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Best quote of the last 4 days: "All those women dressed up in line to see the Sex and The City movie, I realized they're not just dressed up, they're dressed up like the characters in the movie! It's like Star Wars for girls, which character are you?"
Just a quick update, my first night in Barcelona was ok except that apparently my bags are lost to the world. Upon arrival in London I'd had my first indication that something could be wrong when the Iberia folks couldn't check my bag (already checked through in San Fran) with me due to the fact that the baggage check was misprinted rendering the numbers unreadable. This is of course a tragic situation since it means I have to buy clothes to work in at least today before I head in to the office. Hopefully my bag will be delivered by the weekend, but we'll see.
In the meantime the hotel is in a strange area. The hotel itself is quite nice and very modern but for some reason it is nestled in among "wirrash" and other sorts of warehouses. I got in rather late due to my late connection through Heathrow so I didn't get to see much other than the various mechanics' workshops on my way from the metro station. I did get the chance to eat at a small cafe which was open (at midnight!) nearby and that seemed to be in a shopping area so who knows maybe the hotel is on some sort of boundary. Anyway I am going to see if I can get a phone really cheaply today (with the Euro where it is I am asking for a lot!) and also go buy at least one shirt and some socks or something to tide me over till at least the weekend - I guess I am lucky! Since I am trying to do a little traveling on the weekend this forces me to travel so lightly that all I have is my laptop and my toothbrush :)
UPDATE: the bag has been found and delivered ahead of me to the wedding location, leaving me free to roam the city with just a backpack!
lofatmo note: my Dad does this when he travels. He gets a feel for a place and immediately feels the need to share it (familiar?). Anyway, he's currently visiting my sister in Shanghai and I wrote this. I thought you might all be interested.
“ EYELESS “ IN SHANGHAI !
Today, walking alone around our neighborhood in Shanghai, I discovered that I am virtually deaf, dumb, blind, and completely illiterate! This, let me tell you, is extremely frustrating if you are fortunate (or unfortunate) not to have experienced being deaf, dumb or blind…or illiterate.
Imagine being in the middle of the cacophony of a Chinese city, ”seeing” people talking, arguing, fighting, shouting in that unmistakable 3rd world fashion, but being unable to “hear” and understand what they say ! They try to speak s-l-o-w-l-y (when and if they address you), as one does when speaking to a child or a retard, and still you do not have a clue. And I must be dumb because the maximum I can do is utter monosyllabic noises, shake my head, gesticulate with my hands and, when all this does not help, grin like a village fool. If they address me (and they wouldn’t, being too busy ogling at this alien from Planet of the Apes), or if I want to utter the sort of words that one almost involuntarily utters hundreds of times daily (sorry, hello, thanks, woops!), nothing comes out of my mouth. These words, in several languages (except Chinese) jostle to come out, but nothing does and I end up, again, gaping like an imbecile. Sometimes “ish-shi”, the most versatile Amharic word (which happens to sound Chinese) comes out but sounding no less gibberish than any other word I say in whatever language that I speak or do not speak.
What is really frustrating is that, after so many years of schooling (primary, secondary, university, post-graduate) and the thousands of books I read, I find that in Shanghai, I am illiterate. It is just difficult to believe or accept that I can not decipher a single word, a single character in Chinese, even the most basic: here, there, no, yes, out, in, where, when, how much, and others. There are all those signs, some in giant “letters” in shouting yellow on red, that adorn all buildings that could be saying Workers of the World Unite! (or its equivalent in these days), or Foreigners Out!, or Free Lunch!, or any other important or banal message, and I have no way of reading it if my own life depended on that. The city is full of gated compounds with uniformed guards and elaborate signs that could be saying Foreigners are not allowed to walk in front of this compound! , or Mine Field Ahead!, or Come in and Have a Free Apartment! , or Beware of the Cute Dog!, or whatever these signs announce to everybody except me. What makes my situation worse when it comes to guessing what signs say, is that most shops in Shanghai are not easily identified by the way they look. They all have a spacious front hall that seem to proclaim them to be restaurants, massage parlours, banks, brothels, gentleman clubs, tattoo joints, or whatever. The only establishments that are clearly and easily identified are bicycle repair shops (in abundance for obvious reasons), and beauty and hair saloons (also now in abundance as a sign of the new prosperity and the new globalized taste that propels everybody to want to be, and look like “them”: white! No wonder that most TV commercials promote using beauty products that make skin “fairer” and hair longer and shinier, and you do not have to speak Chinese to get these messages).
I am now even wondering whether all my other senses have been disabled. I pride myself on having a very keen sense of smell. I could walk any city street elsewhere, blindfolded, and still be able to distinguish smells wafting from various establishments: restaurants, corner shops, barber shop, carpenter workshop, mechanics workshop, bakery, etc. In Shanghai, my nose seems to have lost its “memory”. There is no smell I can recognize or relate to anything I know. There is only that pungent but unfamiliar smell of rotting, fermenting vegetables mixed with the smell of fish and other hideous smells.
However, what makes me really frustrated is not being able to communicate, to make contact and engage in small talk with the hordes of old men and women (about half the population of China) and young children (very rare). I could see in the old folks faces, in their wrinkles and their smiley little beady eyes that they also yearn to make contact and engage in the small talk passengers on long train journeys in developing countries are likely to engage in. I, too, am dying to ask them hundreds of petty and not so petty questions : what do they think about rice prices and the cost of living in general compared to bygone days ; about the good (or bad) old days; about the cultural revolution; whether they were born on farms or in small village and in which province; whether they go back to these village ; whether they are nostalgic for the old China they knew or alarmed at the changes China is experiencing with its new wealth; are they annoyed and worried by the shouting billboards and loud TV commercials; whether they have sons and daughters and grand children and if they see them; are they annoyed by the materialism of the new generations; what do they do with their time and whether they are bored stiff; are they following the news of far away places like my country and other countries…..endless questions that storm in my brain and stay there. And I manage only to utter a guttural sound, grin, and nod my head in a friendly way, trying to convey in that little nod the torrents of questions and yearning and curiosity that crowd my mind. And I discover once more how lonely and cut-off deaf, dumb persons must feel in the company of “normal” people.
If ever there was an example of the right wing machine's blind following and general incompetence it is this set of remarks made by some right wing radio blowhard. When prompted to qualify the branding of Barack Obama as an "appeaser" by the President, the sound of crickets chirping was drowned out by the loud barking to silence any dissent. Thanks right wing for showing why knowing history is important.
This is the third year running that I have missed bike to work day. I start biking to work as soon as it is warm enough which is by the middle or end of April, and bike till October or November (even while fasting!). Yet every year events conspire to make me miss the one day of the year when you're encouraged to bike to work and can even score free stuff for doing it. Which may be my real regret - I love free stuff. Dang.
This morning I stepped out into a Khartoum morning, warm with a thin film of dust. It's a morning of knowing that it is not going to be any cooler than this for the next 14hrs. I love it, it makes me feel at home.
Today was so warm that it sublimated memories of New York, 1985 and losing my brother in Central Park.
Let me back up a step. I stepped out of the building for lunch today with my colleague Fat'n'Happy, bent on getting a slice or two of pizza. As we walked through the doors of our building, I found my eyes closing and a small smile spreading on my face. The air was warm and silky as bathwater and frankly I'd been waiting for this for the last seven months or so. Thinking this I was suddenly aware of a scent that was distantly familiar to me, which I eventually identified as the smell of New York in the summertime. Not the urine drenched muggy stench of midtown, but the lightly stifling scent of the parks and the less traveled streets. Essentially the warmth of the lunchtime air had sublimated the solid stuff of my memories, releasing the sweet scent of my childhood summers and bringing up a specific memory tied to that smell.
(Wayne? Garth? Tootle-oo-to, Tootle-oo-to, Tootle-oo-to, Tootle-oo-to …)
In the summer of 1985 my father and I lost my brother in Central Park on a busy weekend. I imagine my mother giving my Dad a look earlier that morning, as if to say, "you need to get these two out of the house or I'm going to lose my mind." So around eleven we got the call to get dressed, we were going to the park. You didn't have to tell us twice! Growing up in Manhattan meant that going to the park was like going to Disneyland - and going to Central Park was a surfeit of joy that we could hardly stand it. Lickety split we dressed and presented ourselves near the door, replete with our own homemade Battle of the Planets wrist communicators (made of only the finest typing paper, crayons and sello-tape, they would take on a pivotal role later).
The park was a madhouse, full of New Yorkers who'd been cooped up in their apartments all winter long and a good part of the spring. All the playgrounds were mobbed with little kids running, shouting and generally exulting in the joy of freedom (remember that feeling?). The paths were clogged with families and impromptu roller skating parties carried on waves of loud music emanating from large boom boxes. Sheep's Meadow had been taken over by picnicking immigrants probably recalling summers in their own countries. We went there first and played frisbee until we took up with a Latino family playing soccer nearby. Soon, drenched with sweat and parched we begged Dad for sodas and made our way out to the nearest path to find a vendor. I remember being desperate for a Sunkist, my favorite drink back then - which is odd to think of now since I can't stand the flavor anymore. Soon, cold sodas in hand we walked along the path people watching.
I don't know how long we walked before Dad asked me where my brother was. I shrugged and looked around to see if he was tying his shoelaces or something, but he was gone. Now for those of you who grew up in the safe middle of America I have to explain a little more about New York in the 80's: it had just come out from under bankruptcy and was battling an epic crime wave like something out of Grand Theft Auto. The nightly news was filled with arson, murder and a rash of child abductions. It was that last one that had us really worried. It was what kept my brother and I confined most of the time, and it preyed on your mind. PSA's on television reminded you all the time not to talk to strangers, not to walk around alone, to be careful, to hold your parents' hands crossing the street. It was very real and very scary. And now my brother was cut loose in it.
Here's where my memory gets hazy. I remember running with Dad, retracing our footsteps, and frantically looking. I remember telling Dad that we needed to find a policeman, the cops told us to stay put and they'd get back to us.I remember crying and bargaining with God to bring my little brother back ("is he worth eating eggplants? What can you trade God anyway?"). It felt like forever but probably about 25 minutes later a parks service Jeep rolled up. Sitting in the front seat was my brother with a policeman's hat, an ice cream cone and a book of cliches in his lap. I can only imagine that Dad was filled with relief at the site of his second son. I on the other hand was furious; here I was crying and making deals with God while that little twerp was enjoying a cold ice cream cone and getting to ride around in a police car! He smirked at me and I could have punched him just then, but instead told him how worried we'd been and how hard we'd looked for him. He told me that he could hear his "wrist communicator" (remember that?) beeping the whole time he was alone till the cops showed up. For years I thought he was just a dumb little kid who had let himself believe that a paper band around his wrist could function as a high tech communications device if you believed enough in it. I realized just the other day that he'd said that for my benefit, to make me feel better.
Those of you who know me better know that I have a weird love of graffiti. Not the "Giants Rule!" or "for a good time ... " variety, but the good stuff. Anything that involves more than one can of Krylon and a large canvas made of brick or subway car iron. More recently I've gotten into the mad intricate stencils of artisits like Banksy, who is wickedly subversive and quite clever. It's in some cases not as visually appealing as an old school tag, but it always has a lot to say and utilizes the specific environment of the graffiti as a part of it.
Which brings me to this little gem (which you can find here if you can't get that first link to work). It's graffiti that moves! Taking a surreal style and make it shift, crawling across walls and buildings leaving a white trail like a slug's on pavement. It's beautiful and it's hard to imagine that it took anyone this long to come up with the idea. It also does a great job of highlighting the interface between the art and the reality it reflects and embellishes. Great stuff ... what do you guys think?
link courtesy of the byrninator
I think they should do one for the entire election cycle or even for the Iraq war! It's a nice compressed version of the Democratic primary process and consequently highlights the inconsequential nature of most of the "race":
kudos to the folks at Slate.
Attending a birthday held at the Britpop night of a Annie's Social Club (a divey little black and red affair in SOMA) was surprisingly rich in irony. As one of my companions sang a rousing rendition of Bob Marley's "No Woman No Cry", the karaoke master had what appeared to be a spectacular breakup with a sullen girl sitting behind him. A spare microphone was thrown to the ground, people walked in and out of the room, and as my commpanion sang the words "everything is gonna be alright..." the karaoke master pointed at him and screeched: "listen to him! Listen to him!!"