In loving memory

Los Angeles, 12-14 December 2008

Photo Mitzi Mandel

Back from or to the jungle?

Just came back from Mexico. Eleven days traveling throughout the Yucatan peninsula and all the way down to Chiapas, a couple of which spent in the jungle with swarms of mosquitos who mistook me for a taqueria, plus the last three days spent in Tulum where electricity is limited to nighttime use, from 6 to 10. You get back home and you think what a great, unforgettable vacation, but I’m glad to be back to the comforts of home. Then you turn on the tap in your NY apartment and… have the water come out black? Gee… que viva Mexico!

“You're entering a world of pain, son.”

We are in recession. Some say that everything will rebound soon while others say that we're in an economic crisis that rivals the one of the 30's. The specter of the Great Depression fuels fear and panic. “We're going into the worst global recession for sure that that we've ever seen”, Obama told the  press today.

It’s almost impossible to carry on with this kind of drama almost everyday. No wonder the Kremlin sent an order to all newspapers and broadcasters banning the words "collapse" and "crisis." In search for positive news, I found out that the global economic meltdown will not impact motor sport in India (The India Times) and will not have a major impact on the NBA (NewsDaily Entertainment Headlines). Also, McDonald's sales rise during economic crisis. Chief Executive Jim Skinner commented: "McDonald's strong October sales show that we are delivering what customers count on from McDonald's —choice, variety and high-quality food and beverages at affordable prices". I would have rather said “we are delivering what customers count on from McDonald's — affordable prices with a side order of burger and fries”. Well, I’m not a big fan of McDonald’s but at least Mcemployees won’t get Mcfired.

Thus far, our life hasn't really changed much. Thanks God we have not had to resort to living on Ramen noodles. But maybe unconsciously, somehow we adjusted to the general mood of doom and gloom. Our life in the new Great Depression includes:

The New Yorker. My husband received a gift subscription to the New Yorker for his birthday. A typical article is 15 pages long, a real challenge given the increasingly short attention span of the average web user. Reading the New Yorker is a full time job. Indeed I was offered a job a couple of weeks ago and I had to refuse: “Sorry, I just subscribed to the New Yorker.” And more, it’s a zen exercise. The first few times you read one of those neverending stories that any other journalist would have told in two columns you get an urge to yell out "get on with it already!" at least a dozen times. This side effect disappears with daily practice. Once you attain enlightment you’re all set. (Reader, you may have noticed that this post is longer than usual; that’s because I’m trying to do to you what the New Yorker is doing to me.)

The Philoctetes Center is our new preferred destination for lectures. It’s a club of psys whose declared mission is to “promote an integrated approach to the understanding of creativity and the imaginative process.” Emotionally appealing words like creativity and imagination have been used here in order not to scare the shit out of potential members and attendees. Truth is, one of their last roundtable was aimed to “consider theoretical questions in relation to Franco-Algerian politics, the cinema of cruelty, the use of off-screen space, and the Freudian scenario of the bourgeois family”. Last Sunday we went to the Philoctetes for an afternoon roundtable and film screening devoted to Samuel Beckett. Our motivation for attending the event was because of John Turturro taking part as a panelist. Seeing Jesus Quintana from the Big Lebowski discussing Beckett is priceless.

The Big Lebowski Fest was supposed to be the highlight of the year, if only it weren’t sold out when we got to the place. While my husband first tried to argue with security and then to sneak in, I stopped to think about this annual celebration of a massive cult movie that holds sold-out events all across the United States. Dedicated to those who have no clue where they are in life right now.

Election night

Fall foliage, Ben & Jerry and maple syrup

A long weekend in Vermont.

Ordinary Life in Extraordinary Times

I haven’t been writing anything lately because I was overwhelmed by all the things happening on this side of the world. The credit crunch, the bailout saga, Sarah Palin and the bridge to nowhere, Sarah Palin and her glasses, Sarah Palin and moose stew…

These events do have an impact on everyday life, as I experienced in my own small way.

I was shopping at Whole Foods the other day. Looking for the #1 item on my grocery list, garlic, I strolled up and down the vegetable aisle four times. Eventually I had to ask for help. One shop assistant tells me to follow him, but we end up staring at an empty basket. “No te preocupe” he goes, “I’ll go get it in the cellar”. Good, go. And while he’s after my holy graal, I’m left contemplating this successful business that freed rich, health conscious people from feeling guilty about their consumption, a psychological absolution of our excesses.

My thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of the shop assistant who reemerged from the cellar and was standing across the hall with his arms wide open and a sorry expression on his face as saying, "Holy crap! Do you believe we run out of garlic?”. I replied to his Latin non-verbal signal with a Latin non-verbal shrug and a facial expression of disbelief as saying: “The world’s leader in natural and organic foods, with more than 270 stores in North America and the UK, with $ 6.6 billion revenue, on the index of the 100 largest non-financial companies traded on Nasdaq run out of garlic? We want change, dude. And some garlic with it.”

9/11 Remembrance

The Interfaith Floating Lantern Ceremony reflects a Buddhist tradition to comfort and honor the spirits of the deceased. Floating lighted lanterns were released on the waters of the Hudson River, accompanied by the chanting of Buddhist priests.

From Park Slope to the Dragačevo Assembly

Thursday morning, around 6.30 am I opened the window to greet the city and a smell of fried chicken came through. I’m back home.

My summer can be summarized under the title “from Brooklyn to Guča”.

June: we went to a Balkan music concert at Barbes, in Brooklyn. Quality-wise it was like a garage band concert. Yet the concert was fun and the music galvanizing. We found it amazing that this type of music, successfully exported by Kusturica’s movies during the 1990s, has obtained widespread appreciation to the point that a small band from Brooklyn can fill halls on their own. The adrenalin-rushing rhythms conquered each and every soul at at Barbes, although not everyone was familiar with Balkan music. Like the girl standing next to us who, in the middle of the concert, turned to her boyfriend and asked “this is like reggae, right?”. He smiled kindly at her. After 20 minutes she tries again: “Possibly tango?”. Meanwhile, I decided I wanted the real thing: Guča.

August: Guča, Serbia. The trumpet festival, also known as the Dragačevo Assembly, is the largest trumpet event in the world with 700,000 visitors making their way to a town of 2,000 people every year.

Notes for file from my Guča:

This isn’t Disneyland, dude. Neither Prague -> 98% of the visitors are from within Serbia or neighboring countries. Watch out, in a few years the event will be completely 'gentrified'. Let’s hope the Lonely Planet guidebook keeps ignoring it,

I didn't know you could play trumpet that way (Miles Davis, a Guča Festival visitor) -> the Roma musicians are the best,

Arteriosclerosis anyone? -> entire pigs and lambs rotating on spits above open fires were pretty much the only item on the menu,

I found the perfect Christmas gift for Carla del Ponte -> street side vendors selling T-shirts emblazoned with images of "Radovan Karadzic and Ratko Mladic national heroes".

Building amenities

We had a barbecue dinner last night on our terrace and our guests today sent me a thank you note with a link to a NY Times article about rooftop dining in the city which quotes a Fire Department spokesman saying that both gas and charcoal grills are illegal to use on roofs. My friends commented: “We’ll ignore the part about using charcoal on rooftops as illegal!”.

Well, first off, as the article points out “that law is unheeded by many sky-high chefs.” Yes, including these two sky-high chefs here. Secondly, what friends who live in luxury Trump buildings fail to understand is that our building is managed by a Russian and a bunch of Kosovars who consider both grilling and shooting in the building perfectly legitimate, as long as you clean after your mess –remove charcoal debris, dispose of the corpse, etc…

“This is a great building”, my neighbor told me when we first met in the elevator a few days after we moved in. It’s not a great building. It’s a zoo.

In this kolkhoz that is our building, we get daily updates about Kosovo every time we step in or out. The standard conversation with my doorman goes like this:

me “hey, how are you today?”

doorman: “good, Taiwan recognized Kosovo’s independence today”, or, when Putin/Medvedev had a bad hair day and engaged in some Russian shit stirring, my doorman would say “not a good day, Russia is threatening to use force over Kosovo.” And so on. Basically, it’s like having the Pristina Times delivered to your door every morning.

One day, for the first time ever, he had something else to talk about:

me: “hey, how are you today?”

doorman: “ not very well. My uncle died yesterday.”

me: “oh, I’m terribly sorry.”

doorman: “but you know what’s the good thing?”

me: “what?”

doorman: “he died having seen Kosovo independent.”

Un Venerdì a Brooklyn

e sembrava Mea Shearim.

Downtown walk

Downtown is not a place where we go often. Overall, three things are worth the trip:

1) Century 21, a bargain-hunter’s dream, insanely crowded and inappropriately dubbed ’NYC’s best kept secret’;

2) taking your guest for a walk across the Brooklyn bridge and, despite your husband’s recommendation not to give his visiting friends a lecture on landmark buildings because they don’t give a damn, bring them to the Woolworth building, Customs House, Federal Hall and Trinity Church until they drop;

3) getting married at the City Hall before Carrie does.

This last Saturday at the Financial District was a little different:

- we walked around with a US History PhD student who offered the ammunition to finish off my future guests,

-then we wandered around for an hour or so, looking for a decent place to have a bite. We ended up in a diner where evidently someone is paying off the health inspector. I sat at the sticky counter, asked my waiter what was that bird whistle. It’s the cook, he said, the cook is a bit nuts. All right, as long as he can fix a ceasar salad. Where can I wash my hands? Hmm…. He turns to the other waiter: ¿Dónde está el baño? They start a discussion. Outside, inside, upstairs… They didn’t seem to know. Well, where does the parrot cook wash his claws, then? I passed on the salmonella salad and we left.

-we came across an Italian hole-in-the-wall type of place where the cook and owner was half Italian and everything was fresh and cooked from scratch. A little Italian paradise.

-after lunch we headed over to an electronics expo held in the Winter Garden lobby at the World Financial Center. The expo was disappointing. Moreover, although the Winter Garden is a lovely place, there is always this somber feeling of the sorrow that hangs over the whole area when you look out those $3.5 million new front windows facing the giant hole and agonizing construction.

Something's rotten in Chinatown

I love Chinatown. I love Chinatown because it’s pure Blade Runner, except there are no camels. Everyone else hates it. When I take my guests to Chinatown I can read the disgust on their face.

It stinks, they say. The sanitation standards may sometimes be dubious, I say. Moreover, it may stink in absolute terms, whereas in relative terms it’s just slightly smellier and filthier than the rest of the city. Plus, according to French standards, "the stinkier the better". Finally, in the grandeur of New York, a stinky neighborhood is not just a stinky neighborhood. It’s a place for discovery and celebration, where you can take a walking-tour of Chinatown's illustrious garbage.

They say it doesn’t give you a real taste of China, and China itself is way more progressive than Chinatown is. There's no denying it, but this is an immigrant neighborhood. Just like Little Italy. Naples, case in point, is more progressive than… Nevermind.

I go to Chinatown at least once a week to buy fresh produce. The moment I’m out of the subway, I’m like Leonard Zelig in Woody Allen’s movie. I immediately chinatize myself. My self-chinatization includes not giving a damn about getting bumped around by old asian ladies, speaking pidgin and masterly dodging spit. Plus, I feel shorter. And I walk faster. I don’t argue semantics with Chinese who aren’t fluent in English. Sometimes you see these girls at the nail salon asking complicated questions like “Do you have sun-dried cherry tomato nail color?” With a puzzled look, the pidgin speaking manicurist systematically repeats the last word: “colol?”. Instead of simplifying it, the girl repeats the question, this time shouting “DO YOU HAVE SUN-DRIED CHERRY TOMATO NAIL COLOR?”. Needless to say, they don’t get too far.

I don’t do that. I’m a result-oriented, one-word communicator. Like the other day at this no thrills no frills back rub place. I wanted a receipt, so I asked: “Receipt?”. She asked back: “Sipt?”, I nodded: “Yes, sipt”. No, of course she can’t give you a sipt. You think you are at the Four Seasons Hotel? I learned my lesson. In Chinatown less is more and never ask for a sipt.

Some of my favorite shots of Chinatown:

This is what I mean by pure Blade Runner. Stall selling cherries in the snow, February 2008.

Store cat. The odd thing is that this is a fish store.

A couple of ideas for China's Olympics

This morning we went to the Union Square market to buy new plants for our terrace. While looking for bay laurel plants, the following surreal conversation took place between my husband and a vendor:

husband: do you have laurel plants?

vendor: laurel? I don’t think so… what is it like?

husband: it’s green [bravo, great hint], it’s used to marinate meat [right, unlike all other herbs that we normally use to wash the scooter]…

vendor: ….?

husband: [with his fingers around the head] like the laurel wreath that Roman emperors used to wear on the head…

vendor: ….?

husband: like those branches used to crown winners of olympic competitions…

vendor: parsley?

Manolo vs Duane Reade

I took this pic last weekend in Union Square where hundreds of people lined up to see Sex and the City.

This gal I saw walking with plastic bags wrapped around her feet is living proof that not every woman in NY has a shoe fetish.

EU Pride and Prejudice

Last night we attended a reception for the launch of a US environmental campaign, a massive consumer engagement initiative which brings together companies and government agencies to help people drive down their carbon footprints. For example, campaign partner Marks & Spencer is encouraging its customers to lower their washing temperature to 30˚C, a car insurance company offers up to 15% off its standard rates to clients that drive an environmentally friendly car, London mayor Livingstone is setting the good example by refraining from flushing the toilet if he had only a pee, etc…

We spoke with a few American environmentalists who praised the EU for being light years ahead of the United States in terms of advanced and innovative environmental policy development. They acknowledged that EU best practice and existing standards provide valuable guidance for incorporating environmental concerns into the US national agenda. I was thrilled and flattered. For once, we are the role models. I guess my husband got way too excited because at a certain point I heard him saying that in Europe we are very glad the US is finally moving towards “the adoption of policies we developed and implemented 20 years ago..” Wow, wow, cool down, I thought, or they’ll ask us to repay all the Cheddar cheese my grandma got from the Marshall Plan.

Anyway, for a change we are seen as a world leader in something, and it feels good. True, Europe has become a safe haven for terrorists but hey, at least we teach those damned jihadists to lower their washing temperature to 30˚C.

Rapporto Festa 2 Giugno

Mi aspettavo di vedere, che ne so, Sofia Loren o Al Pacino, e invece mi sono beccata Melba Ruffo di Calabria, non senza riuscire ad evitare l’elegante uscita “Oh, ma che ce frega di Melba Ruffo” davanti ad un diplomatico italiano; le nostre autorita’ hanno dato discorsi improntati a temi di grande attualita’ quali Meucci, Puccini e Toscanini; ho appreso che Boccelli e’ un bastardo che picchia moglie e figli; ho appreso che per una soppressata come si deve bisogna andare al Bronx; una ragazza straordinaria che ho conosciuto la settimana scorsa portava un ombretto glitterato che cerco disperatamente da quando due anni fa l’ho visto indosso alla moglie di Totti in TV, e me ne ha regalato uno (per le interessate: marca MAC ed esce solo a Natale, almeno a Beirut, go figure…).

L’highlight della serata: una mozzarella di bufala che farebbe risorgere Meucci, Puccini e pure Toscanini.

Impact of EU harmonization on dance parties

Going to the party thrown by the Austrian Consulate... in the elevator with a Polish couple... sidelong glances between me and the woman. Panic. I was in a white linen suit and golden stilettos, she was wearing a flowery hawaiian shirt and flip-flops. “Am I overdressed?” I leaned over my husband and whispered, “No, no…”  he replied. She whispered something in her husband's ear and he replied “Nie, Nie…”

Turned out the party was a full blown celebration of personal styles.

This is what we call EU harmonization: one party, 27 different interpretations of the dress code.

Sometimes life confronts us with hard choices

I would very much like to attend a lecture by Louis Ferrante tonight. The guy is a Gambino-family insider who spent eight years in jail for committing some of the most lucrative robberies in US history, refused to cooperate with the FBI against former associates of the Gambino family, wrote a book (From Prison to Proust) and converted to Orthodox Judaism. There is nothing overly exciting about a Queens born mafiaman who resolved that, as if eight years waiting for freedom weren’t enough, he shall wait another 2000 years to shake hands with the Messiah. What struck me instead was the picture accompanying the article in Time Out about the Non-Motivational Speaker Lecture Series of which Ferrante is guest. The photo portrays a speaker giving his presentation with a tampax tampon stuck up his nose. At least I suppose that’s a tampon. The caption says it was a demonstration of ‘how to alienate your fellow passengers’. Would I feel alienated by sitting in the train next to a man with a tampon stuck up his nose? Is there anything a fellow passenger could shove up his nose without stirring feelings of alienation? A nasal spray, for example, which is thematically pertinent and thus rationally acceptable? His metro ticket, in case he's got no pockets (functionally understandable)? These are some of the existential questions that stirred my enthusiasm for the event.

Unfortunately we also have an invitation to an advance screening of a movie for tonight. My husband told me the other day that he couldn’t make it because the movie starts at 6.45 and he’s got a meeting at 5.30. So this morning I came up with the Gambino plan:

me: “You know, we could go to this lecture by Louis Ferrante tonight. It’s at 8.00, which leaves you with plenty of time…”

husband: “Who’s Louis Ferrante”

me: “I don’t know, but look, he’s got a tampax shoved up his nose!”

Well, I guess my husband has been sitting in one of those useless we-can-save-the-world-you-go-first meeting this morning, absorbed in some tampax-themed soul searching. He called an hour ago to let me know that after all he’s not supposed to speak on any of the agenda items and thus he can make it for tonight’s movie.

My friend the TV advice guy explained to me that an advance screening is usually a longer cut of the movie, where the consulting firm organizing the event asks the audience for feedback, sometimes they hand out surveys and –quote- ‘you fill in whatever bubble you think is appropriate’. Having been denied the thrill of a lecture by a Jewish mafia man with a tampax stuck up his nose, I’m resolved to take full advantage of my advance screening experience and I have prepared a couple of answers such as “I think this scene best reflects Schopenhauer's nuanced differentiations of the universal substratum, propounding the nonrational, phenomenologist will as the ultimate reality’. I can see those Nielsen folks reading my inappropriate bubble and going “what the f---k?? Who does he think he is? Louis Ferrante?”.

Lower East Side Camel Caravan

I hate dogs. But I would have never dared to tell this black camel that I saw walking his owner on leash around the Lower East Side the other day.

Veni, vidi, velcri

According to state law no vehicle with a license plate can be parked on the sidewalk. Many garages won't rent space to scooters and motorcycles. There are no on-street scooter-designated parking spots in the city. These are some of the reasons why many Vespa riders in Manhattan fasten the license plate to the scooter with velcro (see pic), and just pop it off after parking illegally on the sidewalk so that there is no way to identify them. Oh, this neapolitan attitude feels like home… I just wish I had put that heavenly wisdom into practice at the time I was the parking ticket queen of Rome.

Anyway, there is reason to believe the velcro trick has its days counted. With scooter sales in New York City growing 120% per year, the cops can no longer ignore the issue and in some cases they tow scooters parked with their plates removed, treating them as ‘abandoned vehicles’. On the other hand, last September Piaggio Group Americas has paid for parking for scooters at four lots in NYC as part of a campaign to position two-wheel vehicles as a solution that could greatly reduce this nation’s energy consumption, while helping to preserve our environment and reduce traffic congestion. Not only that. With gas prices rising what is most appealing to scooter riders apparently is the joy of ‘pulling into a gas station behind an SUV and seeing them pay 75 bucks’.

I engaged in a little sociological experiment. I registered on a couple of Italian scooter riders forums and posted a comment on the velcro trick, candidly asking wether the same infamous practice takes place in Italy as well. I’m giving my fellow Romans a couple of months to spread the word. And the Ministry of Interior should thank me I didn’t give the hint to a forum of Naples-based riders.

Someone's getting spoiled here

Things to do in NYC at 7 am :  go see Counting Crows perform live (and free)  on Good Morning America at Bryant Park.

Amazing city. 

A Desperate Finale

The other night we went to a very popular bar in the West Village to meet some friends. They were Belgians and I thought that, like all Belgians, they were friendly, good-natured and genuine people. Plus, they take their beer seriously and deserve the highest admiration and praise for that.

However, all this Belgian goodness surrounding me made me feel guilty about all the fritoland-bashing stuff I write on my blog. I had to order another drink to wash off the guilt. Guilt-free, I looked around and suddenly realized people were dressed in roaring 20's flappers and gangsters outfits. I turned to my husband:

Me: I like this place, it’s cool.

Husband: we never go to bars.

Me: well, that’s because this is a hook-up bar and you’re not supposed to go to hook-up bars with your husband.

Husband: all bars in Manhattan are hook-up bars.

Me: then what’s the added value I get from living in Manhattan?

Husband: you don’t have to wait one year to watch the new episodes of Desperate Housewives?

Right, and tonight is the grand finale: time to grab that remote control, stand up and sing the American national anthem as a token of profound admiration and deep gratitude and knock myself out on the couch.

A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints

The Cardamom peeler’s wife has sent me a birthday card picturing Hanuman, the monkey deity worshipped as a symbol of physical strength, power and perseverance. I love it not only because it reminds me of the colors and the magic of India, but also because it brings back very special memories of the time the Cardamom peeler’s wife and I shared an office in Brussels, although it’s possible that I have distorted memories of her corkboard; did she hang images of hindu gods or George Clooney?

Now, the fact that Hanuman joined St. Rita of Cascia on the magnetic rack hung over my workstation raises some important questions: is this a blasphemy mix or I just set up a strong lobby with formidable power of positive influence on my life? In a multicultural society, would the avatar of Shiva and the patroness of impossible cases join forces? And by the way, now that I know that St. Rita is venerated as ‘la Santa de los impossibles’ who the hell gave me that little icon?

After careful consideration and deep spiritual meditation, I've come to the conclusion that since I received this hindu god card from an Indian catholic friend, there is no reason why Hanuman and St. Rita shouldn’t be working together across religious boundaries.

Here is my dream team.

A dignified coroner’s report

You see those pictures of people in Pompeii and you think, how weird: one quick game of dice after your tea and you're frozen, and that's how people remember you for the next thousand years. Suppose it was the first of dice you've ever played? Suppose you were only doing it to keep your friend Augustus company? Suppose you'd just at the moment finished a brilliant poem or something? Wouldn't it be annoying to be commemorated as a dice player?

Nick Hornby, ‘High Fidelity’

 

Years ago in college, one day I was having a coffee with friends outside the cafeteria when a huge pinecone fell and landed a few inches from me. That pinecone could have hit and split my head open. Perhaps. At least that’s what I imagined and it was at that point that I started fearing a ridiculous death. Second time I escaped a ridiculous death was in Goa, India, when a killer coconut fell from a tremendously tall palm tree missing our group by a few feet.

It’s not fear of death per se. I’m not afraid of dying. Not that I would ever choose to go heli-skiing –i.e. jumping from a helicopter onto wild snow and extreme slopes- or cheerleading, which seems to be the most dangerous and injury-prone sport for women, although if I had to choose I’d prefer to risk my life while being tossed into the air and rotating in a funky costume rather than by jumping out of an helicopter in ski wears that make me look as if I had to survive a bio-chemical disaster.

I’m not afraid of dying in a sense that, for example, I’m not scared of turbulence when flying, meaning that I don’t flip out and scream WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. You never know what Jacks and Sawyers you will find on that tiny island awaiting you in the middle of the Ocean…

I fear a ridiculous death, though. One of those that make people remember you as “that chick that die from a pinecone”. Or, the coroner’s report indicating “death by coconut”.

One would say, stand clear of trees and of course the closing doors. Nope. Not enough. On my way back from Florida I found myself thanking God I didn’t die smashed by a pelican while swimming in the Gulf of Mexico or hit by a 34 kg flying ray jumping out of the water.

"Tips to help you plan for the worst weather"

To do in NY when it’s 12 degree outside with no sign of real spring-like weather and showers are forecast for the next 7 days:

Book a ticket to Florida.

Between Dante's Inferno and the Moskva River

Colin Farrell gave an interview to GQ magazine where he revealed his current passion for Russian baths:

"Hollywood hellraiser Colin Farrell has admitted he is hooked on taking Russian-style steam baths while covered in honey. He was a daily visitor to the 10th Street Russian and Turkish Baths where guests are smothered in honey before steaming." Said Farrell: "There's something very basic about rubbing honey on your skin and going steaming with a bunch of strange Russian men."

I found out about Farrell’s fascination with the 10th Street Russian baths only after I went. I wasn’t expecting to see any Hollywood stars. That’s what I anticipated instead: in the worst case scenario, we would go back home with a newly adopted family of E.coli bacteria or with a sixth toe growing on my foot, in the best case scenario we would see a two-on-one gangster fight between a Viggo Mortensen-looking guy dripping blood and sweat while struggling with knife-wielding Chechnyan assassins.

It didn’t turn out to be what I’ve anticipated. I didn’t even get to see the contingent of the Russian mafia having a sweat right in front of me, although Russian baths were known to be a safe meeting place for rival gang leaders, obviously because weapons are difficult to conceal on a naked body. Yet, the place is wild. And I’m not referring to the fact that last time it was inspected on April 7, 2008 four violations were cited including mice and “not vermin-proof”. Non-germaphobes will love the radiant heat stone room and the ice water pool which feels amazing once the epileptic fit stops and you manage to convince yourself that you are not going to die from pneumonia tomorrow.

And about the honey rubbing, haven’t seen any honey but it seems that Colin Farrell went to rehab to get off ecstasy, cocaine, speed, Jack Daniels and wine. Well, that explains it.

Those 2 hours difference between communism and capitalism

I already forgot what it is like to propel yourself out of the office early like a rocket launched from Cape Canaveral, skipping a meeting or leaving your report unfinished because of the gift you have to buy for your friend’s birthday and all stores in town are closed after six. And you finally make it to the store, panting, it’s twenty to six, you’ve got enough time to choose something more thoughtful than a chocolate box and have it wrapped but, as you step in, the shop assistant or owner looks at you in outrage and contempt, as if you just tried to sexually harass her dog and she wants to eat your guts with mussels and fries, and bitterly spits out 'Mais, Madame, we're closing in 20 minutes...'. You gave her the look of death, the defying I-am-not-leaving-until-I-get-my-f***ing-gift gaze. If only I could strangle her. Not only her. Also Karl Marx, bring him back to life and show him what he's done to Belgium. Forget Russia, Karl, there're three Prada stores in Moscow and as far as I know they're open until nine. Let's get focused on Belgium: would you please shout out loud once and for all that what you wrote is a bunch of crap?

Now things should be different. Yet I can't get my mind around this paradox: if NY is the city that never sleeps, how come department stores close around 8 and thus the sudden urge to buy new sunglasses I got yesterday at 7.30 went unfulfilled?

De intellectus emendatione

I would have added a little bio to this label , like 'Baruch Spinoza, philosopher, born xyz, wrote xyz’.

Kellogg’s estimates the cereal box is read an average of five times in a typical household. If the "reading all sides of the cereal box" ritual applies to the bagels bag, this could become a nation of spinoza-savvy consumers.

Anyway, let me tell you that the Spinoza bagel is not intrinsically good or bad, except to the extent that it is subjectively perceived to be by the individual.

Ieri sera indimenticabile Bohème al Met

Grandissimo spettacolo, eccetto Rodolfo che mi ha rovinato il pathos del primo atto quando affacciato al balcone ha urlato "AMICHI!"

Emozioni da immigrato abruzzese

 

Trovato nel supermercato sotto casa. 

Telephone interview dress code revised

I had a telephone job interview today. My friend A. sent me a message yesterday suggesting that I dress for it because it makes a difference psychologically. I gave her advice serious thought, but the good thing about a telephone interview is that it can reduce your stress level; if you dress for it, won’t your professional outfit bring all the anxiety back? Then I thought that ‘dressing’ does not necessarily mean wearing a suit. It’s about taking the pajamas off and use clothing as a motivating factor. What would be my motivational clothing? When that question came across my mind it was already too late to go out and buy a Batman costume. That’s how I ended up answering the phone in my spinning clothing.

Londrina day: pulling the plug on my Facebook account

I joined facebook in September in an act of submission to peer pressure. Or, say, to please those friends who were begging me to join in and help boost their popularity. Also, I signed up to see what all the fuss was about.

Here is an account of my experience with facebook and the reasons why I believe it is useless or, to put it elegantly, it sucks:

Stage 1: I have been a pretty passive user for a few months.

Stage 2: this is when I got sucked into the whole social networking thing. I was thrilled with facebook and started looking for connections with friends and old acquaintances, all those friends who moved to remote places, people I met at a bus stop 15 years ago, the cashier at my local grocery store in Rome, all past co-workers I couldn't stand... Most people say facebook is great to connect with friends. From my standpoint, facebook was a Ghandian experience, a training ground for practicing tolerance; I came across a bunch of people I loathe, at first I wanted to puke, then I thought 'yeah, why not? let's add this son of a b---h to my friends list'. After all, everyone knows that facebook friends are not real friends, and you teach yourself how to neutralize negative vibes.

Stage 3: when the pests came into the picture. Here are the party poopers: old friends and acquaintances I would never want to be reconnected with. If I wanted to keep in touch with them, I wouldn't have 'lost touch' with them. So simple.

Stage 4: when you stop to think about it and the social scientist in you starts asking questions such as 'isn't this just a narcissist's cyber-playground?' All these guys sharing their dumbest thoughts with 15 million users. Hey, look at me 'Jack is currently reading a book'! Amazing! Thank you for letting me know, seriously! Worst, those who suffer from publicity/privacy schizophrenia. I mean, what am I supposed to do with 'Jane is happy because of what she is going to do tomorrow'??? You either tell me the whole story or just shut up.

They call it social network but the truth is, facebook is about cheap interaction. Social relations means communicating and engaging in a dialogue. There is no dialogue on facebook because there is no content. People look like 5 year old kids picking their nose. They can't articulate a thought that goes beyond the 'Jane is currently reading a book' level of complexity, and social interaction is ultimately reduced to taking quizzes, playing games, sending zombie invitations and poking, with the sole purpose of telling the world what quizz you took, game you played, whom you poked. It's not actual communication, but pieces of digital stammering spammed to hundreds of 'friends'.

Stage 5: when you want to abide by the principle of intellectual honesty to come to a fair judgment by looking at all aspects of the problem. My starting point was: if facebook is inspired by the six degrees of separation and interconnectedness theories, then I can exploit the network's full potential so as to develop some exciting connections. I searched for Jonathan Franzen and Milan Kundera. Guess what? They're on facebook. It seemed too good to be true. In fact, next thing I know, you cannot add them to your friends' list but you can join their fan club. Hm, what a nine day wonder! So, basically, the added value of facebook's gigantic chain of connections is that I can get linked to Jenny Jones from Auburn, Iowa.

Stage 6: I’m strongly considering killing my facebook account. I'm choosing a date. I thought of March 22, marking the anniversary of Sheik Yassin's death in an Israeli helicopter missile strike on his car. But I'm not sure I can stay with facebook for another thirteen months. August 6th is also a possibility: the day the Prefect's office of Londrina, Brazil, authorized the extermination of 50 thousand pigeons.

Fear thou the Londrina judgment day, my facebook!

Vota Calogera

Votato. Con poco entusiasmo e poca cognizione di causa. Alla fine, un po' per esclusione e un po' per affiliazione di schieramento, ho espresso la mia preferenza. E va bene cosi'. D'altronde quando mi ricapita di votare una che si chiama Calogera??

"We appreciate the opportunity to serve you"

I love customer care service in the US. I am and I will always be a very annoying customer in this country. Why? Because here I can. It’s pretty much like the Russian immigrants who had a considerable part in the falls of the Israeli governments in the 90s. Why? Because for the first time they were able to fully exercise their political rights. Likewise, I come from a country, Belgium, where to have my brand new Sonicare toothbrush charger repaired or replaced I had to engage in a 3-month long email exchange with Philips' customer care whose only outcome was a very long email with instructions on how to operate the toothbrush. In Dutch.

Only one year later, when I moved to NY, I was able to finally enjoy my toothbrush thanks to Philips' US customer care; 5 minutes on the phone with an agent and a new charging station was delivered free of charge within three business days. Now you're talking!

Last week it was the food processor's turn. I left the cover on the cooker while I was making dinner and the heat melted it. I contacted KitchenAid. My argument was pretty much along the lines of "your instructions booklet doesn't say the product is not designed to resist the effects of a nuclear reactor explosion". My new cover should be arriving within 7-10 business days, free of charge. Dank u wel!

Welcome to America

Indimenticabile la visita dei miei genitori e di mia sorella a NY! Sorella a parte, navigata "connoisseuse" stelle e strisce, e' stato emozionante presentare ai miei genitori questo grande paese, a loro che ci hanno trasmesso il senso di ammirazione e rispetto per i valori di cui l'America si fa portatrice, che ci hanno regalato la grande opportunita' di viverla e di distinguerci con fiera intelligenza da tutti i micheal-mooristi che hanno popolato e spopolato l'Europa negli ultimi anni.

Ecco la mia top five di questi splendidi giorni passati insieme:

1) il momento in cui sul flight tracker ho seguito il loro aereo attraversare il confine canadese per entrare nello spazio statunitense,
2) noi quattro sotto il cielo stellato di Grand Central,
3) quando ci e' caduta la mascella entrando in una classe 4a di una scuola elementare pubblica del West Village vedendo i bambini al lavoro ognuno sul suo Macbook... naturalmente tutto rigorosamente wireless!
4) l'espressione da bambina golosa di mamma davanti al burro d'arachidi,
5) il record giappo-fotografico dei 950 scatti di papa'!

The most clever squirrel in Manhattan

While his fellows fight for acorns throughout city parks, this guy with a sweet tooth took up permanent residency at a street stall selling roasted peanuts. (photo courtesy of my sister)

Top Five best movies seen Sept-March

1. Paranoid Park, by Gus van Sant
2. Before the Devil Knows you are Dead, by Sidney Lumet
3. There will be Blood, by Paul Thomas Anderson
4. The Savages, starring Philip Seymour Hoffman
5. No country for Old Men, by Ethan and Joel Cohen

Best commercial ever!

Perhaps it's hyperbolic to call it the "best ever," but for sure this is the funniest commercial I've seen in a very long time...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDJGjPMR0zo

My rear window

After having systematically forgotten to bring binoculars to theatre every time I went over the last five months, my field glasses finally saw the light again since the time they spotted a giant squirrel in a forest in Southern India in 2007: tonight they received their first New York premiere at the Carnegie Hall.

I was so proud of the fact that I remembered to take my binoculars that I didn’t mind we were going to a classical concert, not to the opera or theatre, and thus in theory there wasn’t that much to see. For those who wonder how one can possibly get excited about remembering to do something that he has or wants to do, please put things into perspective by considering the person's memory failure history, i.e. all the times you take your seat at the opera/theatre and go: “oh shit, I forgot the binoculars”. Repeat 10 times in 5 months. There you go.

What I observed through my binoculars gainsay the theory according to which there isn’t much to see in a classical concert, with all due respect to the giant squirrel. Here are my orchestrical-zoological observations:

• There is nothing more out of tune -pardon the pun- and disturbing than an obese violinist. A violin player has to be slender by definition, delicate like the instrument he or she plays. On the contrary, it was ok for the kettledrums/timpani player to be obese. I truly appreciated his keeping those four huge beasts under control.
• The rear players look much more committed than the front row guys. The xylophonists spent all their time during breaks and intermission discussing the score and rehearsing, whereas most of the violins were chit-chatting, legs stretched out, sipping margaritas and smoking Cuban cigars.
• The tam-tam or gong was very disappointing. At a certain point the tam-tam player gripped the mallet and angled his body around the instrument thus signalling -I naively thought- that he was ready to strike. In fact, he kept that posture for 4 long minutes during which I didn’t dare to move my binoculars away from him out of fear of missing the one-second show. In the end it turned out that the sound was nothing like… what a gong is supposed to sound like, I mean like the Addams family’s gong ("You rang?"). I have to admit that Stravinsky’s sense of rhythm is much more articulate than that of Gomez Addams and thus the gong sound was disappointingly weak, the strike almost imperceptible. In short, I’ve been staring at a gong-hugger for 4 minutes for nothing.
• Harpists: I wanna found out how they manage to take the instrument home. No wonder I never met a harpist in the subway after a concert.

I loved Stravinsky’s Petrouchka. It bears all the powerful and evocative elements of Russian culture.

“My music is best understood by children and animals.”

Igor Stravinsky

Seeing penguins in Koreatown

For Valentine’s day my husband gave me the perfect gift: we went to an exquisite luxury spa in Koreatown to each enjoy a pampering evening of rejuvenation. Aura Wellness Spa features what they call “Therapeutic Grottos for healing and relaxation”. In other words, three or four igloo shaped ovens at lobster boiling hot temperature, and an igloo shaped refrigerator at Arctic cold temperature.

Once we overcame the mirage effects and managed to stop discussing Kosovo’s independence with lions and penguins, we relaxed, feeling like jello and had fun, an indescribable jello-type of fun. We also met a guy and got some travel tips for Miami and Florida (who says new yorkers are rude? And I swear he was not part of the penguin gang). We ended up talking about Slovakia, his girlfriend's home country. I was tempted to utter that European joke that goes: “the most important thing to know about Slovakia is that it’s not Slovenia”, but I wasn’t sure he would have appreciated the inside humour. Even if I had told him that the joke works the other way around too, when speaking of Slovenia...

After a short while, we were brought to the area where an intense massage began. I'm no stranger to shiatsu massage but when I saw the Korean masseuse climbing on top of me I knew something was up. She could barely speak English. The only word she said was “TENSION” when she first squeezed my neck muscles. Next thing I know, I was no longer a spa client. I was her piece of meat. She made the utmost use of her masochist skills on my right shoulder, punching, spanking, smacking and elbowing all the knots in my muscles. At that point the flock of penguins was back.

I was glad to go home with my right shoulder. I am glad my Korean torturer did not keep it as a souvenir. The next day I walked around town like a zombie, true, but a healthy and relaxed one. After all, we hope this is going to become our monthly torture ritual.