality is enormously refreshing and healthy - and it gives soul to life.
After concluding our meal in the taverna and chatting with the former bank manager in the town and his wife (relatives of Nadia - but everyone knows everyone here anyway) we headed to the house. Nadia watered the plants and trees around the property while George and I sat outside under the clear sky with stars lit brightly above and faced the sea. We've been friends for more than 10 years and were business partners for 6 years so we don't need to talk much to enjoy each other's company.
George drank bourbon - Makers Mark - and smoked a Cuban cigar while I drank wine from Montenegro. We listened to country music starting with Willie Nelson and moving through Lucinda Williams to the Gospel sounds of The Blind Boys Of Alabama - finally concluding with some of my own recent songs. We exchanged perhaps 20 words in two hours as we quietly contemplated the day, what the next day held, life, music, love and death. (At least that's what I contemplated, George may have been thinking about hedge trimming and golf...).
The night ended listening to the incredibly beautiful and haunting voice of my friend and fellow musician NK. Her songs filled the silence of the night and her voice and soul covered our hillside ridge like a sheet across a bed.
The last drop of wine was drained and a fine and deep sleep was enjoyed.
But before the wedding I am spending the days by the sea near Nafpaktos on the Messolonghi strait which Lord Byron famously tried to swim across.
I'm here to relax and get some much needed rest and I cannot think of anywhere better in the world to do it. I'm staying with old friends George & Nadia in their summer houses - built from stone and set up on a little ridge overlooking the sea.
The weather is hot by Greek standards but pleasant by Gulf measures and I am thoroughly enjoying the pace of life that rural Greece offers. I confess to missing Greece - I lived here for nearly seven years and am a fluent Greek speaker - and most of all the pace and approach to life.
Over some cold beer in a small square and later on over home made wine in a family run taverna in a village I discussed this "Greek-ness" with my dear friend George.
He thinks it's a matter of maybe 15-20 years before rural Greece with its chicken pens, goat herds, crowded churches and summer festivals - part Bachanalian part Christian - disappear in favour of industrialisation, urbanisation and in the name of progress. If this is true it will be a huge shame.
The gentle pace of life, the quiet celebration of simple things like breaking bread with friends and family and the occasional impassioned argument or outburst on a political or philosophical matter of little general importance are hugely appealing for someone who lives on a hamsters wheel in the commercial & material rat race that is Dubai or indeed any major global metropolis, East or West.
The Greek emphasis on hospitality, social integrity, community spirit and the family seem somehow "retro" in a world obsessed with credit, cashflow, consumerism and crisis. But not here.
Not that these things don't exist in Greece - they do. But they are not as important to people as they are elsewhere because there are still other things that matter. The same exact condition can be found in Turkey which is another reason I enjoy that country so much. I feel at home there just as I do in Greece...
This is still a nation where discussion - and sometimes argument - is commonplace among both friends and strangers. One of my greatest pleasures is talking and debating with friends at the dinner table and long into the night, fuelled by wine and intellectual curiosity. Philosophical positions are argued with rhetoric, dissected with hypothesis and analysis and synthesis - all Greek words and concepts - and may involve laughter, tears, joy and sadness the course of the evening. But you know you are alive. You know that your heart and your mind are both functioning. This vitality is enormously refreshing and healthy - and it gives soul to life.
After concluding our meal in the taverna and chatting with the former bank manager in the town and his wife (relatives of Nadia - but everyone knows everyone here anyway) we headed to the house. Nadia watered the plants and trees around the property while George and I sat outside under the clear sky with stars lit brightly above and faced the sea. We've been friends for more than 10 years and were business partners for 6 years so we don't need to talk much to enjoy each other's company.
George drank bourbon - Makers Mark - and smoked a Cuban cigar while I drank wine from Montenegro. We listened to country music starting with Willie Nelson and moving through Lucinda Williams to the Gospel sounds of The Blind Boys Of Alabama - finally concluding with some of my own recent songs. We exchanged perhaps 20 words in two hours as we quietly contemplated the day, what the next day held, life, music, love and death. (At least that's what I contemplated, George may have been thinking about hedge trimming and golf...).
The night ended listening to the incredibly beautiful and haunting voice of my friend and fellow musician NK. Her songs filled the silence of the night and her voice and soul covered our hillside ridge like a sheet across a bed.
The last drop of wine was drained and a fine and deep sleep was enjoyed.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Cosmopolitan & cosmopolitan...
Reflecting on the meaning of the word "cosmopolitan"... Literally from the Greek - meaning "citizens of the world".
I'm sitting by the pool in my hotel in Istanbul. Behind me sits a Russian Jew (his diamond encrusted Star of David and thick Moscow accent give the game away). Two loungers down a Saudi Arabian family sit quietly, man with jet black died hair and moustache, women wearing conservative "leisure" attire and hair covered. A Turkish woman, covered with an amazing tattoo of a snake which wraps her torso twice swims wearing - if I'm not mistaken - a Versace bikini...
A British couple chirp away quietly next to another Turkish couple playing tavla (Backgammon) and smoking vigorously.
A pair of Arab ladies of uncertain origin (they could be Lebanese, Egyptian or Jordanian) linger in the pool switching between Arabic, French and English in their discussion about nothing much in particular.
A family of Greeks warble vocally - as Greeks do - but look slightly insecure... As Greeks do in Turkey...
And a German is classically teutonic proportions patrols the poolside - his "proportions" spilling over his ill-advised speedos. Perhaps he is just exercising in a traditional marching kind of way, or maybe he is sun lounger spotting... Who knows.
Nothing unusual about an international capital like Istanbul welcoming so many different nationalities, races and religions to it's heart. After all, this city has been the centre of three empires and host to great stepping stones in history - not to mention straddling the East and West.
What is remarkable - say in comparison to Dubai or other so called "cosmopolitan" cities in the Gulf - is how at ease everyone is here (maybe with the exception of my Greek cousins whose nervosity is perhaps explained by history married to the modern Greek psyche)...
These people may be tourists or weekend visitors but their comfort and ease is totally representative of the people who live here full time.
Everyone fits and integrates in Istanbul. In fact I can't think of another city in the world which creates such a natural platform for people to come together and feel together.
"Cosmopolitan" therefore is not just about amassing large numbers of foreigners in one place. It is about stimulating them and integrating them - through culture, through business, through simply living life side by side.
Of course it is easy for me to say - I am a full time "cosmopolitis" or citizen of the world. Not only because of where I am, but also what and who I am.
"Cosmopolitan" is not a state or situation - it is a state of mind or an attitude that is inspired. Istanbul inspires it. Dubai does not...but it might in the future if it learns to adopt people rather than collect them. If it learns to give as well as to take. If it learns to build foundations that will last. The same applies to all those vying to become global cities.
Look to history and see what made global cities global and great - whether New York, Istanbul, Hong Kong, Paris, Rome or London. Over different centuries and over many centuries these cities gave people not only a reason to come but also a reason to stay.
I'm sitting by the pool in my hotel in Istanbul. Behind me sits a Russian Jew (his diamond encrusted Star of David and thick Moscow accent give the game away). Two loungers down a Saudi Arabian family sit quietly, man with jet black died hair and moustache, women wearing conservative "leisure" attire and hair covered. A Turkish woman, covered with an amazing tattoo of a snake which wraps her torso twice swims wearing - if I'm not mistaken - a Versace bikini...
A British couple chirp away quietly next to another Turkish couple playing tavla (Backgammon) and smoking vigorously.
A pair of Arab ladies of uncertain origin (they could be Lebanese, Egyptian or Jordanian) linger in the pool switching between Arabic, French and English in their discussion about nothing much in particular.
A family of Greeks warble vocally - as Greeks do - but look slightly insecure... As Greeks do in Turkey...
And a German is classically teutonic proportions patrols the poolside - his "proportions" spilling over his ill-advised speedos. Perhaps he is just exercising in a traditional marching kind of way, or maybe he is sun lounger spotting... Who knows.
Nothing unusual about an international capital like Istanbul welcoming so many different nationalities, races and religions to it's heart. After all, this city has been the centre of three empires and host to great stepping stones in history - not to mention straddling the East and West.
What is remarkable - say in comparison to Dubai or other so called "cosmopolitan" cities in the Gulf - is how at ease everyone is here (maybe with the exception of my Greek cousins whose nervosity is perhaps explained by history married to the modern Greek psyche)...
These people may be tourists or weekend visitors but their comfort and ease is totally representative of the people who live here full time.
Everyone fits and integrates in Istanbul. In fact I can't think of another city in the world which creates such a natural platform for people to come together and feel together.
"Cosmopolitan" therefore is not just about amassing large numbers of foreigners in one place. It is about stimulating them and integrating them - through culture, through business, through simply living life side by side.
Of course it is easy for me to say - I am a full time "cosmopolitis" or citizen of the world. Not only because of where I am, but also what and who I am.
"Cosmopolitan" is not a state or situation - it is a state of mind or an attitude that is inspired. Istanbul inspires it. Dubai does not...but it might in the future if it learns to adopt people rather than collect them. If it learns to give as well as to take. If it learns to build foundations that will last. The same applies to all those vying to become global cities.
Look to history and see what made global cities global and great - whether New York, Istanbul, Hong Kong, Paris, Rome or London. Over different centuries and over many centuries these cities gave people not only a reason to come but also a reason to stay.
Merakli a la Mardin...
Mardin is a city in South Eastern Turkey close to the Kurdish part and it is famous for its food and the "tree of life"...
Cercis Murat Konagi is a taste of Mardin in Istanbul on the Anatolian (Asian) side of the city in the Suadiye district by the Bosphorous looking out to the Marmara sea. (www.cercismurat.com)
I dined there with friends / business partners tonight and I am still in rapture....
The food is divine. The service is warm and the environment lovely - especially on a warm, humid summer evening with a gentle breeze blowing from the Bosphorous and across from the islands in the Marmara sea.
First decisions are taken - we will drink rake - the Turkish cousin of Arak / Raki and we will begin with mezze... And thus mazmiz to excite our eyes, stimulate our taste buds and start preparing the stomachs for a feast...
A salad of pickled peppers and herbs, mouhamara Kurdish / Surian style, aubergine salad (babaghanoush style), lentils, caper berries, medium hot red chilli peppers tamed by parsley and oil, spiced butter beans doused with fresh yoghurt, thick luscious strained yoghurt to accompany and warm breads - some with caraway and aniseed, some plain and charred for flavour... All exquisitely served on Mardin traditional metal mezze dishes with each salad in a long cast spoon to be passed around the table...and shalgam...
Shalgam is very popular in Southern Turkey and is a drink made with black carrots and turnips that have been salted heavily and then fermented with bulghur wheat. There is a variation of Shalgam in India also apparently, but here it becomes a slightly viscous cloudy drink of a dark purple hue - and looks very imperial...
It is certainly an acquired taste which I can only describe as being similar to very bitter carrot juice with lots of salt...but it is curiously refreshing and is said to cancel out the effects of rake... It also tastes immensely healthy. I acquired the taste...if you get the chance to try really fresh homemade shalgam like this then do it.
From the mezze we departed to sample other delights from the Mardin cuisine - including the Mardin variation on Iclik Kofte... Normally iclik kofte are like Levantine Kibbeh or Cypriot Koupes - but in Mardin the stuffed meat enclosure is slightly closer to Arayes in the Levant - but there is a soft dough folded around the spiced meat filling like a duvet and then it is layered on top with yoghurt with spices...
MY GOD this is a food sensation. Texture and taste combine to leave one diner - namely me - almost speechless... This is special food. I begin to contemplate the idea of acquiring a wife from Mardin. Food this good should be eaten more often!
Then Mardin's take on lahmacun - often called the Turkish pizza...except the Mardin version is more like a calzone or an Argentinean empanada with the dough wrapped around the filling and then baked... Also delicious.
Then as we have moved to meat we move on properly to two gorgeous lamb specialities from the Mardin area. Spiced lamb cubes stewed with quinces - a very subtle dish with balanced flavours and deliciously tender meat with the firm quince pieces finished with a gentle but important spice note from pepper and chili.
This was served with an incredible piece of lamb stuffed with two kinds of rice served on bulghur with oil, tomatoes and nuts including almonds and chestnuts - reminding me a little of Mansaf - the Jordanian Bedouin goat dish - except this dish lacked the yoghurt.
The waiter peeled away the skin and fat from the piece of lamb and discarded bones in front of our table. He then stripped the lamb and mixed the rices with the bulghur and served us. Wonderful aromas filled our nostrils as wonderful sights entertained our eyes... And the food was truly delicious.
I began to wonder if my Mardin wife would be beautiful as well as a great cook - finally deciding that she could actually have a beard as long as she could cook this well and I would still be happy!
I drank another glass of shalgam and more rake...
Cool fresh fruit including some sensational dark cherries were served as a desert and then some coffee - similar to Arabic coffee but incredibly strong was brought for us in Arabic style thimble cups.
Then Turkish coffee served in amazing silver cups and saucers on a velvet ringed platform...and a dome to cover them and keep them hot...together with cinnamon biscuits from Mardin and some impressively chewy lokum or Turkish delight.
A waiter came with a large metal bowl and a jug of heavily scented rose water to wash our hands before a tea glass of fresh lemon juice and ginger was served as a final palate cleanser and digestif.
Maybe you have to be there to get the full feeling - but this was a repeated "Oh My God!" meal as each taste and flavour unfolded from the mezze to the lemon juice & ginger... This accompanied good natured conversation with my Turkish vocabulary increasing twofold and my gastro/sociological history of the South East of Turkey growing exponentially.
This is what great dining is about and this was a great meal.
One final note is the "Tree of Life" myth of Mardin where apparently they believe in a sacred tree where the shamen comes from - a tree that if you find it you must sit under it and it will bring you a longer life... As a result there is arborial imagery in every aspect of the restaurant from delightful lamps to sculptures and the restaurant's motif.
To be honest - if it is as hot in Mardin as it was in Istanbul today, then sitting under any tree and catching the shade has to prolong one's life anyway. Whether it's the right tree or not...
And now to sleep and dream of my journey to Mardin and the search for a beautiful Mardin wife who knows how to cook and whose dad owns a vineyard...
Cercis Murat Konagi is a taste of Mardin in Istanbul on the Anatolian (Asian) side of the city in the Suadiye district by the Bosphorous looking out to the Marmara sea. (www.cercismurat.com)
I dined there with friends / business partners tonight and I am still in rapture....
The food is divine. The service is warm and the environment lovely - especially on a warm, humid summer evening with a gentle breeze blowing from the Bosphorous and across from the islands in the Marmara sea.
First decisions are taken - we will drink rake - the Turkish cousin of Arak / Raki and we will begin with mezze... And thus mazmiz to excite our eyes, stimulate our taste buds and start preparing the stomachs for a feast...
A salad of pickled peppers and herbs, mouhamara Kurdish / Surian style, aubergine salad (babaghanoush style), lentils, caper berries, medium hot red chilli peppers tamed by parsley and oil, spiced butter beans doused with fresh yoghurt, thick luscious strained yoghurt to accompany and warm breads - some with caraway and aniseed, some plain and charred for flavour... All exquisitely served on Mardin traditional metal mezze dishes with each salad in a long cast spoon to be passed around the table...and shalgam...
Shalgam is very popular in Southern Turkey and is a drink made with black carrots and turnips that have been salted heavily and then fermented with bulghur wheat. There is a variation of Shalgam in India also apparently, but here it becomes a slightly viscous cloudy drink of a dark purple hue - and looks very imperial...
It is certainly an acquired taste which I can only describe as being similar to very bitter carrot juice with lots of salt...but it is curiously refreshing and is said to cancel out the effects of rake... It also tastes immensely healthy. I acquired the taste...if you get the chance to try really fresh homemade shalgam like this then do it.
From the mezze we departed to sample other delights from the Mardin cuisine - including the Mardin variation on Iclik Kofte... Normally iclik kofte are like Levantine Kibbeh or Cypriot Koupes - but in Mardin the stuffed meat enclosure is slightly closer to Arayes in the Levant - but there is a soft dough folded around the spiced meat filling like a duvet and then it is layered on top with yoghurt with spices...
MY GOD this is a food sensation. Texture and taste combine to leave one diner - namely me - almost speechless... This is special food. I begin to contemplate the idea of acquiring a wife from Mardin. Food this good should be eaten more often!
Then Mardin's take on lahmacun - often called the Turkish pizza...except the Mardin version is more like a calzone or an Argentinean empanada with the dough wrapped around the filling and then baked... Also delicious.
Then as we have moved to meat we move on properly to two gorgeous lamb specialities from the Mardin area. Spiced lamb cubes stewed with quinces - a very subtle dish with balanced flavours and deliciously tender meat with the firm quince pieces finished with a gentle but important spice note from pepper and chili.
This was served with an incredible piece of lamb stuffed with two kinds of rice served on bulghur with oil, tomatoes and nuts including almonds and chestnuts - reminding me a little of Mansaf - the Jordanian Bedouin goat dish - except this dish lacked the yoghurt.
The waiter peeled away the skin and fat from the piece of lamb and discarded bones in front of our table. He then stripped the lamb and mixed the rices with the bulghur and served us. Wonderful aromas filled our nostrils as wonderful sights entertained our eyes... And the food was truly delicious.
I began to wonder if my Mardin wife would be beautiful as well as a great cook - finally deciding that she could actually have a beard as long as she could cook this well and I would still be happy!
I drank another glass of shalgam and more rake...
Cool fresh fruit including some sensational dark cherries were served as a desert and then some coffee - similar to Arabic coffee but incredibly strong was brought for us in Arabic style thimble cups.
Then Turkish coffee served in amazing silver cups and saucers on a velvet ringed platform...and a dome to cover them and keep them hot...together with cinnamon biscuits from Mardin and some impressively chewy lokum or Turkish delight.
A waiter came with a large metal bowl and a jug of heavily scented rose water to wash our hands before a tea glass of fresh lemon juice and ginger was served as a final palate cleanser and digestif.
Maybe you have to be there to get the full feeling - but this was a repeated "Oh My God!" meal as each taste and flavour unfolded from the mezze to the lemon juice & ginger... This accompanied good natured conversation with my Turkish vocabulary increasing twofold and my gastro/sociological history of the South East of Turkey growing exponentially.
This is what great dining is about and this was a great meal.
One final note is the "Tree of Life" myth of Mardin where apparently they believe in a sacred tree where the shamen comes from - a tree that if you find it you must sit under it and it will bring you a longer life... As a result there is arborial imagery in every aspect of the restaurant from delightful lamps to sculptures and the restaurant's motif.
To be honest - if it is as hot in Mardin as it was in Istanbul today, then sitting under any tree and catching the shade has to prolong one's life anyway. Whether it's the right tree or not...
And now to sleep and dream of my journey to Mardin and the search for a beautiful Mardin wife who knows how to cook and whose dad owns a vineyard...
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Istanbul... Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon...
With apologies to the great Ray Davies...!
Up to Taksim, down Istiklal, turn off into the back streets of Beyoglu and through to Faik Pasa St where I am looking at some apartments for rent. It's a lovely street, windy, ramshackle and in need of a lick of paint in parts... Crammed full of antique shops and bric a brac, and an art gallery lifting the sophistication a little. Crammed full of character too.
I could live in this street. It's not the place I have my heart set on - that apartment isn't free for a while - but I might well take somewhere here until my dream apartment in Galata is free.
Wandering through Tomtom past the elegant Italian Ambassador's residence (OF COURSE the Italian Ambassador's residence is elegant!) and up a narrow laneway past the Dutch Embassy and on to Istiklal again - Las Ramblas of Istanbul...
An instinctive turn off Istiklal towards the Pera side and I wander through the laneways weaving a pattern through the charming buildings of Beyoglu resplendent in their neoclassical grandeur - some polished and proud, some faded and forlorn - but all reminding one of the glorious past.
Galip Dede is the Tin Pan Alley, the West 48th Street of Istanbul...packed with music stores selling guitars, baglama (traditional Turkish - and Greek - folk instrument), and all manner of drums, timpany and assorted other sound making devices. Heaven.
The sun is out and so are the smiling, happy people of Istanbul. Colourful clothes contrast with the colourful backdrops of the street and birdsong mixes with distant Byzantine scales, fruit vendors shouting their offers and the general hubbub of the street...
I have worked up a thirst so I stop at an eaterie in the shadow of Galata Kulesi (Galata Tower) and quickly drown several cold beers. Refreshed in terms of thirst I turn to the hunger part of the equation...
Fresh lahmacun - a kind of Turkish meat pizza served with some freshly shredded lettuce and lemon juice - is accompanied by haydari - a thick strained yoghurt laced with garlic and fennel and a plate of ezme salad - tomatoes pulped with spicy peppers, onion and olive oil with plenty of kick. Mopping up with delicious fresh bread that is doughy and chewy and almost a meal in itself.
In a nearby music store the proprietor plays baglamas through an amplifier and the sound of the Anatolian spirit that haunts the music from Greece to Central Asia and works to a Byzantine scale wafts across the square and provides the perfect accompaniment to my meal.
Oh how blessed I am to be able to have these moments of pure and utter contentment and joy. My heaven is perhaps someone else's hell - but I am able to taste this joy with comparative regularity and that is a true blessing.
And now I'm ready to head for the airport, my lungs filled with Istanbul, my eyes excited by her sights, by ears intoxicated by her sounds and my soul tantalised by her possibilities. My heart torn between the sadness of departure and the longing for return.
Who could not be inspired by Istanbul - for it is both inspired and inspirational.
Until the next time dear city. . . Until the next time.
Up to Taksim, down Istiklal, turn off into the back streets of Beyoglu and through to Faik Pasa St where I am looking at some apartments for rent. It's a lovely street, windy, ramshackle and in need of a lick of paint in parts... Crammed full of antique shops and bric a brac, and an art gallery lifting the sophistication a little. Crammed full of character too.
I could live in this street. It's not the place I have my heart set on - that apartment isn't free for a while - but I might well take somewhere here until my dream apartment in Galata is free.
Wandering through Tomtom past the elegant Italian Ambassador's residence (OF COURSE the Italian Ambassador's residence is elegant!) and up a narrow laneway past the Dutch Embassy and on to Istiklal again - Las Ramblas of Istanbul...
An instinctive turn off Istiklal towards the Pera side and I wander through the laneways weaving a pattern through the charming buildings of Beyoglu resplendent in their neoclassical grandeur - some polished and proud, some faded and forlorn - but all reminding one of the glorious past.
Galip Dede is the Tin Pan Alley, the West 48th Street of Istanbul...packed with music stores selling guitars, baglama (traditional Turkish - and Greek - folk instrument), and all manner of drums, timpany and assorted other sound making devices. Heaven.
The sun is out and so are the smiling, happy people of Istanbul. Colourful clothes contrast with the colourful backdrops of the street and birdsong mixes with distant Byzantine scales, fruit vendors shouting their offers and the general hubbub of the street...
I have worked up a thirst so I stop at an eaterie in the shadow of Galata Kulesi (Galata Tower) and quickly drown several cold beers. Refreshed in terms of thirst I turn to the hunger part of the equation...
Fresh lahmacun - a kind of Turkish meat pizza served with some freshly shredded lettuce and lemon juice - is accompanied by haydari - a thick strained yoghurt laced with garlic and fennel and a plate of ezme salad - tomatoes pulped with spicy peppers, onion and olive oil with plenty of kick. Mopping up with delicious fresh bread that is doughy and chewy and almost a meal in itself.
In a nearby music store the proprietor plays baglamas through an amplifier and the sound of the Anatolian spirit that haunts the music from Greece to Central Asia and works to a Byzantine scale wafts across the square and provides the perfect accompaniment to my meal.
Oh how blessed I am to be able to have these moments of pure and utter contentment and joy. My heaven is perhaps someone else's hell - but I am able to taste this joy with comparative regularity and that is a true blessing.
And now I'm ready to head for the airport, my lungs filled with Istanbul, my eyes excited by her sights, by ears intoxicated by her sounds and my soul tantalised by her possibilities. My heart torn between the sadness of departure and the longing for return.
Who could not be inspired by Istanbul - for it is both inspired and inspirational.
Until the next time dear city. . . Until the next time.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Istanbul - Night Boats on the Bosphorus...
Went with friends to see an apartment which a friend of theirs is renting... way beyond my budget but oh what a fabulous view!
To the left of the balcony, Dolmabahce Palace, Ciragan Palace and Ortakoy Mosque and the First bridge (of the two bridges that cross the Bosphorus and join Asia with Europe) and lit in colours, changing the lighting design and colour every few minutes.
In front the Bosphorus, serene, graceful, mysterious and alluring with the lights of the city shimmering reflections to the Asian side, night boats chugging gently through.
To the right, Topkapi, the Blue Mosque and Agia Sophia over in Sultanahmet and the old city district of Fatih.
It is a view to kill for with a long balcony perfect for the comfortable chairs small tables and tomato plants that live on it. A small barbecue in the cornet just big enough to sit and grill a few fish, sardines maybe or a tsipoura (or sea bream)....
And there is a fireplace inside in the sitting room for winter and a cosy seating area. All in all a wonderful place, but too expensive unfortunately for the kind of use I would have for it and too big for one person's "pied a terre"...
Tomorrow I will take my breakfast in one of the cafes by the street markets in the lanes of Ortakoy and watch the ferry boats cross to Asia and then I will go and look at a place in Bebek near the Bosphorus University... I have a feeling this might be the place for me.
I have a great affinity with this neighbourhood and there are superb walks to be had along the Bosphorus watching the fishermen. This is a place I could come to and sit and write songs, read books, stroll aimlessly, listen to music and enjoy a glass of wine in the terrace bar of the Bebek hotel or eat fish and drink raki by the sea.
But tonight I sat on a wonderful Istanbul balcony, ate fresh juicy cherries, drank red wine, indulged in gentle good humoured conversation and watched the night boats pass through the Bosphorus.
And that was perfect.
To the left of the balcony, Dolmabahce Palace, Ciragan Palace and Ortakoy Mosque and the First bridge (of the two bridges that cross the Bosphorus and join Asia with Europe) and lit in colours, changing the lighting design and colour every few minutes.
In front the Bosphorus, serene, graceful, mysterious and alluring with the lights of the city shimmering reflections to the Asian side, night boats chugging gently through.
To the right, Topkapi, the Blue Mosque and Agia Sophia over in Sultanahmet and the old city district of Fatih.
It is a view to kill for with a long balcony perfect for the comfortable chairs small tables and tomato plants that live on it. A small barbecue in the cornet just big enough to sit and grill a few fish, sardines maybe or a tsipoura (or sea bream)....
And there is a fireplace inside in the sitting room for winter and a cosy seating area. All in all a wonderful place, but too expensive unfortunately for the kind of use I would have for it and too big for one person's "pied a terre"...
Tomorrow I will take my breakfast in one of the cafes by the street markets in the lanes of Ortakoy and watch the ferry boats cross to Asia and then I will go and look at a place in Bebek near the Bosphorus University... I have a feeling this might be the place for me.
I have a great affinity with this neighbourhood and there are superb walks to be had along the Bosphorus watching the fishermen. This is a place I could come to and sit and write songs, read books, stroll aimlessly, listen to music and enjoy a glass of wine in the terrace bar of the Bebek hotel or eat fish and drink raki by the sea.
But tonight I sat on a wonderful Istanbul balcony, ate fresh juicy cherries, drank red wine, indulged in gentle good humoured conversation and watched the night boats pass through the Bosphorus.
And that was perfect.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Istanbul... Istanbul...
Arrived in the city last night and instead of spending my night in my hotel room working hard on my presentation for today, I went out to dinner with one of my colleagues and his fiance who were holidaying here. Obviously a much better call - even though it immediately meant getting up with the sparrows or pulling an all nighter...
The Four Seasons Sultanahmet and a lovely dinner in the courtyard restaurant sitting outside. Pink champagne, a respectable Turkish Sauvignon Blanc, squid ink pasta and a lovely aged sirloin... Perfect.
The Maitre D - an Australian lady (so perhaps that should be Maitresse D?) - remembered me from my last time at the restaurant and greeted me warmly enquiring after the friends I'd been with before. To be fair the last time we ended up staying 7.5 hours and drank our body weight. Twice. So it was logical she remembered such a good customer!
My colleague let on that he had spent a vast sum (around $1,000 US) on what he described as an "antique Breitling" in the Grand Bazaar. I pointed out that Istanbul's bustling indoor souq is not the most likely place to find authentic vintage timepieces... And that in fact it was known globally for being a centre for knock-off watches and copies.... He considered his purchase in light of this information and took a couple of deep breaths before pronouncing that he might not rush to get the watch valued any time soon... Ahem!
After a long day and reasonably liquid dinner there seemed little point in flogging a dead laptop so retired more or less gracefully and slept.
Unfortunately I awoke several times in the night paranoid that I had slept through my early alarm only to find it was 3am, 3.45am, 4.30am and 5.15am. When my alarm went off at 5.30 I of course snoozed it several times feeling exhausted.
Hauling myself out of bed I worked on my presentation for a couple of hours before ordering up a lovely plate of menemen (Turkish scrambled egg with onions, tomatoes and chilli) and strong black coffee.
Then off to morning and lunch meetings before the big presentation to the C-suite team of a major Turkish multi billion dollar conglomerate and its operating companies. . .
3 floors below ground I went into a super hi tech auditorium and set up my gear and sat back and waited for my audience to arrive.
About 40 CEOs, Managing Directors and CxOs arrived and then we waited for the Chairman whose company it is.... He flew up from a meeting with World Bank officials to attend the session.
I ended up speaking almost literally non-stop for 4 hours. There is barely an aspect of corporate communications I didn't cover... All standing under spotlights and no chair in sight.
It seemed to go very well and the Chairman - whom I have met before - was pleased. I was presented with gifts and shook the Chairman's hand in front of the company photographer.
After it was all over I almost collapsed from tiredness. The same driver that picked me up from the airport yesterday took me back to my hotel. He looked like a natural born killer and had muscles in places where I haven't even managed to grow fat yet and no hair - but his voice sounded like a falsetto Mickey Mouse. I managed not to laugh and thus get myself whacked by the Disney Serial Killer of Istanbul.
And now I am about to go out with friends for drinks and view an apartment which I might rent. It looks over Topkapi Palace.
Tomorrow I go to see another place near the Bosphorus University...
Soon I will have a home in Istanbul! Hurrah!
The Four Seasons Sultanahmet and a lovely dinner in the courtyard restaurant sitting outside. Pink champagne, a respectable Turkish Sauvignon Blanc, squid ink pasta and a lovely aged sirloin... Perfect.
The Maitre D - an Australian lady (so perhaps that should be Maitresse D?) - remembered me from my last time at the restaurant and greeted me warmly enquiring after the friends I'd been with before. To be fair the last time we ended up staying 7.5 hours and drank our body weight. Twice. So it was logical she remembered such a good customer!
My colleague let on that he had spent a vast sum (around $1,000 US) on what he described as an "antique Breitling" in the Grand Bazaar. I pointed out that Istanbul's bustling indoor souq is not the most likely place to find authentic vintage timepieces... And that in fact it was known globally for being a centre for knock-off watches and copies.... He considered his purchase in light of this information and took a couple of deep breaths before pronouncing that he might not rush to get the watch valued any time soon... Ahem!
After a long day and reasonably liquid dinner there seemed little point in flogging a dead laptop so retired more or less gracefully and slept.
Unfortunately I awoke several times in the night paranoid that I had slept through my early alarm only to find it was 3am, 3.45am, 4.30am and 5.15am. When my alarm went off at 5.30 I of course snoozed it several times feeling exhausted.
Hauling myself out of bed I worked on my presentation for a couple of hours before ordering up a lovely plate of menemen (Turkish scrambled egg with onions, tomatoes and chilli) and strong black coffee.
Then off to morning and lunch meetings before the big presentation to the C-suite team of a major Turkish multi billion dollar conglomerate and its operating companies. . .
3 floors below ground I went into a super hi tech auditorium and set up my gear and sat back and waited for my audience to arrive.
About 40 CEOs, Managing Directors and CxOs arrived and then we waited for the Chairman whose company it is.... He flew up from a meeting with World Bank officials to attend the session.
I ended up speaking almost literally non-stop for 4 hours. There is barely an aspect of corporate communications I didn't cover... All standing under spotlights and no chair in sight.
It seemed to go very well and the Chairman - whom I have met before - was pleased. I was presented with gifts and shook the Chairman's hand in front of the company photographer.
After it was all over I almost collapsed from tiredness. The same driver that picked me up from the airport yesterday took me back to my hotel. He looked like a natural born killer and had muscles in places where I haven't even managed to grow fat yet and no hair - but his voice sounded like a falsetto Mickey Mouse. I managed not to laugh and thus get myself whacked by the Disney Serial Killer of Istanbul.
And now I am about to go out with friends for drinks and view an apartment which I might rent. It looks over Topkapi Palace.
Tomorrow I go to see another place near the Bosphorus University...
Soon I will have a home in Istanbul! Hurrah!
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Qatari tales...
Spent the day on Doha... The last place in the world with lots of money, lots of confidence and lots of activity...quite refreshing really!
Doha is widely being tipped as the new Dubai - except it isn't. It's Doha. Qatar does it differently and it's fast learning to do it better and smarter. (Although no-one denies Dubai's role in pioneering and innovating in this region nor the importance of that)
Qatar may well become the capital of the Middle East in the coming years - not the biggest, not the richest (although it may well win that title too as it is the world's richest country by GDP / Capita - just ahead of Luxembourg), but the place with the most influence. Already a global player in energy and finance it is emerging as the region's hub and possibly saviour in terms of education and human development.
Qatar also has quite some taste and balance. Anyone who questions that need only look at the stunning I.M.Pei designed Museum of Islamic Art. This is not a regional point of interest - it is a global point of interest. The Tribeca film festival that has come to Doha - another subtle and high quality approach to the arts which differentiates Qatar from some of its neighbours.
And in sport too Qatar not only hosts world class Golf and Tennis competitions but is home to World Superbikes and the Motorcycle Grand Prix. It also hosted the Asian Games in 2006 - another remarkable achievement for a young and small country.
Politically Qatar has been more engaged than its neighbours who prefer to abstain from politics in favour of religion or commerce. And it has also made international impact with Al Jazeera - the Arabic version of which represents the only real free media in the region which covers and comments on tough and controversial issues. The English language Al Jazeera International is also a highly professional news organisation with a very refreshing and different approach and perspective.
While it is often dismissed as "trying to catch up with Dubai" - since the global recession bit, fewer are making that kind of statement - and are instead rushing to Doha to ride the wave or progress afoot in Qatar.
As one of my clients (a former senior Western diplomat) once told me, the Qatari people, and certainly their leadership, tend not to make a big noise about things, but instead study, plan and execute with quiet confidence focusing on deliverables rather than promises or grandiose predictions.
(Of course I did once meet a Qatari Sheikh who spent US$1 million on a single flower arrangement at his daughter's wedding...)
And it's not to say that Qatar isn't in a hurry or focused on the goals and possibilities of the future. It is and it should be. In a region where so many fall prey to apathy and to trying to curb their neighbours success rather than emulate it or exceed it, Qatar is a refreshingly positive and optimistic place to be.
Viva Doha - a even brighter future awaits!
Doha is widely being tipped as the new Dubai - except it isn't. It's Doha. Qatar does it differently and it's fast learning to do it better and smarter. (Although no-one denies Dubai's role in pioneering and innovating in this region nor the importance of that)
Qatar may well become the capital of the Middle East in the coming years - not the biggest, not the richest (although it may well win that title too as it is the world's richest country by GDP / Capita - just ahead of Luxembourg), but the place with the most influence. Already a global player in energy and finance it is emerging as the region's hub and possibly saviour in terms of education and human development.
Qatar also has quite some taste and balance. Anyone who questions that need only look at the stunning I.M.Pei designed Museum of Islamic Art. This is not a regional point of interest - it is a global point of interest. The Tribeca film festival that has come to Doha - another subtle and high quality approach to the arts which differentiates Qatar from some of its neighbours.
And in sport too Qatar not only hosts world class Golf and Tennis competitions but is home to World Superbikes and the Motorcycle Grand Prix. It also hosted the Asian Games in 2006 - another remarkable achievement for a young and small country.
Politically Qatar has been more engaged than its neighbours who prefer to abstain from politics in favour of religion or commerce. And it has also made international impact with Al Jazeera - the Arabic version of which represents the only real free media in the region which covers and comments on tough and controversial issues. The English language Al Jazeera International is also a highly professional news organisation with a very refreshing and different approach and perspective.
While it is often dismissed as "trying to catch up with Dubai" - since the global recession bit, fewer are making that kind of statement - and are instead rushing to Doha to ride the wave or progress afoot in Qatar.
As one of my clients (a former senior Western diplomat) once told me, the Qatari people, and certainly their leadership, tend not to make a big noise about things, but instead study, plan and execute with quiet confidence focusing on deliverables rather than promises or grandiose predictions.
(Of course I did once meet a Qatari Sheikh who spent US$1 million on a single flower arrangement at his daughter's wedding...)
And it's not to say that Qatar isn't in a hurry or focused on the goals and possibilities of the future. It is and it should be. In a region where so many fall prey to apathy and to trying to curb their neighbours success rather than emulate it or exceed it, Qatar is a refreshingly positive and optimistic place to be.
Viva Doha - a even brighter future awaits!
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Music...soundtracks for the soul...
To end my life, take away music.
I find increasingly that I cannot get through the day without music - it provides stimulation, inspiration, comfort, soothing, diversion, distraction, salvation, delight, catharsis and ecstasy.
My taste is hugely eclectic, occasionally random and generally open minded. Jazz, heavy metal, Bach to Bruckner, Mozart to Mahler, blues, country, hip hop, rap, ambient, house, zydeco, folk, ethnic / world, latin, european, rembetika, laiki and so on....
A soundtrack to the soul, music takes me away from myself and also takes me into myself...
Lately I have been listening to a particularly varied selection which I commend to you here:
Anouk - "Who's Your Momma". Anouk is dutch blues rocker. This lady has a lot of hot buttered soul in her, and a lot of anger and pain. This 2007 album was clearly written after a break-up and contains songs of great pain and emotion, as well as anger and resentment. This is Anouk's "Blood on the Tracks". There are also tender and soulful reflections on relationships, people, society and mores which balance the record in terms of both music and lyrical content. And her voice is incredible. Strong, powerful, emotive and delicate at the same time. I recommend this record heavily!
Lucinda Williams - "Car Wheels on Gravel Road". The Louisiana born country blues singer's finest album. She'll remind you of Sheryl Crow - except Crow followed her and not the other way around. Drunken Angel is a favourite track...as is the title track. These songs are subtle and creep up on you with each listen and the whole album suddenly becomes a favourite after a few listens...great country sounds, great bluesy numbers and another great female voice.
Paolo Nuttini's new album "Sunny Side Up" is a large departure from his first soulful outing and moves through ballads, country, jazz, sixties soul and reggae to cover a much broader range of material both musically and lyrically. It shows this incredible young talent has grown up a little and his voice which recalls Rod Stewart at his bluesiest (and not the POP era!) is also more mature with his strong Scottish accent coming through far more strongly. "Coming Up Easy" and "Simple Things" are two great tracks, and "Funky Cigarette" and "Smokey Joe's Cafe" show fun and humour and are also very enjoyable. Less teenage angst, more musical freedom and security suit Paolo Nuttini - this guy is a talent to watch!
Ted Hawkins - "Happy Hour". I've owned this album for more than 20 years and return every now and again. Hawkins was a jailbird who after prison found a career playing acoustic blues and soul on Venice Beach down from Santa Monica pier. A wonderful rich black voice - soulful and harsh at the same time - his lyrics are delightfully simple and immensely moving. The opener "Bad Dog" covers infidelity and is tragic and poignant. The blue "You Pushed My Head Away" is a break-up blues featuring lovely electric guitar picking as the accompaniment to Hawkins acoustic strumming... Magic. The title Happy Hour - another song about infidelity is tragically painful with the juxtaposition of the concept of Happy Hour and the misery of discovering his woman betraying him in front of his eyes. This is a great album from a man who saw a lot of pain and anguish in a difficult life. Real soul blues.
Finally I have been listening to a lot of Greek music in recent days - especially the Pix Lax / Giorgos Dalaras classics "Ta Veggalika Matia" which is incredibly beautiful and whose lyrics are so deep and expressive and "Enas Kombos, H Xara Mou" (My Pleasure, My Pain). Dalaras and Pix Lax created a unique sound in modern Greek music which fused something from REM with traditional Greek folk rhythms and a beautiful emotional and philosophical examination of the human condition. Have also been listening to Giannis Kotsiras and his incredibly tender voice applied to love songs which can't fail to capture a mood and Dimitris Mitropanos - a Godfather of Greek lyrical singing and with an amazing unique voice. There is something remarkable about the marriage of the Greek language and the Greek soul that results in truly beautiful and moving music... Difficult for non Greek speakers to appreciate fully perhaps, but I know many friends who speak not a word but who cry to the songs above...
And now I have just landed in Bahrain and have to remove the earphones and go to work...
Enjoy the music.
I find increasingly that I cannot get through the day without music - it provides stimulation, inspiration, comfort, soothing, diversion, distraction, salvation, delight, catharsis and ecstasy.
My taste is hugely eclectic, occasionally random and generally open minded. Jazz, heavy metal, Bach to Bruckner, Mozart to Mahler, blues, country, hip hop, rap, ambient, house, zydeco, folk, ethnic / world, latin, european, rembetika, laiki and so on....
A soundtrack to the soul, music takes me away from myself and also takes me into myself...
Lately I have been listening to a particularly varied selection which I commend to you here:
Anouk - "Who's Your Momma". Anouk is dutch blues rocker. This lady has a lot of hot buttered soul in her, and a lot of anger and pain. This 2007 album was clearly written after a break-up and contains songs of great pain and emotion, as well as anger and resentment. This is Anouk's "Blood on the Tracks". There are also tender and soulful reflections on relationships, people, society and mores which balance the record in terms of both music and lyrical content. And her voice is incredible. Strong, powerful, emotive and delicate at the same time. I recommend this record heavily!
Lucinda Williams - "Car Wheels on Gravel Road". The Louisiana born country blues singer's finest album. She'll remind you of Sheryl Crow - except Crow followed her and not the other way around. Drunken Angel is a favourite track...as is the title track. These songs are subtle and creep up on you with each listen and the whole album suddenly becomes a favourite after a few listens...great country sounds, great bluesy numbers and another great female voice.
Paolo Nuttini's new album "Sunny Side Up" is a large departure from his first soulful outing and moves through ballads, country, jazz, sixties soul and reggae to cover a much broader range of material both musically and lyrically. It shows this incredible young talent has grown up a little and his voice which recalls Rod Stewart at his bluesiest (and not the POP era!) is also more mature with his strong Scottish accent coming through far more strongly. "Coming Up Easy" and "Simple Things" are two great tracks, and "Funky Cigarette" and "Smokey Joe's Cafe" show fun and humour and are also very enjoyable. Less teenage angst, more musical freedom and security suit Paolo Nuttini - this guy is a talent to watch!
Ted Hawkins - "Happy Hour". I've owned this album for more than 20 years and return every now and again. Hawkins was a jailbird who after prison found a career playing acoustic blues and soul on Venice Beach down from Santa Monica pier. A wonderful rich black voice - soulful and harsh at the same time - his lyrics are delightfully simple and immensely moving. The opener "Bad Dog" covers infidelity and is tragic and poignant. The blue "You Pushed My Head Away" is a break-up blues featuring lovely electric guitar picking as the accompaniment to Hawkins acoustic strumming... Magic. The title Happy Hour - another song about infidelity is tragically painful with the juxtaposition of the concept of Happy Hour and the misery of discovering his woman betraying him in front of his eyes. This is a great album from a man who saw a lot of pain and anguish in a difficult life. Real soul blues.
Finally I have been listening to a lot of Greek music in recent days - especially the Pix Lax / Giorgos Dalaras classics "Ta Veggalika Matia" which is incredibly beautiful and whose lyrics are so deep and expressive and "Enas Kombos, H Xara Mou" (My Pleasure, My Pain). Dalaras and Pix Lax created a unique sound in modern Greek music which fused something from REM with traditional Greek folk rhythms and a beautiful emotional and philosophical examination of the human condition. Have also been listening to Giannis Kotsiras and his incredibly tender voice applied to love songs which can't fail to capture a mood and Dimitris Mitropanos - a Godfather of Greek lyrical singing and with an amazing unique voice. There is something remarkable about the marriage of the Greek language and the Greek soul that results in truly beautiful and moving music... Difficult for non Greek speakers to appreciate fully perhaps, but I know many friends who speak not a word but who cry to the songs above...
And now I have just landed in Bahrain and have to remove the earphones and go to work...
Enjoy the music.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Comedown
As often is the case after a wonderful trip, the return is followed by the "comedown".
The dreariness of everyday life, the banality of present reality in cruel juxtaposition with the delights of past fantasy and the dreaded re-adjustment to "here" as opposed to "there".
You know "there" - where the grass is always greener. . . . and it's true, it is greener. The grass and everything else that is "there".
It strikes me suddenly that I spend much of my life "there" and little of it "here".
As a consequence, "here" seems rather empty at times (especially when I return from "there") and "there" by comparison seems fuller, richer and more satisfying.
It is of course an illusion, a trick and a trap. If I spent all my time "there" then it would soon become "here" and that would defeat the object... perhaps I need to spend more time "here" and make it more like "there"?
I do miss the people from "there" though. They are fun, interesting, passionate, diverse and inspiring.
I miss the excitement of "there" and I miss the ephemeral qualities of "there" - a place that is constantly re-inventing itself, refreshing itself, being reborn.
Or perhaps it is me that re-invents myself, refreshes myself and is reborn, and "there" is just the context? Is this the basis of happiness and satisfaction or is it escapism and nihilism combined?
I think probably the latter confused for the former.
How sad!
I do apologize, this seems to have become a rather philosophical - not to mention existentialist - posting, so I will stop here to prevent straining the patience of the reader.
That said, I think if one reads the above carefully it will all make perfect sense.
And with that now dealt with . . .
Goodnight.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Venice Biennale #7 - Il Ritorno...
And so the weekend comes to an end...
A two day excursion to VIP land and Venice combined - with a little art and pasta thrown in.
I have mazmiz'd Venice with great delight and had a very pleasurable time.
Seeing this city after so many years has been wonderfully refreshing. The return to the Land of the Sand a slightly depressing reality - although it is home in some sort of way and that is always comforting...
I think I may come back here in the autumn for a long weekend - a far more agreeable season than summer to enjoy this city - and perhaps devote some more time to photography and strolling.
While the "art crowd" are not my cup of tea generally, it has been nice to be in an environment where art belongs. It has also been good to see the Arab world represented at this Biennale - and important to see the level of participation and acceptance of different points of view and perspectives.
One thing I will advocate is the total and outright ban on "talking about art". If you have an opinion, please write about it or just think, but don't speak it.
"It was the use of acrylics in such a daring fashion that altered the paradigm and signified the replacement of the ego with a social dimension"...
"I couldn't believe the Russian exhibit - so banal dear. I was expecting to emote much more..."
"Her work moves me like a visual poem, stirring my soul. I particularly liked the used tires and bucket of saliva."
And so on...
I would rather have people eat crunchy apples in my ear than hear people talk about art... Apart from sounding incredibly pretentious regardless of the content and who is saying it, it is such a personal and subjective subject matter that to talk about it out loud is just plain wrong!
Once the wisdom of my ban has been accepted, punishment for talking about art out loud will include listening to others talk about art for hours on end. In particular to Americans and Germans - whom I had the great misfortune to be placed next to while trying to consume a cup of coffee this morning.
Other punishments will include the wearing of 50 dollar trousers to parties (men) and skirts which make the wearer's bum look enormous (for the ladies who talk about art out loud). These will be combined with cheap and unfashionable shoes and accessories.
I will start drafting the legislation now...
A two day excursion to VIP land and Venice combined - with a little art and pasta thrown in.
I have mazmiz'd Venice with great delight and had a very pleasurable time.
Seeing this city after so many years has been wonderfully refreshing. The return to the Land of the Sand a slightly depressing reality - although it is home in some sort of way and that is always comforting...
I think I may come back here in the autumn for a long weekend - a far more agreeable season than summer to enjoy this city - and perhaps devote some more time to photography and strolling.
While the "art crowd" are not my cup of tea generally, it has been nice to be in an environment where art belongs. It has also been good to see the Arab world represented at this Biennale - and important to see the level of participation and acceptance of different points of view and perspectives.
One thing I will advocate is the total and outright ban on "talking about art". If you have an opinion, please write about it or just think, but don't speak it.
"It was the use of acrylics in such a daring fashion that altered the paradigm and signified the replacement of the ego with a social dimension"...
"I couldn't believe the Russian exhibit - so banal dear. I was expecting to emote much more..."
"Her work moves me like a visual poem, stirring my soul. I particularly liked the used tires and bucket of saliva."
And so on...
I would rather have people eat crunchy apples in my ear than hear people talk about art... Apart from sounding incredibly pretentious regardless of the content and who is saying it, it is such a personal and subjective subject matter that to talk about it out loud is just plain wrong!
Once the wisdom of my ban has been accepted, punishment for talking about art out loud will include listening to others talk about art for hours on end. In particular to Americans and Germans - whom I had the great misfortune to be placed next to while trying to consume a cup of coffee this morning.
Other punishments will include the wearing of 50 dollar trousers to parties (men) and skirts which make the wearer's bum look enormous (for the ladies who talk about art out loud). These will be combined with cheap and unfashionable shoes and accessories.
I will start drafting the legislation now...
Venice Biennale #6 - Party, Party...
From the sublime to the ridiculous....
After a day of culture and imagination, the evening was reserved for the VIP parties...
First the UAE Pavilion launch party at the Peggy Guggenheim Museum...
A confusing dress code of "semi formal" had me turned out in a suit and formal shirt but no tie - anxiously observing the rest of the male species to check whether I had over or under done it. I think this is a peculiarly English anxiety and one accentuated by the fact that my father used to obsess with dress standards and as kids we had to wear a shirt, tie and jacket to enter any restaurant - even a pizzeria...
Having grown up therefore with the mantra that it is better to be over-dressed than under-dressed (an idea which made logical sense, but seemed counter intuitive when being under-dressed always seemed to be "cooler"...) I was happy in my suit and relieved when Cesare - an Italian whose sense of sartorial propriety is a genetically imprinted asset - also wore a suit without a tie.
A private water taxi arrived at the hotel to whisk the beautiful people (and me) to the Guggenheim... As we glided under the Rialto bridge I felt a frisson of grandeur (which would soon be dissipated and indeed destroyed on arrival at the event) and enjoyed the splendour of the canal and the glorious buildings which framed our journey over the water.
On arrival at the Peggy Guggenheim I was relieved to see friends who welcomed Cesare and me - and then whisked us (it seems that "whisk" is an appropriate word for the VIP environment!) for a photograph "Hello!" style in the entrance...
The Peggy Guggenheim museum is very classy. Very classy indeed. Around 500 people had made every effort to try and match that classiness with their own insouciant style and effortless poise (although it was evident that this involved an enormous amount of both souciance and effort...). I was not one of them - style and class being oft dreamed of but seldom achieved!
Indeed it dawned on me with some relief that I will never be comfortable in these environments - not even if I were to become "famous" or even "well known" - it's just not me.
It is not because I am considerably less wealthy, less beautiful and less socially adept and connected than the people at this event - that is a given - it is because the aspects of the event that are so important to them are without any meaning or appeal to me.
I found the whole air kissing, dahhhhling laden, artsy atmosphere fake, shallow and frankly rather desperate - and certainly beyond my comprehension in terms of its appeal. Parties are supposed to be fun, but everyone looked too anxious to be having fun despite their perma grins and affected giggles...
That said, the environment was very pleasant, the buffet reasonable and as Cesare put it when describing the hordes of stunningly beautiful women in their cocktail dresses, the "landscape was more than acceptable"... Only an Italian can say these things!
I practised my usual party strategy which combines laziness with an air of assumed aloofness (although really it is just laziness!) and planted myself in a corner on some lovely leather cushions and moved only to answer the call of the bar or the call of nature.
Cesare collared a waiter and managed to persuade him to bring us food to our seats so we avoided queuing for the buffet which had the benefit of both being labour saving but also giving the impression that we were somehow above queuing...nice.
The time passed pleasantly enough, but I couldn't help thinking that I greatly prefer other kinds of social interaction and felt out of place with the "beautiful" people and deeply worried by their apparent shallowness, insecurity and efforts not to show it!
At the allotted hour we left the museum and went down to the banks of the canal to get another private boat to the Abu Dhabi Authority for Culture & Heritage (ADACH) party out at the Arsenale Nuovissimo area...
A long boat ride was rewarded with a really very cool party indeed. Having expected something rather small and sedate, I was pleasantly surprised with what was a big party with hundreds and hundreds dancing and drinking, drinking and dancing in a redeveloped former industrial area. Great music and a really good buzz meant the atmosphere was very upbeat and a lot of fun...and of course there were many more "beautiful" people in their natural habitat.
Cesare took care of the drinks and ordered champagne with vodka and we wandered briefly before finding a table and starting the people watching anew...
A girl from the posh party had attached herself to the two of us - possibly for protection, amusement or maybe out of boredom - and had followed us from the Guggenheim to this place. Cesare engaged her in conversation - manfully taking on the responsibility of small talk - while I battled my tiredness and general social ennui...
A rainstorm began and we called it a night and headed for the water taxis and back to Venice proper. The party girl came with us - claiming to have a hotel in San Marco...
We ended up accompanying her half way across Venice in the rain as she struggled to remember where she was staying. When she did eventually remember, we had the devil's own time finding it, but we did and as we are actually both gentlemen, we felt it was our duty to ensure she arrived safely -although I cheered myself up on our 2am epic journey with slightly uncharitable thoughts of her gently slipping off a bridge allowing us to quietly return to our hotel and get some damn sleep!
She didn't, and we eventually returned to our hotel around 2.30am where sleep not only beckoned, it demanded with menaces...!
Buonanotte!
After a day of culture and imagination, the evening was reserved for the VIP parties...
First the UAE Pavilion launch party at the Peggy Guggenheim Museum...
A confusing dress code of "semi formal" had me turned out in a suit and formal shirt but no tie - anxiously observing the rest of the male species to check whether I had over or under done it. I think this is a peculiarly English anxiety and one accentuated by the fact that my father used to obsess with dress standards and as kids we had to wear a shirt, tie and jacket to enter any restaurant - even a pizzeria...
Having grown up therefore with the mantra that it is better to be over-dressed than under-dressed (an idea which made logical sense, but seemed counter intuitive when being under-dressed always seemed to be "cooler"...) I was happy in my suit and relieved when Cesare - an Italian whose sense of sartorial propriety is a genetically imprinted asset - also wore a suit without a tie.
A private water taxi arrived at the hotel to whisk the beautiful people (and me) to the Guggenheim... As we glided under the Rialto bridge I felt a frisson of grandeur (which would soon be dissipated and indeed destroyed on arrival at the event) and enjoyed the splendour of the canal and the glorious buildings which framed our journey over the water.
On arrival at the Peggy Guggenheim I was relieved to see friends who welcomed Cesare and me - and then whisked us (it seems that "whisk" is an appropriate word for the VIP environment!) for a photograph "Hello!" style in the entrance...
The Peggy Guggenheim museum is very classy. Very classy indeed. Around 500 people had made every effort to try and match that classiness with their own insouciant style and effortless poise (although it was evident that this involved an enormous amount of both souciance and effort...). I was not one of them - style and class being oft dreamed of but seldom achieved!
Indeed it dawned on me with some relief that I will never be comfortable in these environments - not even if I were to become "famous" or even "well known" - it's just not me.
It is not because I am considerably less wealthy, less beautiful and less socially adept and connected than the people at this event - that is a given - it is because the aspects of the event that are so important to them are without any meaning or appeal to me.
I found the whole air kissing, dahhhhling laden, artsy atmosphere fake, shallow and frankly rather desperate - and certainly beyond my comprehension in terms of its appeal. Parties are supposed to be fun, but everyone looked too anxious to be having fun despite their perma grins and affected giggles...
That said, the environment was very pleasant, the buffet reasonable and as Cesare put it when describing the hordes of stunningly beautiful women in their cocktail dresses, the "landscape was more than acceptable"... Only an Italian can say these things!
I practised my usual party strategy which combines laziness with an air of assumed aloofness (although really it is just laziness!) and planted myself in a corner on some lovely leather cushions and moved only to answer the call of the bar or the call of nature.
Cesare collared a waiter and managed to persuade him to bring us food to our seats so we avoided queuing for the buffet which had the benefit of both being labour saving but also giving the impression that we were somehow above queuing...nice.
The time passed pleasantly enough, but I couldn't help thinking that I greatly prefer other kinds of social interaction and felt out of place with the "beautiful" people and deeply worried by their apparent shallowness, insecurity and efforts not to show it!
At the allotted hour we left the museum and went down to the banks of the canal to get another private boat to the Abu Dhabi Authority for Culture & Heritage (ADACH) party out at the Arsenale Nuovissimo area...
A long boat ride was rewarded with a really very cool party indeed. Having expected something rather small and sedate, I was pleasantly surprised with what was a big party with hundreds and hundreds dancing and drinking, drinking and dancing in a redeveloped former industrial area. Great music and a really good buzz meant the atmosphere was very upbeat and a lot of fun...and of course there were many more "beautiful" people in their natural habitat.
Cesare took care of the drinks and ordered champagne with vodka and we wandered briefly before finding a table and starting the people watching anew...
A girl from the posh party had attached herself to the two of us - possibly for protection, amusement or maybe out of boredom - and had followed us from the Guggenheim to this place. Cesare engaged her in conversation - manfully taking on the responsibility of small talk - while I battled my tiredness and general social ennui...
A rainstorm began and we called it a night and headed for the water taxis and back to Venice proper. The party girl came with us - claiming to have a hotel in San Marco...
We ended up accompanying her half way across Venice in the rain as she struggled to remember where she was staying. When she did eventually remember, we had the devil's own time finding it, but we did and as we are actually both gentlemen, we felt it was our duty to ensure she arrived safely -although I cheered myself up on our 2am epic journey with slightly uncharitable thoughts of her gently slipping off a bridge allowing us to quietly return to our hotel and get some damn sleep!
She didn't, and we eventually returned to our hotel around 2.30am where sleep not only beckoned, it demanded with menaces...!
Buonanotte!
Venice Biennale #5 - Palestinian Pavillion
Palestine c/o Venice is the title of the Palestinian exhibition - also a first at the Biennale.
In the art world Palestine is a country, a recognised state and there would appear to be no reference to "territories" etc.
To see Palestine one has to go to the island of Giudecca - across the Grand Canal from Venice proper. There is a slight sense of "exile" on La Giudecca...detached from Venice, quieter and less intense.
As Cesare remarked, at least the people who come to see the Palestinian exhibit are coming with a purpose as there is no chance they could discover the exhibit by chance or accident...
The exhibit is in a delightful cloistered building on the first floor. Unlike other pavilions there is a proper sense of scale in Palestine c/o Venice and more importantly a proper sense of art.
The art is challenging, but it doesn't need the conceited, self congratulatory "explanations" that one sees elsewhere, nor does it rely on over contrived "artistic devices"... Instead through compelling use of multimedia including installations, animation, photography, video and sound, the exhibit communicates.
I must state now that I am not an expert of Palestine (much like 90% or more of the visitors who will see this exhibit) nor would I call myself an "art expert", but I took away strong messages from the Palestinian Pavillion - messages of hope & despair, joy & sadness, pride & shame, beauty & brutality.
People overlook the fact that Palestinians have children - children who have been born into occupation, oppression and obscurity - but children who still need to laugh, play and experiment within a hostile environment that prevents, limits and denies... People also overlook the fact that Palestinians were once children also. This art is the product of both that environment and its history and also the imagination of another environment of the future.
What perhaps impressed me most is the confidence and temperament of the exhibit. There was none of the "angry protest" that frightens and alienates neutral points of view and that is often associated with Palestine. Little of the passive / aggressive rhetoric so often replayed by mass media and none of the "victimhood on my sleeve" which while moving becomes congesting to many. This exhibit showed a Palestinian sensibility on both its own terms and those of the artists and also within the terms of reference that make some kind of connection with others and outsiders.
Perhaps this is what art is all about - connecting sensibilities without forcing compromise or confrontation? Perhaps this exhibit is an example of non-violent resistance?
I don't know - but what I do know is that I came away from it richer in experience, impressed with the artistic content and pleased that this exhibit stands head and shoulders with the artistic output of all of the other pavilions.
In the art world Palestine is a country, a recognised state and there would appear to be no reference to "territories" etc.
To see Palestine one has to go to the island of Giudecca - across the Grand Canal from Venice proper. There is a slight sense of "exile" on La Giudecca...detached from Venice, quieter and less intense.
As Cesare remarked, at least the people who come to see the Palestinian exhibit are coming with a purpose as there is no chance they could discover the exhibit by chance or accident...
The exhibit is in a delightful cloistered building on the first floor. Unlike other pavilions there is a proper sense of scale in Palestine c/o Venice and more importantly a proper sense of art.
The art is challenging, but it doesn't need the conceited, self congratulatory "explanations" that one sees elsewhere, nor does it rely on over contrived "artistic devices"... Instead through compelling use of multimedia including installations, animation, photography, video and sound, the exhibit communicates.
I must state now that I am not an expert of Palestine (much like 90% or more of the visitors who will see this exhibit) nor would I call myself an "art expert", but I took away strong messages from the Palestinian Pavillion - messages of hope & despair, joy & sadness, pride & shame, beauty & brutality.
People overlook the fact that Palestinians have children - children who have been born into occupation, oppression and obscurity - but children who still need to laugh, play and experiment within a hostile environment that prevents, limits and denies... People also overlook the fact that Palestinians were once children also. This art is the product of both that environment and its history and also the imagination of another environment of the future.
What perhaps impressed me most is the confidence and temperament of the exhibit. There was none of the "angry protest" that frightens and alienates neutral points of view and that is often associated with Palestine. Little of the passive / aggressive rhetoric so often replayed by mass media and none of the "victimhood on my sleeve" which while moving becomes congesting to many. This exhibit showed a Palestinian sensibility on both its own terms and those of the artists and also within the terms of reference that make some kind of connection with others and outsiders.
Perhaps this is what art is all about - connecting sensibilities without forcing compromise or confrontation? Perhaps this exhibit is an example of non-violent resistance?
I don't know - but what I do know is that I came away from it richer in experience, impressed with the artistic content and pleased that this exhibit stands head and shoulders with the artistic output of all of the other pavilions.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Venice Biennale #4 - A Perfect Lunch
Trattoria Alla Madonna - a very traditional Venetian trattoria in a side street one block from the Rialto.
Two cold beers to refresh.
A wonderful fresh crab served in its shell dressed with fresh lemon juice, salt & pepper, olive oil and a generous sprig of fresh flat leaf parsley.
A nice chilled Pinot Grigio - from the Yermann Estate - excellent.
Spaghetti - a fine grade - in squid ink with cuttlefish pieces. A danger warning from the waiter is heeded but efforts are not entirely successful as both Cesare and I have squid ink spots on our shirts. Probably this means throwing the shirt in the bin as squid ink is a disaster...
Wild strawberries - those lovely semi sweet semi sour miniature strawberries - served with a scoop of home made vanilla ice cream.
Espresso.
Grappa.
Conversation topics: food, women, wine, the arts, business, entrepreneurship, finance, politics, childhood memories, women, food.
Benissimo!
Two cold beers to refresh.
A wonderful fresh crab served in its shell dressed with fresh lemon juice, salt & pepper, olive oil and a generous sprig of fresh flat leaf parsley.
A nice chilled Pinot Grigio - from the Yermann Estate - excellent.
Spaghetti - a fine grade - in squid ink with cuttlefish pieces. A danger warning from the waiter is heeded but efforts are not entirely successful as both Cesare and I have squid ink spots on our shirts. Probably this means throwing the shirt in the bin as squid ink is a disaster...
Wild strawberries - those lovely semi sweet semi sour miniature strawberries - served with a scoop of home made vanilla ice cream.
Espresso.
Grappa.
Conversation topics: food, women, wine, the arts, business, entrepreneurship, finance, politics, childhood memories, women, food.
Benissimo!
Venice Biennale #3 - Strolling...the lost art of...
Venice is a city that absolutely lends itself to the lost art of strolling.
The dictionary definition is as follows:
To stroll : to walk in a leisurely or idle manner
To my way of thinking there are some additional inflections to "strolling" that are important when qualifying exactly what one means by strolling...
First: there must be no discernible point or objective to the walk other than the walk itself. It is not about a destination or purpose.
Second: the stroll is contextualised by its environment and thus the environment conditions the stroll and characterises it. It might also dictate pace, length and direction but only in an unplanned fashion.
Third: when the stroll turns into a walk or a journey it is time to stop as it is, by definition, no longer a stroll.
So with this mind - or at least later to be recalled and noted - I set off from my hotel for a stroll. I took my camera as it would be remiss of me not to capture one or two aspects of Venice - although this should not be confused with the purpose of the stroll, but instead a by-product.
My eye was looking for shadow. For "chiaroscuro" to punctuate the mystery and majesty of Venice.
My feet took me towards the Rialto bridge but with some effort made to avoid the main lanes crammed full of enthusiastic and chattering tourists. Far From The Maddening Crowds (with apologies to Thomas Hardy)
Mine were the blind alleys and narrow paths, the slight bridges and low roofed "sottoportegi" that at night might be slightly unnerving but that by day provide visual nourishment and mental stimulation - not to mention the odd photograph.
Sometimes I wish I could record or film my strolls - but then the smells and glances would still escape me and thus frustrate further, so memory and imagination suffice.
An old gentleman on a small bridge tells an African street boy where he can find free food. The boy doesn't understand, so the gentleman keeps repeating in Italian, slower and louder each time. Then he has a brain wave and writes the address and area on a piece of paper - pointing to the direction. The boy - who wears a giant, almost comical sized crucifix - nods and smiles. The gentleman smiles and leaves. The boy wanders off in the opposite direction to which the gentleman indicated. An old lady watches silently, half hidden, from a window above the narrow canal.
A run down pizzeria sets up for lunch in a small out of the way square. Jazz plays quietly and the notes waft across the street. Brightly coloured chrysanthemums fill window boxes and their petals flutter very slightly to the jazz notes or perhaps it is the breeze...
Narrow laneway in full shadow is navigated slowly by an old lady with two canes and thick spectacles. She mutters to herself unintelligibly but with some evident frustration and continues slowly on her way. I encounter her 20 minutes later in a cul de sac still muttering and seeming not to register me or recall me.
Young tourists - probably lovers - pass me in an old tiny square in a hidden alley, giggling, smiling, high on romance and adventure. I turn a corner to find a brass door belonging to the home of a painter - his name carefully embossed above his profession and surrounded by decorative stamps. Below is appended a scruffy hand written note explaining where his work can be seen...a lovely contrast.
An accidental press of the shutter button by the market in Rialto produces the best shot of the day. I contemplate buying a copy of Il Corriere Della Sera to brush up on my Italian as I hear an old man request the same journal from a news stand. I decide against it and head to an old trattoria "alla Madonna" to meet with Cesare for lunch.
I drink cold beer and review my snaps and recall the best moments of my stroll, writing some of them down here...
A beautiful hour.
The dictionary definition is as follows:
To stroll : to walk in a leisurely or idle manner
To my way of thinking there are some additional inflections to "strolling" that are important when qualifying exactly what one means by strolling...
First: there must be no discernible point or objective to the walk other than the walk itself. It is not about a destination or purpose.
Second: the stroll is contextualised by its environment and thus the environment conditions the stroll and characterises it. It might also dictate pace, length and direction but only in an unplanned fashion.
Third: when the stroll turns into a walk or a journey it is time to stop as it is, by definition, no longer a stroll.
So with this mind - or at least later to be recalled and noted - I set off from my hotel for a stroll. I took my camera as it would be remiss of me not to capture one or two aspects of Venice - although this should not be confused with the purpose of the stroll, but instead a by-product.
My eye was looking for shadow. For "chiaroscuro" to punctuate the mystery and majesty of Venice.
My feet took me towards the Rialto bridge but with some effort made to avoid the main lanes crammed full of enthusiastic and chattering tourists. Far From The Maddening Crowds (with apologies to Thomas Hardy)
Mine were the blind alleys and narrow paths, the slight bridges and low roofed "sottoportegi" that at night might be slightly unnerving but that by day provide visual nourishment and mental stimulation - not to mention the odd photograph.
Sometimes I wish I could record or film my strolls - but then the smells and glances would still escape me and thus frustrate further, so memory and imagination suffice.
An old gentleman on a small bridge tells an African street boy where he can find free food. The boy doesn't understand, so the gentleman keeps repeating in Italian, slower and louder each time. Then he has a brain wave and writes the address and area on a piece of paper - pointing to the direction. The boy - who wears a giant, almost comical sized crucifix - nods and smiles. The gentleman smiles and leaves. The boy wanders off in the opposite direction to which the gentleman indicated. An old lady watches silently, half hidden, from a window above the narrow canal.
A run down pizzeria sets up for lunch in a small out of the way square. Jazz plays quietly and the notes waft across the street. Brightly coloured chrysanthemums fill window boxes and their petals flutter very slightly to the jazz notes or perhaps it is the breeze...
Narrow laneway in full shadow is navigated slowly by an old lady with two canes and thick spectacles. She mutters to herself unintelligibly but with some evident frustration and continues slowly on her way. I encounter her 20 minutes later in a cul de sac still muttering and seeming not to register me or recall me.
Young tourists - probably lovers - pass me in an old tiny square in a hidden alley, giggling, smiling, high on romance and adventure. I turn a corner to find a brass door belonging to the home of a painter - his name carefully embossed above his profession and surrounded by decorative stamps. Below is appended a scruffy hand written note explaining where his work can be seen...a lovely contrast.
An accidental press of the shutter button by the market in Rialto produces the best shot of the day. I contemplate buying a copy of Il Corriere Della Sera to brush up on my Italian as I hear an old man request the same journal from a news stand. I decide against it and head to an old trattoria "alla Madonna" to meet with Cesare for lunch.
I drink cold beer and review my snaps and recall the best moments of my stroll, writing some of them down here...
A beautiful hour.
Venice Biennale #2 - La Venezia
Following the final arrival at the rather pleasant Hotel Splendid in the heart of the district between San Marco and Rialto, I checked in and grumbled at the receptionist about my water taxi "non-experience". In typical Venetian fashion she explained that the airport desk was wrong. Full stop. As though the airport people being wrong made my nearly two hour journey to the hotel by foot, over cramped water bus stopping at every bit of seaweed and then foot again, ok.
Well it didn't but I gave up on complaining and went in search of a reviving espresso and my colleague Cesare who, as the name might suggest, is Italian.
Espresso and Cesare both located, we set off to visit some exhibitions - including Morocco (not bad at all), Monaco (not good at all) and then down to the Arsenale area (where the militarily powerful Venetian city state kept all its weaponry in the past - and where it now appears to keep its art, with the warehousing now turned into art galleries.)
This city is just achingly beautiful. There is no other way to say it. The people are lazy and arrogant at times, everything costs a fortune and it takes twice as long to do anything here compared to anywhere else except perhaps Cairo.... But it is amazingly glorious in its fading charms... The close-up shot may not be the desirable one for the "old girl" but the right light and pose and no city is more beautiful...
A long series of excursions on various vaporetti eventually saw us ending back where we'd started and visiting the exhibitions of the UAE (hmmm), Turkey (excellent and interesting), Chile (different and also interesting) and a couple of other country exhibits I failed to note...
The evening was devoted to eating - of course. Cesare and I were to dine with three of his clients from a large Italian bank. In typical fashion Cesare's strategy was to book a minimum of two restaurants and then allow mood and which had a better table to guide us. This at the last minute in the second busiest period in Venice annually... Of course he was successful.
Now I have always believed that one should put oneself in the hands of locals entirely when planning any recreational activities in a foreign city - and especially when it comes to gastronomy. Cesare was born less than an hour from Venice and did not disappoint. A wonderful family owned traditional Venetian restaurant that would be impossible for any tourist to know about and even less likely for them to find it was our destination for the evening.
We dined on local crabs, baby octopus with an orange and balsamic reduction, a fritto misto (very traditional dish in the Veneto), spaghetti with local lagoon seafood and herbs, pepperonata and some lovely wine. I am not going to name the restaurant or even the neighbourhood as that would risk spoiling it, but it was a superior experience from the perspectives of food and ambience - although the service was lacking in that characteristically Italian way... Lucky we weren't in a rush...
A pleasant stroll across the Rialto bridge to deliver one of the female clients to her hotel and smoke a small cigar and back to the hotel for a brief encounter with a Monaco based millionnairess whose friend owned our hotel. In fact the chain of hotels. She was, as we were, most distressed to find the bar closed at 1.30, and we chatted about the world and art. It turned out she is half New Yorker and her sister lived in a condo at the St George in Brooklyn Heights - the old building of the hotel which my great great grandfather built and owned at the end of the 19th century and a well known landmark in NYC. She nearly invited me and Cesare to her suite to drink the bar dry, but seemed to think better of it and toddled off....as did we. Only in Venice does one become midnight friends with a millionnairess!
Today is about Ps.... Palestine (the country's first exhibit at the Biennale), photographs (not possible to be here without taking some pictures and trying to capture the mood) and parties (big gala event this evening at the Peggy Guggenheim museum followed by private party hosted by the Abu Dhabi Authority for Culture & Heritage.)...
But I'm off to start with a B. Breakfast!
Well it didn't but I gave up on complaining and went in search of a reviving espresso and my colleague Cesare who, as the name might suggest, is Italian.
Espresso and Cesare both located, we set off to visit some exhibitions - including Morocco (not bad at all), Monaco (not good at all) and then down to the Arsenale area (where the militarily powerful Venetian city state kept all its weaponry in the past - and where it now appears to keep its art, with the warehousing now turned into art galleries.)
This city is just achingly beautiful. There is no other way to say it. The people are lazy and arrogant at times, everything costs a fortune and it takes twice as long to do anything here compared to anywhere else except perhaps Cairo.... But it is amazingly glorious in its fading charms... The close-up shot may not be the desirable one for the "old girl" but the right light and pose and no city is more beautiful...
A long series of excursions on various vaporetti eventually saw us ending back where we'd started and visiting the exhibitions of the UAE (hmmm), Turkey (excellent and interesting), Chile (different and also interesting) and a couple of other country exhibits I failed to note...
The evening was devoted to eating - of course. Cesare and I were to dine with three of his clients from a large Italian bank. In typical fashion Cesare's strategy was to book a minimum of two restaurants and then allow mood and which had a better table to guide us. This at the last minute in the second busiest period in Venice annually... Of course he was successful.
Now I have always believed that one should put oneself in the hands of locals entirely when planning any recreational activities in a foreign city - and especially when it comes to gastronomy. Cesare was born less than an hour from Venice and did not disappoint. A wonderful family owned traditional Venetian restaurant that would be impossible for any tourist to know about and even less likely for them to find it was our destination for the evening.
We dined on local crabs, baby octopus with an orange and balsamic reduction, a fritto misto (very traditional dish in the Veneto), spaghetti with local lagoon seafood and herbs, pepperonata and some lovely wine. I am not going to name the restaurant or even the neighbourhood as that would risk spoiling it, but it was a superior experience from the perspectives of food and ambience - although the service was lacking in that characteristically Italian way... Lucky we weren't in a rush...
A pleasant stroll across the Rialto bridge to deliver one of the female clients to her hotel and smoke a small cigar and back to the hotel for a brief encounter with a Monaco based millionnairess whose friend owned our hotel. In fact the chain of hotels. She was, as we were, most distressed to find the bar closed at 1.30, and we chatted about the world and art. It turned out she is half New Yorker and her sister lived in a condo at the St George in Brooklyn Heights - the old building of the hotel which my great great grandfather built and owned at the end of the 19th century and a well known landmark in NYC. She nearly invited me and Cesare to her suite to drink the bar dry, but seemed to think better of it and toddled off....as did we. Only in Venice does one become midnight friends with a millionnairess!
Today is about Ps.... Palestine (the country's first exhibit at the Biennale), photographs (not possible to be here without taking some pictures and trying to capture the mood) and parties (big gala event this evening at the Peggy Guggenheim museum followed by private party hosted by the Abu Dhabi Authority for Culture & Heritage.)...
But I'm off to start with a B. Breakfast!
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Venice Biennale #1 - Planes, Trains and Water Taxis...
Ok...so I lied about the trains...
After an uneventful flight (except for my fashion crimes - which thankfully seem to have been left unpunished) I arrived in Venice.
It's been about 15 years or more since I was last here and I had forgotten just how beautiful it is. Stunning and unique.
I went to get my water taxi ticket at the airport stands - as my hotel had advised - and found instead that there were NO water taxis today or tomorrow. I enquired as to why and was told it was due to the Biennale and only pre-booked water taxis were available. Exactly the OPPOSITE to the information given to my PA by the hotel...
Curiously although the Venetians have worked out that the Biennale creates extra tourism and traffic, instead of responding with more water taxis and services, they shut them down instead. Smart.
I did some shouting in English, the woman just looked at me with a "f@ck you pal" expression and I wandered off muttering Italian swear words under my breath - which made me feel only moderately better...
Her last advice was to walk to the jetty and see if there was a water taxi going to my hotel that had been pre-booked by someone else and see if there was a space.
So I walked the 10 minutes to the jetty with my bags and asked at all the water taxi stations. The response was a clear cut "impossible". Great.
I am now on public transport - an experience I haven't had for some time - on my way to Piazza San Marco. I will then try and figure out where the hell my hotel is.
Once I get there and have checked in I will do some shouting at reception about the quality of their travel information and advice - and then I shall have a drink and start people watching - a massively popular sport in Italy....
But as I draw closer to Venice proper across the water I am beginning to relax already, such is her majesty and splendour...
Now if I can just get the two gay Germans next to me stop talking for five minutes, I will be truly happy...
After an uneventful flight (except for my fashion crimes - which thankfully seem to have been left unpunished) I arrived in Venice.
It's been about 15 years or more since I was last here and I had forgotten just how beautiful it is. Stunning and unique.
I went to get my water taxi ticket at the airport stands - as my hotel had advised - and found instead that there were NO water taxis today or tomorrow. I enquired as to why and was told it was due to the Biennale and only pre-booked water taxis were available. Exactly the OPPOSITE to the information given to my PA by the hotel...
Curiously although the Venetians have worked out that the Biennale creates extra tourism and traffic, instead of responding with more water taxis and services, they shut them down instead. Smart.
I did some shouting in English, the woman just looked at me with a "f@ck you pal" expression and I wandered off muttering Italian swear words under my breath - which made me feel only moderately better...
Her last advice was to walk to the jetty and see if there was a water taxi going to my hotel that had been pre-booked by someone else and see if there was a space.
So I walked the 10 minutes to the jetty with my bags and asked at all the water taxi stations. The response was a clear cut "impossible". Great.
I am now on public transport - an experience I haven't had for some time - on my way to Piazza San Marco. I will then try and figure out where the hell my hotel is.
Once I get there and have checked in I will do some shouting at reception about the quality of their travel information and advice - and then I shall have a drink and start people watching - a massively popular sport in Italy....
But as I draw closer to Venice proper across the water I am beginning to relax already, such is her majesty and splendour...
Now if I can just get the two gay Germans next to me stop talking for five minutes, I will be truly happy...
Art World Fashionistas - HELP!
Ok. It's now officially confirmed that I am not a "dedicated follower of fashion" as Ray Davies of The Kinks put it - unlike EVERYONE else on the 'plane to Venice...
The Biennale is notorious for its air kissing lovelies who fly in to Venice every two years to be fashionable, gossip, preen and show off generally against a back drop of art, culture and the stunning environs of the city of the Doges.
In my portion of the 'plane - the front end darling (air miles for me of course!) - I am the only man without either a pony tail or sculpted facial hair. I am the only man wearing trousers that cost less than 400 dollars and my hand-made shirt feels suddenly cheap and down market...
There is a chap sitting across from me who I have flown with before. He is a multi-millionnaire and lives in Dubai and Monte Carlo, owns a large yacht, several businesses and lives his life of luxury flying around and sailing, running his businesses from his BlackBerry.
A bit like me except for the multi-millions, the yacht, Monte Carlo and sailing...and his trousers are at least 500 dollars. I can tell.
An enormous American lady (if the accent didn't give it away, the volume would) just sat next to me and is wearing Jackie O sunglasses (on board the plane) and a stretch lycra dress in a rather vicious electric lime green. My breakfast is considering a break for freedom as a result. She is complaining about having to walk up some stairs to the plane. She may have burned a calorie or two so is doubtless concerned about feeding soon. I'd have her down as a wealthy heiress who spends daddy's or grand daddy's millions flying around the world patronising the arts....
An anorexic tall grey haired pony tailed art-type is chatting vigorously with a crop haired lady who looks like a lesbian novelist but could be a poet, photographer or sculptor. She is also intensely fashionable but in a menacing, slightly butch way. I am sure they have ordered the vegan meal and will practice some hot yoga during the flight...
Ah - some diamond encrusted super branded Arabs - probably Lebanese - have just boarded. They've been keeping us all waiting to take off, and now they're fussing over where they sit...they are more fashionable than me by a factor of 15 I'd estimate, but MUCH less fashionable than everyone else at the "front"... Although their jewellery / watches / accessories are conspicuously expensive...naturally.
It is refreshing however that I am clearly the most relaxed person in this portion of the plane. I am not suffering from fashion anxiety, nor worrying if my bum looks big in these trousers. I'm not remotely concerned about which exhibit is "coolest" in Venice - although I am interested in seeing both the Palestinian Pavillion and the UAE Pavillion - both making their debuts at this Biennale.
I am also looking forward to taking some "intimate" photographs of Venezia - the beautiful old lady that is the city I am travelling to... And to remembering my walks and excursions around Venice when I was a student down the road in Padua some 18 years ago - and the memories of that glorious "temps perdu"...
It is a good thing that I am not suffering from style insecurity and fashion anxiety - after all I am going to Italy where style is genetically transferred, where a tailor is more highly regarded and valued than a doctor or a priest and where fashion is a way of life.
I'll change into my sack before landing...it's Armani darling.
The Biennale is notorious for its air kissing lovelies who fly in to Venice every two years to be fashionable, gossip, preen and show off generally against a back drop of art, culture and the stunning environs of the city of the Doges.
In my portion of the 'plane - the front end darling (air miles for me of course!) - I am the only man without either a pony tail or sculpted facial hair. I am the only man wearing trousers that cost less than 400 dollars and my hand-made shirt feels suddenly cheap and down market...
There is a chap sitting across from me who I have flown with before. He is a multi-millionnaire and lives in Dubai and Monte Carlo, owns a large yacht, several businesses and lives his life of luxury flying around and sailing, running his businesses from his BlackBerry.
A bit like me except for the multi-millions, the yacht, Monte Carlo and sailing...and his trousers are at least 500 dollars. I can tell.
An enormous American lady (if the accent didn't give it away, the volume would) just sat next to me and is wearing Jackie O sunglasses (on board the plane) and a stretch lycra dress in a rather vicious electric lime green. My breakfast is considering a break for freedom as a result. She is complaining about having to walk up some stairs to the plane. She may have burned a calorie or two so is doubtless concerned about feeding soon. I'd have her down as a wealthy heiress who spends daddy's or grand daddy's millions flying around the world patronising the arts....
An anorexic tall grey haired pony tailed art-type is chatting vigorously with a crop haired lady who looks like a lesbian novelist but could be a poet, photographer or sculptor. She is also intensely fashionable but in a menacing, slightly butch way. I am sure they have ordered the vegan meal and will practice some hot yoga during the flight...
Ah - some diamond encrusted super branded Arabs - probably Lebanese - have just boarded. They've been keeping us all waiting to take off, and now they're fussing over where they sit...they are more fashionable than me by a factor of 15 I'd estimate, but MUCH less fashionable than everyone else at the "front"... Although their jewellery / watches / accessories are conspicuously expensive...naturally.
It is refreshing however that I am clearly the most relaxed person in this portion of the plane. I am not suffering from fashion anxiety, nor worrying if my bum looks big in these trousers. I'm not remotely concerned about which exhibit is "coolest" in Venice - although I am interested in seeing both the Palestinian Pavillion and the UAE Pavillion - both making their debuts at this Biennale.
I am also looking forward to taking some "intimate" photographs of Venezia - the beautiful old lady that is the city I am travelling to... And to remembering my walks and excursions around Venice when I was a student down the road in Padua some 18 years ago - and the memories of that glorious "temps perdu"...
It is a good thing that I am not suffering from style insecurity and fashion anxiety - after all I am going to Italy where style is genetically transferred, where a tailor is more highly regarded and valued than a doctor or a priest and where fashion is a way of life.
I'll change into my sack before landing...it's Armani darling.
Mazmiz
Great new Arabic word learned this week... Onomatopeic to a certain degree, it trips off the tongue easily once learned....
Ladies & gentlemen, I present "Mazmiz"...
As NK defines the word:
"Ah it has so many meanings, but it comes from the word mazza or mezza, which is the Arabic version of tapas - you know, the Arabic food you slowly take in and digest while having sheesha; the appetizers of humous, mutabbal, salads etc. The idea is to slowly enjoy and savour each bite and every taste, taking sheesha*, tea and 'arak** breaks in between, hence the verb, mazmiz. So mazmiz is to spend time enjoying something."
*sheesha is the water pipe of hookah. A popular Arab past time which is shared also in Turkey where it is known as the Nargile. The tobacco is mostly fruit flavoured and mild, although the hard core aficionados smoke a very dark black tobacco, somewhat similar to tarmac...
**Arak - the Arab equivalent of Ouzo from Greece or Rake from Turkey. An aniseed based spirit - usually very strong- and taken with fish or mezza as an accompaniment. Some drink it straight, some with water and some with ice. Very popular in the Levant countries esp. Lebanon and Jordan.
Anyway, Mazmiz is a wonderful word which reflects the importance of things like food and drink on the one hand and taking one's time to slowly enjoy them on the other. Of course the word becomes metaphorical as per the definition above and applies to all sorts of things that can be savoured and enjoyed.
Having mazmiz'd the word mazmiz I am now off to mazmiz Venice which I haven't visited for more than 15 years and go see the Biennale...more anon...
Ladies & gentlemen, I present "Mazmiz"...
As NK defines the word:
"Ah it has so many meanings, but it comes from the word mazza or mezza, which is the Arabic version of tapas - you know, the Arabic food you slowly take in and digest while having sheesha; the appetizers of humous, mutabbal, salads etc. The idea is to slowly enjoy and savour each bite and every taste, taking sheesha*, tea and 'arak** breaks in between, hence the verb, mazmiz. So mazmiz is to spend time enjoying something."
*sheesha is the water pipe of hookah. A popular Arab past time which is shared also in Turkey where it is known as the Nargile. The tobacco is mostly fruit flavoured and mild, although the hard core aficionados smoke a very dark black tobacco, somewhat similar to tarmac...
**Arak - the Arab equivalent of Ouzo from Greece or Rake from Turkey. An aniseed based spirit - usually very strong- and taken with fish or mezza as an accompaniment. Some drink it straight, some with water and some with ice. Very popular in the Levant countries esp. Lebanon and Jordan.
Anyway, Mazmiz is a wonderful word which reflects the importance of things like food and drink on the one hand and taking one's time to slowly enjoy them on the other. Of course the word becomes metaphorical as per the definition above and applies to all sorts of things that can be savoured and enjoyed.
Having mazmiz'd the word mazmiz I am now off to mazmiz Venice which I haven't visited for more than 15 years and go see the Biennale...more anon...
Monday, June 1, 2009
The sound of apples...
A challenge....
Pick the most gentle, kind and benificent person in the world....
Pick the person you love the most...
Now ask them to eat a nice crunchy apple while sitting two feet from you. Yes, two feet away.
The first crunch and munch won't bother you that much. It'll catch your attention, maybe even grate a little, but it's not a disaster.
The second crunch and munch might start to tick you off a little...the third for sure.
By about half way around the apple core, you are quietly contemplating painful deaths for the person that is literally torturing you with their noisy eating of noisy fruit. If they make it all the way to the end of the apple without at least one attempted assassination then they are indeed fortunate or you simply lack imagination in picking a method for their immediate demise.
Now that is for a loved one, an elder, a close friend.
Now imagine the fate of the stranger crunching and munching next to me with no thought or care for the others around him. Yes, I am murderous - and all the more so due to the cheesy American chewing his gum with an open mouth.
May they both rest in peace...
Anyway.... Got to fly now...
PS. This story is true except for the mysterious deaths of "Chewing Gum Man" and "Mr. Apple Head". Sadly they both live and will be torturing you in a lounge soon...
Pick the most gentle, kind and benificent person in the world....
Pick the person you love the most...
Now ask them to eat a nice crunchy apple while sitting two feet from you. Yes, two feet away.
The first crunch and munch won't bother you that much. It'll catch your attention, maybe even grate a little, but it's not a disaster.
The second crunch and munch might start to tick you off a little...the third for sure.
By about half way around the apple core, you are quietly contemplating painful deaths for the person that is literally torturing you with their noisy eating of noisy fruit. If they make it all the way to the end of the apple without at least one attempted assassination then they are indeed fortunate or you simply lack imagination in picking a method for their immediate demise.
Now that is for a loved one, an elder, a close friend.
Now imagine the fate of the stranger crunching and munching next to me with no thought or care for the others around him. Yes, I am murderous - and all the more so due to the cheesy American chewing his gum with an open mouth.
May they both rest in peace...
Anyway.... Got to fly now...
PS. This story is true except for the mysterious deaths of "Chewing Gum Man" and "Mr. Apple Head". Sadly they both live and will be torturing you in a lounge soon...
Air France June 1st
The afternoon has been filled with looped reports on TV and radio about the disappearance of the Air France passenger jet en route from Brazil to Paris.
It is now feared lost with electrical problems being suspected as the cause (according to the last BBC bulletin I caught). Some 200 plus passengers and crew believed to be lost - their families desperately clinging to the shreds of hope as they wait in the crisis centre of Charles De Gaulle airport, praying for news they rationally know will not be delivered to them.
As someone who flies around 100 times a year, there are many moments where I consider "the odds". Many moments where I "take stock" of my life, the people in it, my wrongdoings and regrets...
Today's tragedy is a sad reminder that life can often be short. But is a short life in itself a tragedy?
Is a short life of comparative happiness better than a long life of comparative misery?
Is the greater tragedy of those that ended their lives so prematurely and suddenly in this air disaster - or is the worse tragedy that of those who survive the dead, who have to live their lives with the dull and constant pain of loss and mourning?
I hope I never have to answer that question for myself or those that I am close to.
What I am sure of is that the brevity of life is surely the most compelling reason to live the most we can. To explore, to love, to risk, to laugh, to travel, to spend as many moments as we can engaged with life.
I have always subscribed to the idea that it is better to regret something you have done than something you haven't... That we heal by moving on, not by sitting still. That we grow with experience not with time.
I hope the flight I am about to board gets me to where I am going. I hope all the flights I am on in the future do the same...
But if one of them doesn't then the next best thing I can hope for is that I lived the most I could.
I pray for those who survive the dead, for their comfort and relief from sorrow.
For those who died, I hope they lived the most they could. Anything else would be a tragedy.
It is now feared lost with electrical problems being suspected as the cause (according to the last BBC bulletin I caught). Some 200 plus passengers and crew believed to be lost - their families desperately clinging to the shreds of hope as they wait in the crisis centre of Charles De Gaulle airport, praying for news they rationally know will not be delivered to them.
As someone who flies around 100 times a year, there are many moments where I consider "the odds". Many moments where I "take stock" of my life, the people in it, my wrongdoings and regrets...
Today's tragedy is a sad reminder that life can often be short. But is a short life in itself a tragedy?
Is a short life of comparative happiness better than a long life of comparative misery?
Is the greater tragedy of those that ended their lives so prematurely and suddenly in this air disaster - or is the worse tragedy that of those who survive the dead, who have to live their lives with the dull and constant pain of loss and mourning?
I hope I never have to answer that question for myself or those that I am close to.
What I am sure of is that the brevity of life is surely the most compelling reason to live the most we can. To explore, to love, to risk, to laugh, to travel, to spend as many moments as we can engaged with life.
I have always subscribed to the idea that it is better to regret something you have done than something you haven't... That we heal by moving on, not by sitting still. That we grow with experience not with time.
I hope the flight I am about to board gets me to where I am going. I hope all the flights I am on in the future do the same...
But if one of them doesn't then the next best thing I can hope for is that I lived the most I could.
I pray for those who survive the dead, for their comfort and relief from sorrow.
For those who died, I hope they lived the most they could. Anything else would be a tragedy.
The Devil Inside...
Ever had that restless feeling? An itch you can't scratch? A frustration that won't go away and you don't know what it is? A desire to do SOMETHING, but you don't know what?
I call it the "devil inside", or simply that I have "the devil in me"...
Happens from time to time - no rhyme, no reason...although I guess more often when I'm tired.
I've noticed other people get the devil inside when they have too much to drink
I can only shake it by finding something that focuses my mind and takes me away from the devil. Sometimes it's music, sometimes it's exercise, sometimes conversation and sometimes it's the love of a good woman... Or TLC as NK calls it... There are many ways to get the devil out...
The worst part of "the devil inside" is the energy one has but which isn't getting used... And instead turns into "grrrrr" - the sound of bubbling aggression waiting for a way to be expressed.
When I have the devil inside me it's usually a good time to keep me away from: fools, screaming children, white van drivers, the French, and certainly Saudi Arabia...
I write this from the "makeshift" lounge in Riyadh airport...surrounded by people talking inanely on their cell phones (why am I required to become an expert witness in other people's lives?), drinking horrid tea and counting the seconds until I board the aircraft...
There is the sound of "grrrr" being reported in the lounge near Gate 11....
Only I know what it is and why...
I call it the "devil inside", or simply that I have "the devil in me"...
Happens from time to time - no rhyme, no reason...although I guess more often when I'm tired.
I've noticed other people get the devil inside when they have too much to drink
I can only shake it by finding something that focuses my mind and takes me away from the devil. Sometimes it's music, sometimes it's exercise, sometimes conversation and sometimes it's the love of a good woman... Or TLC as NK calls it... There are many ways to get the devil out...
The worst part of "the devil inside" is the energy one has but which isn't getting used... And instead turns into "grrrrr" - the sound of bubbling aggression waiting for a way to be expressed.
When I have the devil inside me it's usually a good time to keep me away from: fools, screaming children, white van drivers, the French, and certainly Saudi Arabia...
I write this from the "makeshift" lounge in Riyadh airport...surrounded by people talking inanely on their cell phones (why am I required to become an expert witness in other people's lives?), drinking horrid tea and counting the seconds until I board the aircraft...
There is the sound of "grrrr" being reported in the lounge near Gate 11....
Only I know what it is and why...
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Old Shoes & Picture Postcards
Tom Waits
Closing Time
1973
A few years after I entered the world, a man in California was making one of the finest records ever produced. The record was "Closing Time" - the first major release for Tom Waits in 1973, thus beginning one of the most remarkable careers in music and a catalogue of musical genius, eccentricity and amazing insights.
It is my favourite album of all time, has been a gift given to many people, a staple accompaniment to the blue moments of life and an old friend when 3am strikes and the need to feed the ears arises...
One of the tracks on Closing Time is "Old Shoes & Picture Postcards". A classic Waits narrative that begins with the words "I'm singing this song, it's time it was sung. I've been putting it off for a while . . ."
And that is why I am back to writing down my observations on a more regular basis - and not just on road trips . . .
And as the song goes:
"So goodbye, so long, the road calls me dear . . ."
And so indeed it does . . .
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