At home with myself...

How to say Worcester in Czech (and other curious sounds)

2012-01-15T19:52:00.000+01:00

Let’s be honest with ourselves – even nativeEnglish speakers sometimes puzzle over the pronunciation of some English words. The randomness of English enunciatin is brought out nicely by my beloved P. G. Wodehouse in the opening passage of his SirAgravaine, A Tale of King Arthur’s Round Table, which introduces a certain “Dukeof Weatherstonhope (pronounced Wop)”.

Some foreigners will just pronounce Englishnames the way they would pronounce them in their own language (the Frenchsaying [mon-TEE pee-TOHN] to indicate Monty Python is a good example), but theCzechs don’t do things the easy way. No! The diligent Czech will wrestlestubbornly with the irregularities of English pronunciation, trying to twistand bend its tenets into some form of regularity and achieving, on manyoccasions, a uniquely creative result.

I think ‘Worcester’ (the name of a city andcounty in England, but much more commonly associated with a spicy condiment) isthe best example of how thoroughly Czech people have come to taylorEnglish pronunciation to their own whims. If you tell any Czech person, anywherein the country, that you would like some [wooster] sauce in your Bloody Mary,they will stare blankly back at you without budging. Nobody, not a soul in thiscountry knows, you see, that [wooster] is the correct pronunciation of what hasbecome a household term. Employed in every imaginable dish and uttered on adaily basis in kitchens and pubs, it is unanimously and unflinchingly pronouncedthroughout the Czech nation as [WAR-chester]. Yep, that’s right. If you’re inthe Czech Republic and you want some Worcester sauce on your egg on toast, sayit with me: WAR-CHESTER. Atta-one!

The sources of other mispronunciations aren’tas mysterious. It would, after all, be logical from the likes of such words as ‘cheese’and ‘chunk’ that Chicago would be pronounced [CHICK-eygo], although why anyonewould insist that champagne (a French word, for crying out loud) be pronounced [CHAM-payne] inEnglish conversation remains a mystery to me. The vast majority of Czechs pronouncethe City of Angels as [loss angie-LEES], too, which looks a bit like trying tobe more Catholic than the Pope to me.

Then again, the linguistic harm that Czechpeople are capable of incurring is roughly limited to the area of the countrythey inhabit (a small one, in case you’re one of those people). English-speakers, on the contrary, can cause permanent articulativedamage on a truly global scale. One of my pet peeves (and one on which I humorouslyillustrate my pedantism) is the worldwide mispronunciation of the name Tintin.I wonder if you had any clue that, the character having been created by theBelgian comic artist Georges Rémi, it’s really pronounced [tan-tan]? That said, Tintin’s British accent in Steven Spielberg’s film makes no sense to me,whatsoever.

Ah, well. Good old Eddie Izzard understands me, I know.

Make, give, enjoy

2012-01-11T22:41:00.000+01:00

If I knew how much fun crossing items offof my new things and old things list would be (yoo-hoo! on the sidebar), Iwould certainly have e) added more items to it, and g) made them a tad morechallenging. Nevertheless, I’m particularly pleased that I set it out formyself to present a home-made food gift to one, or two, or even as much (ormore) as three people. I’d say that home-made food gifts are ideal for peoplewho love giving: the time, the effort, the love you put into making a treat forsomeone you care for is incomparable to picking out at a shop an itemmanufactured en masse in an anonymous factory miles away. What is more, you don’thave to be a kitchen deity or have oodles of idle time on your hands in orderto prepare scrumptious treats for loved ones. And who wouldn’t love a sweet orsavoury little something as a token of your appreciation of their existence?

Actually, you should try it yourself! Howabout starting with some savoury cheese biscuits that are given a bit of zingwith mustard seed? Thoroughly mix 100g butter (at room temperature) with 100gstrong cheese (cheddar, gruyere, or parmesan), 150g flour, and 25 g mustardseeds (or sesame or poppy seeds). Roll the dough into a sausage about 3cm indiameter and leave in the fridge for about 1 hour wrapped in cling film to firmup. Pre-heat the oven to, oh, hot, and slice the dough into 0.5 cm thick slices.Place the slices on a greased baking tray and bake at a low temperature for 10to 15 minutes (or until lightly golden). Let the biscuits cool before wrappingthem in a cellophane packet or a jar, add a pretty ribbon and a personalisedtag, and - behold! – your gift is ready!

What I need to add is that I found thisrecipe in the December edition of British Glamour a couple of years ago (I can’tremember when exactly). I used it to make little gifts for friends around Christmastime,when everyone seems to be satiated with sweet things and appreciates a savouryand cheesy delight. It’s wonderfully simple and extraordinarily tasty!

Random me fact no. 16

2012-01-09T16:00:00.000+01:00

There’s one kind of activity (perhaps thereare more that I’m simply not aware of) that always, always transports me backto the tranquillity of my early childhood: the sunlitmid-mornings, somewhere between second breakfast and beach time, when I wouldcrouch on the fluffy carpet in deep, deep concentration over a box of LEGO, whosecontents I would be putting together with podgy fingers

Some time before Christmas, I received apicturesque do-it-yourself paper tree decoration from my Spanish teacher (afriend, I daresay), and that’s when it hit me. For a couple of blissful minutes,I forgot about the cosy café we were in, about the grown-up clothes I waswearing, about the tea and cake in front of me – about the presence of mySpanish teacher, even – and immersed myself wholly in the task of weavingcolourful paper strips onto a wooden stick. I cannot but conclude that I have, unwittingly, been harbouring a love of constructing.

My fingers are long and elegant now, and much more adept at assembling various objects. My art suppliesbox is well stocked with origami paper, which I sometimes fold as a form ofrelaxation. (What CAN be more soothing than, with a couple of crisp folds, to transform a square piece of paper into a butterfly?) My room isexclusively furnished with IKEA furniture, which is not only modern andpractical, but which – most importantly! – you get to assemble all on your own!(Just like a giant LEGO set, in fact.) Even my favourite handbags, of which I’vestarted a small collection, are the notorious pliages by Longchamp. (Foldable handbags? Putain,ouais! Not only do they look stylish, but they last for ages, areeasy-peasily washable, and can hold the weight of a baby elephant.)

Right now, I’m dreaming of getting myself a box from the LEGO Architecture series. I meant to get myself something entirely different for my birthday this year (months and months away), but I could certainly handle one extra treat on the side.

How about you?! Got any embarrassing (geeky, girly) hobbies or passions?

It started one year ago

2012-01-07T19:56:00.000+01:00

It was my yoga teacher who hooked me upwith one of my favourite friends. In a manner that’s difficult to describe, Camwas one of my most intimate companions. Our closeness was rooted in a likeness ofcharacter and interests, but also in a shared loneliness in a city where weboth felt a little out of place. After she left Prague, I told my yoga teacher - in jest - thatshe should hook me up with a man. The kindly soul took my request toheart and, throughout the ensuing months, introduced me to various prospectivebachelors that would drop into class. I was never sure how to impress any of them (though I do a wicked śavāsana), nor was I particularly inclined to do so. One day, as I sat on abench in the empty changing room (the first to arrive as usual), the warmmotherly guru stroked my hair: ‘one day, he will come’, she said decidedly. Ishrugged. I had stopped looking for a man, and had started planning for oldage.

Little did I know that that was preciselythe moment that someone extraordinary would materialise out of nothingness,suddenly and abruptly, like a thundercloud at sea, and claim my heart, my soul,and my body in one swift scoop of his arms. He dropped out of nowhere into mylife like the anchor of a vessel bolting through the deep, dark ocean and settlinginto the cold and shifting sands below.

My world underwent a slow, seismic shift during the past year. I think differently aboutthe future now. I’m excited about things that I never imagined myself beingexcited about, and tread with a sure and steady step towards tomorrow. I’m notafraid anymore. My experiences are richer, too, as if a black-and-white worldsuddenly erupted, Jack-in-the-box-style, in a rainbow of gaudy colours. I’vetapped into new passions and revived old hobbies. I reuse and recycle, I smudgemy fingers with glue while crafting, I potter in the kitchen more happily thanbefore, I write more than ever, and hasten to dissect my opinions and go off onthought-spirals prompted by endless associations. I breathe more fully and walk everywhere I can. I laugh with the joyous abandon of a five-year-old.

I’ve matured, I think. I’m ready.

And then there was seaweed

2011-12-29T16:15:00.000+01:00

As a vegetarian, I’ve been living under a rock since 2009. (Which is when I became vegetarian.) I thought I had the upper hand with pulses – stuffing seeds, beans, and legumes into every meal – but, dear me, was it dark under that boulder! Because I never even for a moment considered the truly vital ingredient of the vegetarian diet: the spectacularly green and extraordinarily nutritious ‘vegetable of the sea’.

What is it, you ask? It makes sense when you think about it. What entity, packed to the brim with nutrients, gave life to pretty much everything on Earth? Though you might call it Father, I’m talking about the sea. And what vegetable grows in the sea? Seaweed! Which nation is renowned for its longevity? Every little kid knows it’s the Japanese. And what constitutes the main element of Japanese cuisine? Seaweed! This miraculous plant is the source of the source of generous amounts of vitamin A, B1, B2, B6, C, niacin, iodine, iron, zinc, calcium, sodium, potassium, magnesium, and of heaps of protein and fibre. (And by generous amounts, I mean 10x more calcium than milk, or 4x more iron than beef, just to give you an idea.) As a result, seaweed helps keep the body clean, lean, and energised; detoxifying organs and regulating hormone levels. It’s a kind of magic!

I received my packet of SeaMama dried wakame a couple of months ago in a love package (which turned out to be a gift of eternal youth and vitality) and later decided to add ‘making a dish with seaweed’ to my new things and old things list. Even though I’d eaten seaweed before (in sushi or miso soup), I shamefacedly admit that I’ve never actually taken the care to ‘taste’ seaweed: I never rolled it on my tongue or smacked it against my palate in order to appreciate its texture and flavour. And when I finally did, I found it unexpectedly delicious! (Hint: if you like sushi, you’ll definitely like seaweed.)

I (more or less) followed the recipe on the back of the packet. On a dollop of corn oil, I lightly simmered some shiitake mushrooms (whose nutty flavour added a wonderful richness to the dish), then gradually added grated garlic, soy sauce, and vegetable stock, bringing all to boil. I then threw in the dried seaweed, which soaked up all the juices of the broth. After a couple of minutes (because I don’t like to overcook things) I took the casserole off the fire and devoured the deliciously-smelling, tummy and heart comforting, flavourful and rejuvenating soupy concoction with a bowl of jasmine rice. The next day, I confirmed my oddball reputation at work when I gobbled the leftovers with my chopsticks during lunch break. As Joshua says: nom-nom-nom-nominable! (I’ve actually started using that term.)

I’m now an avid supporter of seaweed. I still have half a packet left, and I can’t wait to see what I can make with it. Seaweed is a delightfully easy item to prepare, and I’m considering pairing it with some nuts, garlic gervais, and sweet-and-sour sauce in a whole-grain bread sandwich for my next experiment. If you have any tips, please leave them in the comments!

Easy-peasy Christmas DIY ideas (and some snow-cool, free downloads!)

2011-12-18T19:05:00.001+01:00

This year, I had the mind-blowing idea ofmaking all my Christmas cards myself. It savedme a lot of stressful pushing and shoving in overcrowded shops, procured mesome quiet time at home in the company of my inner craftswoman, and really wasn’tthat difficult! Why don't you stick around while I boast a little more...

Lovely Christmas cards

I started out by inventing the designs. Iwanted to make the cards very, very simple, and to reuse as much of what I had on hand at home. In the end, I think I only bought a few sheets ofcardboard paper, envelopes, and a silver pen! (You know, for the text inside.) The tree is made from plain white paper. I cut out four differently sized triangles, fringed them, and stuck them on the folded cardboard. I added a silver ribbon, and voilà! My elegant Christmas card was ready! For the snowman, I used plain cotton pads for the body, origami paper for the hat and carrot nose (using this tutorial to make the hat), and a couple of peppers for the eyes, mouth, and buttons. This one was a bit more tricky, but still impressively quick and simple! Some very special peeps will soon be getting one of these in the mail! Exciting!

Holiday cheer in every inbox

If I was to make all of my Christmas cardsat home, this would also have to apply to the e-cards that I like to send en masse topretty much everyone who happens to figure in my Hotmail address book. Lastyear, I created my first e-card, and because the effort was negligible, and theresult agreeable, I decided to continue with the tradition this year. In linewith my recent stylistic mood, I kept it simple (perhaps too much?) and clean.If you like it, help yourself! You can send the card just as it is in an e-mail, add personalised text using, say, Picasa or Picnic, or print it out and scribble whatever you choose on the front or back. You're welcome!

Pretty paper decorations

This is a bit of a Christmas card as well. (Sort-of, kind-of.) My adorable Spanish teacher (¡hola, Maria!) gave me the loveliest little Christmas gift that I actually had to create myself. (I loved it! I loved it!) This nifty piece was designed by the lovely Jurianne Matter (whose rustic Scandinavian style I fell in love with at first sight). Care to make one for yourself? You can download the template here. Print it out, glue it together, cut it out and thread it through. Ta-da! It’s ready in three minutes and upgrades any baking creation to a unique piece of art. (Not to mention that it improves the taste as a result!) I chose to stick mine into a generous slice of Stollenkuchen. The first Christmas card I received this year is in the background! Mille grazie, V.!

On being accomplished

2011-12-16T16:00:00.000+01:00

When a dear friend passed down her copy of The Annotated Pride and Prejudice to me a couple of months ago, I was delighted to give the volume a new home on my bookshelf (and to put re-reading the book on my new things and old things list). I was recently reminded of a passage in the story where Jane Austen reflects on the requirements placed on an accomplished woman:

“Oh! certainly,” [exclaimed Miss Bingley], “no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.”

“All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.”

“I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.” [Elizabeth Bennett protested.] “I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, such taste, such application, and elegance, as you describe, united.”

Jane Austen, The Annotated Pride and Prejudice, p. 70 (Anchor Books, 2007)

What’s your take on being accomplished? When it comes to me, after thinking about the subject on and off for a very long time, I’ve finally established that there’s no way for anyone to ever become accomplished fully. Accomplishment is an ideal – a useful reference. The people that I consider coming closest to accomplishment are those that are constantly working on becoming better versions of themselves – coming into their own, discovering their true vocation and becoming better and better and what they love to do.

However, one can live a happy life even with little accomplishments. I, for instance, consider myself an accomplished woman today: I finished all of my Christmas shopping (down to the ribbons and wrapping paper, peeps) and completed crafting all of the handmade Christmas cards that I decided to bestow upon my lucky friends this year as an alternative for the generic ones that never quite meet my criteria for stylish simplicity. I’m rewarding myself with a cup of creamy hot chocolate. Because this I know about accomplishment: it’s of no use whatsoever if they remain unappreciated.

Have you got anything you’d like to pat yourself on the back for today? Boast about it here!

Three ways to make any meeting fun and memorable

2011-12-13T21:00:00.000+01:00

I’ve been attending a painful number ofmeetings lately. Mind you, I’m not entirely opposed to meetings. Sometimes,when they don’t last more than two hours, don’t lack content, are well chaired andamply supplied with Lotus caramelised biscuits, meetings can be a useful way of getting lots of different peopletogether in order to bounce ideas and opinions around. Still, most meetingstend to be dull and uninformative. What I’ve managed to do throughout mytortuous experiences is to extract several ideas that, no matter what kind ofmeeting you’re attending or where on the corporate ladder you stand, can helpyou make any business convention and fun and memorable undertaking. (I havemore than three, actually, but the rest are too wicked.) Here they are in asnug little list!

Use unintelligible language

Imagine a group of twenty executives beingstruck dumb: inquisitive glances are lanced around the room (and expertlyavoided), watches are being checked, throats are being cleared, coffees arebeing sipped noiselessly. No one speaks. This can be the (hilarious)consequence of someone using a word that no one in the meeting room seems tounderstand. At the particular meeting that I attended, someone asked a questionusing the verb ‘to impignorate’, and as the awkwardness of the silence wasbeginning to tip into the unbearable, the chair briskly dispensed with thesubject in favour of the next point of the agenda. We were all released from thetight clench of puzzlement during the coffee break, when everyone sneakily checked their phones and heaved inaudible sighs of relief: it means ‘to pawn’!

Noteon implementation: This one is perfect for meetingswith snobs. If you don’t know enough (adequate) bizarre words in English, useexpressions from a different (preferably little known, most preferably extinct)language. Accompany with nonchalant hand gestures.

Introduce an outrageous item

We were discussing upcoming business tripsduring an internal unit meeting recently, during which myboss jokingly suggested that one of my colleagues make himself more manly andmenacing for an upcoming negotiation by wearing a chest hair toupee. Becauseno one save my boss seemed to know what a chest hair toupee was, the meetingalmost collapsed when we demanded that the existence of such atrocities beproved via Google, and consequently embarked on a prolonged discussion about all theother possible areas where toupees could be worn. (I even chimed in with thestory of Kate Winslet’s merkin, which gained me much respect.)

Noteon implementation: Use this one when you want to completelyruin an endless, pointless meeting. Another idea is to use an audio baby monitor: place the transmitter next to the landline on your deskand bring the receiver with you to the meeting room, so as to listen in to incominglandline calls. Not only will this cause mayhem at the meeting, but when yourphone finally rings, you’ll be free to flee the premises!

Wear uniform clothing

I occasionally organise team events at work: film screenings,Christmas raffles, and days when everyone is required to wear a specific colouror motif. On one such occasion, when I knew that I would be in a meeting with afriend from another department, I organised a ‘stripe day’ at work, and let myfriend in on the secret. While none of the many people at the gathering seemedto notice anything strange about the fact that my boss, my colleagues, myfriend, and I were all wearing striped tops, our feeling of undercover complicitymade the event much more enjoyable.

Note on implementation: The possibilities here are endless, and customisable for anyoccasion. If you’re really feeling bold, wear exactly the same outfit as yourboss – this will be especially effective if your boss is of the opposite sex!

The freedom to unfollow

2011-12-11T21:00:00.000+01:00

Courtesy of the awesome, awesome Sarah VonBargen of the covetable Yes and Yes(does anyone even read my blog that doesn’t read Sarah’s blog as well, Iwonder?), staggering amounts of people are being directed to this littlerocking vessel of mine (honestly, I can’t explain the obsession with seafaring). Inan entirely unexpected and overwhelming move, Sarah linked my blog on her über-popular site, and now I feel more honoured than if Google had pickedme out as a Blogger of Note, and more embarrassed than if I’d been presentedwith a Golden Globe (because Academy Awards are so profane) wearing my traditional week-end combo of leggings, t-shirt, cardigan, andface-mask. (I feel so exposed suddenly!) Thank you, Sarah.

So! While my stats are going through theroof (I periodically have to breathe into a paper bag as I check the numbers),I’d like to welcome the curious cats that have dropped by. Welcome! And thankmy long-term readers for their continuous support. Thank you! And remind all ofyou that, at any time, you’re free to stop following this blog. Yes.Wait, what?

Unfollowing seems to be a bit of ataboo in the blogger world (as I noticed after a person whose blog I stoppedfollowing promptly stopped following mine), though I wish it weren’t so. I’vefollowed and unfollowed many blogs in my day, and have been unfollowed myselfon countless occasions (hey, it happens to the best of us). The way I view it is that there’s nothing, nothing wrong in lettinggo of something that no longer speaks to you. While I start following manyblogs under the spell of a new discovery, I often find out later that theydon’t intrigue me anymore, and unfollow them in favour of blogs that I continuously find entertaining, inspiring, educational, enjoyable... I’m sure we’ve all got roughly the same criteria.

You may have noticed that I don’t keep a ‘follow’ tab on the sidebar (I know, I know, I install it once every while butthen promptly get rid of it). It’s because I don’t want to make it tooeasy for you to follow my blog. I’d like to be able to grow on you as ablogger before you decide to commit yourself to my content, rather than haveyou forget me as soon as you’ve added me to your reading list. It’s terribly vain, I know, but it’s virtually my only vice.

Therefore, please, please have no scruples with unfollowing this blog whenever itstrikes you that you don’t care for its subject matter anymore. Sure, it willsting a little, and grieve me somewhat, but I promise you that there will be no hard feelings. Your time spent online is too valuable to be cluttered with sites that you read out ofhabit – leave more room instead for those that you truly enjoy. Alright? With that understood, let’ssail!

Disney Princesses like you've never seen them

2011-12-05T21:30:00.000+01:00

There seems to be a fine Disney Princess threadwinding its sparkly way throughout my entire blog, have you noticed? (Who’s to blame? I grew up with those characters. And the songs are truly magical.) Anyway, I was shopping for some art prints (Christmas prezzies!) over at Society 6 the other day when I came upon this UPROARIOUS rendition of the key Disney Princess heroines, plus the intruder Alice from Alice in Wonderland. (I love how Sleeping Beauty is bashing her face in. Ha! Battle of the Blondes!) I guess if you’ve got a good-humoured Disney Princess aspirant anywhere in your social circle, they might be chuffed to find this rolled up and stuffed into their stocking. Muahaha!

Tuning in to Christmas

2011-12-01T12:12:00.001+01:00

Every year, I can’t wait to start listening to Christmas songs. To me, they’re by far the best thing about the holiday, outscoring all the warmth and richness of a pristine home snuggled into seasonal decorations, all the sugar and spice of Yuletide cooking, and yes, even the joy of packages concealed in festive wrapping paper under a twinkling tree.

But when is it a good time to start spinning those holiday tunes? Ever since, when I was 10 or so, a friend at school told me that it was bad luck to listen to Christmas songs outside of Christmas, the matter has been a concern of mine. And because it certainly won’t do to listen to them only on the one Christmas Day in the year, I figured out a firm date for myself. It’s neither too early, falling within the Advent season, nor too late, allowing me just under a month to listen through the multitude of winter rhymes and percussion arrangements, until finally I have jingle bells coming out of my ears (and loving the saturation very much).

And the best thing about the date (at least this year) is that it’s today! Though it may not be a marshmallow world out there just yet, because today is 1 December, I’m putting on those Christmas records and officially initiating preparations for a wonderful Christmastime. On that note, what are some of your favourite Christmas songs? I’m constantly looking to expand my repertoire!

One, two, one-two-three-four…

Did you know... (XXII)

2011-11-30T14:00:00.000+01:00

... that Margaret O’Brien (as Mary Lennoxin The Secret Garden, 1949), DeborahKerr (as Anna Leonowens in The King and I,1956 and as Terry McKay in An Affair ToRemember, 1957), Natalie Wood (as Maria in West Side Story, 1961), and Audrey Hepburn (as Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, 1964) all share the samesinging voice? Yep, they do. And it belongs to none of the abovementionedladies.

It used to be common practice in Hollywood throughoutthe 40s, 50s, and 60s (the golden era of musicals, basically) to dub actors whosesinging voices weren’t up to par with standards. This wasn’t necessarily anevil sham: even though a handful of the great, great actors of that time weremusically talented, they couldn’t always pull off the unsettled rhythms andhigh-pitched notes of musical tunes to perfection. (Marilyn Monroe, who had amagical singing voice, allegedly also needed help in some parts of ‘DiamondsAre a Girl’s Best Friend’ that she sang as the ditzy but adorable Lorelei Leein Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, 1953). Normally,the actors’ original singing would be recorded, and then blended with or, morecommonly, dubbed over by a professional singer with a similar timbre. (Some ofthe original recordings are available on YouTube – I’ll leave it to you todecide which ones you think are more enjoyable!)

What made the whole operation interestingis that it was kept in utmost secrecy: dubbed actors often remained unaware ofthe shenanigans going on with their voice recordings, and playback singers werebound by contract not to disclose the nature of their work. None were evercredited. The film studios of that time were afraid that such tinkering mightward off audiences – a fear that proved unfounded once the information leaked(of course) and viewers seemed none too disturbed.

But who, then, is the owner of one of Hollywood’smost popular (and one of the world’s most enchanting, if you want my opinion)voices? She’s an American (funnily enough, since her most famous playbacks calledfor non-American accents) opera singer and actress, Marni Nixon. She’s the onewhom you hear in classic songs such as ‘Shall We Dance’, ‘A Love Affair ToRemember’, ‘I Feel Pretty’, ‘Wouldn’t It Be Loverly’, and yes, apparently evenin parts of ‘Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend’. If you want to check out thisamazing singer, have a look at her website, or dust off your copy of The Sound of Music and watch the firstfew minutes: you’ll spot Marni Nixon (in voice and in flesh)in the part of Sister Sophia in the sequence where the nuns are wondering abouthow to best solve a problem like Maria.

The fruit from paradise

2011-11-27T13:00:00.000+01:00

"I can think of no better meal thaneating fresh tomatoes until you can’t move." There’s one tomato lover!That’s heirloom guru, Tim Mountz of Happy Cat Farm, answering aquestion on his favourite way to prepare tomatoes for an issue of Whole Living magazine (June 2010, p. 35). (What? I can never findtime to read magazines, and it takes me ages to get to the issues that I’ve purchased. On that note, Whole Livingis a pleasure to read even horribly out of season.)

I couldn’t help grinning from ear to ear whenI read his words – they’re so unlike, so brave, and so true! Being a HUGElover of tomatoes myself, I will gobble them any way they come (as a juice, asa sauce, as a paste, baked, boiled, fried, grilled, drizzled with olive oil andlemon or sprinkled with balsamic vinegar – I’m going to stop there before I turn intoa version of Bubba Gump), but I can confirm that the succulent pulp of afreshly picked tomato is uniquely pleasurable.

Actually, in Czech, the nameused for tomato translates as ‘paradise apple’ (rajské jablko [RYE-ske YABL-co], or rajče [RYE-che] for short). The same is true for all of the otherCentral European countries that have found themselves governed by the Austrianand Hungarian empires (and later the Austro-Hungarian Empire) at the time whentomatoes were introduced to Central Europe, via Iran, from the land of theirbirth in America (first Peru, then Mexico).

You can spot the connection with the term forparadise (raj [rye] or paradis [PARA-dees]) in all the CetralEuropean languages: Croatian rajčica [RYE-chitza],Czech rajče [RYE-che], Hungarian paradiscom [PARA-dee-chom], Serbian парадајз [para-dice],Slovak paradajka [PARA-die-ka] and Slovenianparadižnik [para-deezh-neek].Even in Austria proper, tomatoes are called Paradeiser (instead of the traditional German Tomaten). Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find out exactly why the tomato has cometo be associated with paradise, but it certainly is a curious connection forany tomato lover! Oh, how it makes me long for the summer.

P.S. The Germanic term tomat, which most commonly recognisablethroughout the world, comes from the original Aztec word tomatl, meaning ‘the fruit that swells’. So much more simple! (I should donate to Wikipedia this year.)

Clever kitchen: introducing

2011-11-25T16:00:00.001+01:00

I love to loiter in the kitchen: chopping, mixing, mashing, shelling, whisking, weighing, tossing, sifting, squeezing, pitting, grating, heating, and all the other little tasks you bustle about with until you finally hear the happy exhale of a steaming pot when you sink your nose into the fragrant vapours of hot food, , or watch the contented breathing of a swollen pie when you peer into the gaping maw of a blazing oven.

A couple of years ago, I started collecting recipes. My collection is still very small, as I make sure to put each recipe through several rounds of tweaking and testing before I note it down in my minuscule carnet de recettes. Once in a while, I bring something to work, but despite ample praise, don’t feel comfortable sharing my recipes with others. Especially not on my blog, though I secretly long to. To start with, there’s such an overwhelming amount of stellar food blogs out there that I would be embarrassed to confuse recipe searchers with my amateurish attempts at palatable presentation of effortless recipes. (This is not to discourage any recreational food bloggers out there! If you love what you’re doing, keep doing it as best you can.) Furthermore, my recipes aren’t easily navigable for the uninitiated: they’re variable and improvisational, involving a dozen possible options and often lacking precise quantities – and hence, practically unrepeatable in another kitchen. (Not even in my own, sometimes, mind you.)

However, because I do love to loiter in the kitchen and because preparing food does account for a substantial portion of my free time, I’d still like to share some form of my kitchen wisdom with the visitors of my blogger kingdom. What I’m thinking of doing is sprinkling this blog with some tips and tricks that I keep discovering in the process of my many culinary experiments. I’m hoping they’ll help make your cooking easier and your dishes more flavourful, whether you love to cook or consider making a sandwich a chore. And because I reckon you’re still not quite sure what to expect, let me just tell you that you will find out exactly in the next (and technically the first) instalment of clever kitchen! I’m planning to post it... in just enough time for you to stock your pantry and starch your apron.

Fancy underneath

2011-11-23T16:00:00.000+01:00

It’s not that I ordinarily wear tatty undergarments. (I am, after all, the daughter of a (wonderful) woman who made sure to instil early in my developing brain that it would be an unpardonable shame to be caught wearing unbecoming underwear in a hospital after an accident.) It’s just that I have stacks and stacks (okay, perhaps just stacks, pur et simple) of fancy underwear in my drawers, and it pains me to catch glimpses of the vanilla lace and black ribbons and shiny pink bows as I reach for the clean white comfort of cotton every morning. Where is my inner kinky? Why is a Mona Lisa smile not suspended on my lips while I keep Victoria’s Secret snugly pressed around my curves? So I decided to put wearing fancy underwear on no special occasion on my new things and old things to do list, and executed the deed on a most ordinary workday a couple of days back.

And that’s pretty much it. I hope you’re not sitting on the edge of your chair waiting for me to tell you something revelatory and awesome, because I’m not. As disappointing as it sounds, wearing fancy underwear doesn’t make you feel in any way exceptional. (Otherwise, I must be missing something.) (Mind you, this is perhaps because I generally wear nice underwear. Garfield or Snoopy don’t inhabit my underwear drawers.) (I can’t understand how women in their thirties can shop for underwear at H&M, can you?) What my quest made me realise is that fancy underwear is really meant to be shown around: unless you can let the exquisite hem of your silk camisole peek from under a V-necked sweater, there’s no point in wearing it in the place of a plain white cotton vest top. Wearing fancy underwear under my ordinary clothes didn’t make me feel rebellious or debonair – in fact, I felt much more alive when I wore a herd of deer brooches (okay, two) on my sweater a few days previously.

The verdict? Don’t just wear your fancy underwear for the sake of wearing it. If you’re going to be fancy, show it off (and that applies to all areas of life).

The more, the merrier!

2011-11-20T11:47:00.001+01:00

Who says you can only wear one brooch at a time?! I say wear as many as you want. YES! Provided you match them well and pin them close to each other, no one will notice you’re not wearing a unique one-piece accessory. This (shamefully simple) idea struck me when I recently received a brooch as a gift. Because I wanted to wear it immediately, but was already wearing another brooch, it occurred to me that I could wear the two at the same time. And because they looked amazing together, voilà, a new trend was born! I’m thrilled to be able to wear more of my brooches more often.

Snaps of my brooch family. The two deer brooches are original Czech products, handmade by the creative Bára Vogeltanzová of Jelení Šperky [YELL-ennie SHPEAR-key] (or Deer Jewels, unfortunately, the page is unavailable in English, but you will definitely understand the international language of cute photos), and were given to me by awesome people. (And yes, I wore both deer at together recently.) The felt flowers were bought in the New Yorker store in Prague this summer, and the birdie, whom I call Mafalda, was also a gift, handmade by my adorable Spanish teacher.

Never wore brooches? Want to start? Read on!

You’re about to enter a club of impressive people.Did you know that Madeleine Albright recently wrote a book about how she used herbrooches to communicate subtle messages during her diplomatic career? (It’scalled Read My Pins, and the hardback will soon adornmy bookshelf.) Although Ms. Albright is an experienced (and oh, such a well-equipped)brooch wearer, using a brooch to make a statement could be a good place tostart! (Think seasonal themes, for instance.)

What kind of brooch? Just because you’re a rookiedoesn’t mean you should start with subtle sizes and plain motifs. In fact, Iwould advise the contrary: look for a brooch that matches your overall styleand taste, so that it can become part of your outfit no matter how big or gaudyit is. There is an incredible variety of pins out there – from cosy andcolourful fabric pieces that you can purchase for two bob to exquisiteornamental gems that could be passed down in your family.

How to wear it? A brooch’s standard place isunder your left shoulder, not too high and not too low (aim for about 5cm (2 in) under your collarbone). Of course,you can get creative and use your brooch to close the top of an unbuttoned cardigan,to fasten a silk scarf in place, on your hat and even on your socks, if you’refeeling kinky. Brooches look great on cowl-necks and you can even wear a smallbrooch on the rim of a turtleneck. Some people worry about ruining theirclothes with the pins, but this only happens if you don’t take your brooch outafter a day’s wearing.

What to wear it with and when? My only caution would be to carefully match your brooches with your outfits (in terms of colours and materials): just as a well-picked brooch will make any garment look exquisite, one whose aesthetic purpose hasn't been thought through will make your entire look appear out of place. However, because brooches are incredibly versatile, they can be worn with pretty much anything, on any occasion.

Random me fact no. 15

2011-11-15T16:57:00.000+01:00

If we were ever to meet in person, I would very likely give you a hug and affectionately pat you on the shoulder. If you're female, I would also very likely lean in to touch cheeks with you (twice: right then left) and accompany them with discreet smacking sounds. No matter who you are, I would, however, only reluctantly shake hands with you. Because I hate, hate shaking hands.

It's not as personal as you might think. (Meaning that it's not caused by something specific to a particular person.) Your hands could be of a surgeon's cleanliness, dutifully manicured and with their neatly rounded fingernails giving out a healthy sheen, but I would still have to make a conscious effort to extend my hand to you. (Being a woman, it's unfortunately up to me to offer my hand to men and younger women.) I don't know where the discomfort comes from, but to me, touching the palm of someone else's hand with mine presents an act of almost unbearable intimacy. It's not always pleasant to be confronted with the unexpected substance of someone else's handshake: some hands are sweaty and podgy (whose moist richness feels somehow inappropriate), others slip through your fingers like dead eels (making you wonder whether the person intended to shake your hand at all), others yet crush your bones in a manifestation of strength and ardour (a very dear friend of mine has a handshake like that), while some hands' hard iciness betrays an innate aloofness (such as mine). Only very few hands, you might have noticed, are actually pleasant to the touch: radiant with human warmth and vibrant energy (my mother’s, for instance).

And that's not everything! Think about all the things we do with our hands: all the objects we touch and all the buttons we press in a single day! The thought is disturbing enough to make me want to rub a refreshing dollop of disinfectant gel between my palms right now. And actually, that's what I've been unconsciously doing after shaking hands with people. I noticed it recently when someone stepped into my office to talk to my colleague, and I got up to greet them and, naturally, shook their hand. What I realised after a few seconds was that, immediately after sitting back down at my desk, I automatically reached for my disinfectant gel and started applying it with the nonchalance of an ape while the person was still inside the room. As the smell of apple-scented alcohol filled the air, I froze in realisation of what I’d committed. The sign outside my office should say ‘Beware of the Oaf’.

New things, old things

2011-11-11T18:32:00.000+01:00

On many blogs I visit, I find lists of ‘newthings to do before [a certain date, usually a birthday]’. It seems that theidea has grown on me, as well, because I recently found myself quite swayed bythe concept. (Thanks for the inspiration is mainly due to Sarah Von Bargen of Yes and Yes – Sarah’s lists alwaysinclude such fun and exotic things to do!) And yet, because I’m awfully original,I had to do it in my own fashion. Hence,I’ve decided to make a double list: of new things to do, and of old things tore-do. Because haven’t you ever done something that you told yourself you MUST doagain? Read a book that you KNEW you’d have to come back to someday? Prepared atricky dish that you HAD to recreate on a different occasion? I’m sure you did.Because I did. (And the truth is that we’re all pretty much the same deep downin the porous marrow of our souls.)

Here, then, is my list of old things andnew things to undertake before October 2012 closes its doors on us. (Yes, itcorresponds with my birthday, which is in November.) I’ll be documenting someof them (anything you’d like to hear about particularly? let me know!) and willhopefully not have completed checking off both lists within the next threemonths! (Knowing how diligent I am.) Since this is my first public list of things to do, I’ve kept it humble in both numbers and goals, choosing toaim for nine achievable tasks (because nine is my second favourite number),some of which I’ve been wanting to get done for a very long time.

9 newthings

1.        take a cooking class
2.        climb the hill in front of myhouse
3.        take the DELE exam, and pass
4.        read Le deuxième sexe by Simone de Beauvoir
5.        wear a fancy underwear set on nospecial occasion
6.        try 4 new restaurants in Prague
7.        make a dish with seaweed
8.        make butter
9.        reach an average of more than10 000 steps per day on my step counter

9 old things

1.        take a half-holiday for two tofour weeks
2.        give a homemade food gift
3.        re-read Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
4.        make a deep-dish pizza
5.        ride a train
6.        have lunch in a park
7.        write a poem
8.        build a mini snowman OR make a faceprint in the snow (whichever strikes me first)
9.        attend a live music concert

What do you think? Feel free to join me in any of the above!

No more excuses

2011-10-30T22:49:00.000+01:00

It seems so much easier to just make something up. To say you’re not feeling well when you don’t want to attend your friend’s fancy dress party. To claim a heavy workload when you don’t feel like joining your aerobics class. (Does anyone still do aerobics? Let’s make it zumba, just to be safe.) A few months ago on a scorching summer day, I was sitting in a stuffy tram, fumbling my phone and wrecking my brains over how to justify cancelling my Spanish lesson to my teacher. When suddenly, a man leaned over and opened the window above my head (it’s always the men who take action, have you noticed?), and a cool breeze of relief brushed over my heated body. Why couldn’t I just tell the truth?

Most of us, I’m betting, make up excuses because we feel that our true reasons wouldn’t provide a worthy justification. In the process of jumping to the seemingly easier solution, we become dishonest both to ourselves and to our friends. Rather than reflect on the reasons we don’t want to undertake something, we take pains to invent believable stories. The reality, which dawned on me when I first promised myself to never make excuses up again, is that it’s actually much, much more uncomplicated to confess the truth than to construct a lie.

Next time you’re about to make an excuse, stop and think about your true reasons for not wanting to take part in task ahead. Perhaps you’re exhausted after a long day at work, and your only desire is to soak in a hot bath and finish the romance novel you’ve started. Could anyone blame you for that? Perhaps you’d like to see your friend face-to-face, rather than have to share their company with two dozen people whom you’ll be meeting for the first time. Would any friend hold that against you? Analysing your wants will not only help you understand your needs better, it will also gain you respect and understanding with those around you. (That said, your innate laziness is no excuse not to roll up your sleeves and get down to necessary chores.)

Back in the suddenly breezy tram, I quickly typed a text message in broken Spanish to my teacher: I was tired, felt hot and stinky, and craved most urgently for a refreshing shower. Wasn’t that but a human way to feel on a sweltering day? The next day at work, I approached an invitation to spend a week-end with my frolleagues with the same candid attitude: spending the week-end watching people I spend the whole week with drink wine (I’m a barbarian whose palate remains unattuned to such fineries) is not my idea of relaxation. ‘But we’re going to play Charades!’ My sweet frolleague exclaimed. ‘To boot!’ I retorted. And that was it.

* * *

Come to think of it, I don’t recall being invited to any more week-end get-togethers with my frolleagues. (HA!) On the other hand (and much more importantly), my Spanish teacher and I are getting along swimmingly. It’s all about priorities!

"Aimer! C'est encore plus de bonheur que d'être aimé..."

2011-10-26T16:00:00.000+02:00

I found this quote scribbled on a faded photograph in a tiny museum in a miniature town in a small country, tucked in the mountainous folds of South-Eastern Europe. It made me smile with acknowledgement.

Azul, no negro, es el monte

2011-10-24T16:00:00.000+02:00

If you’re wondering where you’ll find such dreamyscenery, try Montenegro, somewhere between Cetinje (the old royal capital) andPodgorica (the current administrative capital), at around 5.30 – 6.00 p.m. inlate October. Gazing at the endless rows of mountains from a speeding car, Icouldn’t get enough of the fluid blue colours streaked by the rust of autumnleaves. And then I was overwhelmed by a desire to recreate these visions in thesmooth, liquid strokes of watercolour paints. I love how simple beauty can be.

These are a few of my favourite things... about hotel rooms

2011-10-22T18:14:00.000+02:00

I found myself spending last week in themost shruggable place I have yet visited. (‘Shruggable’ being a word I tookover from Carlos.) My lack of impressions was consolidated by mediocre cuisine,and exacerbated by a strange case of food poisoning. (Strange because I cannothold anything but my sensitive stomach responsible, as there were others eatingand drinking the same things that I was.)

Being too sick to go out and explore, andwith nothing to explore as it were, I sought amusement in my hotel room. Ialways found hotels to be a fascinating phenomenon: I’m drawn by the function and the elusiveattraction of hotel rooms, and intrigued by in the internal organisation andmanagement of large hotels. They cater to strange needs and feed bizarre habits, makingyour stay in them a trip to a funfair of sorts – complete with a set of standardattractions, staple foods, and regular characters.

* telephones in bathrooms

I still haven’t quite gotten my head aroundthe necessity of having a phone next to the toilet, and am half-wishing that Icould one day find myself in a situation where,at the precise moment of discharge, so to speak, I would be compelled upon toanswer a call. I cannot imagine such a situation ever arising, though I doagree that having the possibility of picking up the receiver and phoning for moretoilet paper could come in handy. Alas, that’s very unlikely to ever happen ina hotel.

* oversized bathrobes

The sink may be installed at a heightbarely surpassing your loins, the shower may not go up higher than the level ofyour shoulders, but the bathrobe would fit a baby elephant. I love shufflingabout sunk in one of these enormous things (though through some characteristictwitch I always bring my own slippers), feeling like I were a stray childwearing my parent’s oversized garments, or a travelling magician wearing a heavycloak. Though these robes are often stiff, they’re usually wonderfully warm.

* room service

When I was a child, room service was myfavourite part of staying in hotels with my parents. I would relish in liftingheavy, silver-plated domes off steaming dishes and nibbling on the delicacies beneaththem (though I usually got porridge and dried fruit). These days,it’s not so glamorous, but I still love the luxury of phoning the reception,waiting for a discreet knock, and then sitting back on the bed with a plate of somethingmuch too expensive to be worth its purely nutritional value.

* electronic gadgets

Many hotels seem to pride themselves in oddgadgetry. Be it a TV set that moonlights as a computer with an internetconnection (which I spent one evening complicatedly disconnecting so as to beable to have internet on my laptop – the wireless connection having been faulty),or an impressive hydromassage shower with more knobs and buttons than a rocket (andwhich loses all of its appeal when the water current is feeble), even aseemingly simple air-conditioning device can provide for an evening of fun, though I’ve learned that those things are best left alone.

And now, you! I know that some ofyou have spent time in hotels recently, and I’d love for you to tell me all aboutyour favourite things in these strange homes outside of home. Please!

"Now your tea's gone cold."

2011-10-10T16:00:00.000+02:00

Prince Phillip, played by James Cromwell, The Queen (Pathé Pictures, 2006)

This line closes a somewhat unpleasantmoment in the film, where a disagreement between Queen Elizabeth II and Prime MinisterTony Blair is exposed. Following a prolonged and distressing phone call with the head of government, the head of state finds herself unable to seek comfort in the soothing warmth of a fresh cup of tea (as her consort exasperatedly informs her). What charms me about this phrase is how it employs the classic British beverageto illustrate an emotional state: nothing, it seems to me, better expresses the woe of a British person than a cup of tea gone cold.

Random me fact no. 14

2011-10-08T14:17:00.000+02:00

I hold an unflinching conviction that I canlearn to be fluent in the Hindi language through the sole medium of watchingIndian films. Though my passion for exuberant, extravagant, boisterous Bollywoodlove-stories started quite a number of years ago, my fascination with India predatedeven my school years (it must have been all the RikkiTikki Tavi cartoons I watched), and despite my realising that Hindi is byfar not the majority language in India (though it IS spoken by the largest numberof people) (yes, that DOES make sense), I still dream – when I visit thecountry one day – of being able to strike a conversation about Shahrukh Khan witha chai walla (person selling tea) on a bustling streetsomewhere in Mumbai.

It’s not so difficult to learn, actually,when you watch the films with subtitles. I’ve already compiled a thin yetpractical vocabulary (even including phrases!) that I keep in a tiny notebookand add to by drops every now and again. The process is slow, and I’m certainthat my progress would be quicker if I exposed myself to a high dosage ofIndian films within a short period of time, but one can stand only so manythree-hour musical romances at a time, if you know what I mean. In themeantime, I expand my rudimentary wisdom with the help of my yoga teacher, who occasionally talks at me in Hindi while I blink back struggling to extract any kind of meaning from her nods and smiles.

These days, I’m taking the opportunity tobrush up on what I’ve learned in the past (and to note a couple more words andexpressions in my notebook) at the Prague Indian Film Festival, which is taking place until Sunday. In contrast toprevious years, I strayed from the staple Bollywood blockbusters to see moredown-to-Earth movies instead, and was just as charmed by how easy it was toidentify with stories woven by a different culture in different circumstances.Watching foreign films is enlightening in many respects, the most important ofwhich remains the recognition that human nature is standard across class, race,sex, religion, political conviction, and even age.

Namaste!

Overcoming the Charlotte Syndrome

2011-10-03T16:00:00.000+02:00

Are you so happy you’re actually terrified? That’s the Charlotte Syndrome. (Remember when Charlotte York of Sex And The City confesses, in the first movie, that she’s so happy she’s terrified? That’s it. Now, let’s not discuss how I actually know this or ask whether I ever watched the movie – it’s a dirty (and guilty) secret that I intend to keep well clear of the light of public truth.)

One of my frolleagues is suffering from it right now (even though I’m sure there are a couple more items on the list of everything she’s ever wanted): she has a job that she loves and is brilliant at, she just bought a flat and is currently overseeing its refurbishment, in-between picking floor panel designs and appearing on national television, she is treated to dinners by her athletic boyfriend and whisked off on sun-soaked holidays in Italy, where she communicates like a native (fluent, peeps). And almost every time I see her, she warns me that something, soon, is bound to go terribly wrong, because, of course, it’s impossible to be so happy for too long. (Incidentally, she lost her purse (with everything in it) in Italy, so I think the happiness is going to last for a while, after all.)

But the loss of payment cards and driving licenses aside: you CAN be happy (blissful, delirious, roaring with uncontainable joy) for as long as you possibly want. Yes, you can. And if you happen to be stuck in a situation where you’re pooping with fright on your own parade, here are a few tips on how to get those malicious thoughts out of your head.

Embrace your happiness

If you’ve got the Charlotte Syndrome, you probably don’t take your happiness for granted, but I would still like to emphasise that it is extremely important to hold your happiness in a wide and accepting embrace. After all, how would you feel if someone whom you gave a present that you knew they coveted, instead of being overjoyed, felt undeserving? Don’t do the same to your good fortune, but bask in your happiness and be thankful for it.

Acknowledge that you deserve it

If you think carefully about why you’re happy, you’ll likely realise that it’s the product of your very own hard work, and that very little about your present state came about without your having invested yourself in it at some point in the past. Your professional success is due to your diligence and passion, your happy relationships are the result of your tolerance and commitment, your dashing looks are the product of the care and attention you give your body. And even if you’ve just happened to win the lottery and your exterior is due to Candice Bergen and/or Gregory Peck being not-so-distant relatives, think about all the times that you’ve been miserable, eating cheap pasta by day and crying into your pillow by night, wondering if you’ll ever mean anything to anyone.

Spread it around

If you still feel that things should go bust any minute, perpetuate (and multiply!) your happiness by sharing it with the world. Send your parents on a holiday, treat some good friends to a dinner, baby-sit your colleague’s tots for free so they can enjoy a theatre performance in the evening, pay someone a sincere compliment, write a thank you note, or engage with a charity if you’re looking for a long-term commitment to philanthropy. Making other people happy will make you feel less guilty and more deserving of the happiness that is your own.

Don’t be afraid to be happy!

How to look good in anything

2011-10-01T21:05:00.002+02:00

I was recently told that I could make aburlap sack look like an evening gown. (And if I could, I would have wrapped myarms around the deliverer’s neck and smothered his face in kisses, because noone has ever told me anything as nice.) Naturally, I don’t entirely subscribeto the assertion – no one (except for my mum, perhaps) understands the amountof physical pain and emotional strife I go through when it comes to picking,mixing, matching, and worst of all – shopping for clothes. Nevertheless, sinceI shed the universally fitting school uniform many years ago, I’ve managed toestablish several rules regarding dress (which I occasionally manage to stickto): simple, quality basics, pranked with daring accessories (because there’s awild side to me, as well).

But even if I were wearing the exact sameoutfit, one sole variable could make me look better or worse in it, and thisvariable, I’m afraid, is severely underestimated by much too many hipsters. Posture,people! Take a look around you and notice how many people are slouching: theirpaunches jutting, their backs rounded, their appearance lacking confidence andvitality, and their flashy clothes looking drab as a result. Now think aboutthe people whom you think could look good in ANYTHING – they might not have theperfect body (a little bottom-heavy? somewhat on the plump side?), but I’ll betmy fancy bra they’ve got good posture.

If you’ve been unaware of this until now,try a little experiment in front of the mirror: stand up straight and lift yourtoes off the ground, keeping your weight on the balls of your feet and yourheels, flex your thigh muscles and tuck in your pelvis, lift your shoulders up,pull them back and drop them down, pulling towards the ground, lengthen yourneck and lift your head up to the ceiling. Now look in the mirror, smile, andgive yourself (and your outfit) the thumbs-up. And don’t ever slouch again!

The sweet taste of the forbidden fruit

2011-09-29T20:11:00.001+02:00

I recently took up fasting. (Can you spotthe general progression here? From omnivore to vegetarian to ethereal beingthat lives on air! Nah, not really – not unless air tastes like ratatouille.) ThoughI’ve heard and read abundantly about the long-term benefits of regular fasting,I’m not intending to sing odes to the practice of ridding yourself of foodupwards of 24 hours here. Rather, I’d like to share with you a sensation whosepurpose only dawned on me during my fourth fast, last Friday, and whichpresents itself as a nagging obsession with anything edible.

Now, unless you’ve ever fasted, you have noidea what it’s like to be obsessed with food. Not if you’ve been hungry before,not if you’ve been famished, absolutely starving. When you fast, you see, nobodyis preventing you from eating, and food is amply available. You have thechoice, at any given moment, to reach out for that shiny apple and devourseveral mouthfuls of its succulent pulp. Those of you that have never fastedmight be surprised to learn that physical hunger is not an issue during a fast:a tummy that would normally rumble up a storm retreats into quiet repose (nodoubt enjoying the time off from having to process all those goodies you keepsending it down your throat), a pressure that would normally drop and make yourhead spin like a carousel stays put (albeit you might help it keep its level bydrinking plenty of green tea), and though you might feel weaker than usual andchoose to refrain from galloping up flights of stairs, you feel just fine. Elated,even. The enemy, I realised, dwells inside the head.

Fasting is much more about controlling themind than controlling the body. (After all, it is your mind that gives yourbody the signal to do anything – including snatching that biscuit from the tinand crunching it down like the Cookie Monster.) During a fast, your mindbecomes possessed by the sheer idea of food. I have never imagined that achocolate brownie could be the object of a five-minute fantasy in plaindaylight. Nor have I ever dreamed that the idea of a ripe, juicy peach couldtitillate so many senses. And, in all frankness, I’ve never been as blissfuleating cream cheese as I imagined myself during my fast-induced fancies.(Because, in the end, reality neutralises everything: the brownie is a littledry, the peach is a little sour, and cream cheese is just cream cheese –delightful, but not out-of-this-world.)

In other words, fasting is a form ofmeditation. It is really a formidable exercise of self-control. I’ve alwaysfound it amusing how people take precautions when it comes to food: packingample lunches for short trips and demanding to be fed at the slightest growl oftheir intestinal juices. As if experiencing hunger, even for a while, was aninsufferable event. (I’m also irritated by people who can’t wait to get homeafter they’ve done their shopping and start eating out of their plastic grocerybags, but that’s just my pedanticity.) Feeling hungry for a little while won’tkill us. On my part, I like the feeling that, by attempting to calm my mind’sobsession with food while fasting, I’m learning to control my intellectual fixations.We all want to manipulate minds – but can we quieten our own?

"Side effects may include unparalleled joy, a new perspective on creativity, rejection of the predictable, and a sudden, irreversible urge to lead a more spontaneous existence."

2011-09-25T18:23:00.000+02:00

If you’ve ever heard of Bobby McFerrin,chances are you’re only familiar with the one song that propelled him tostardom and forever ruined his reputation. (In a case highly reminiscent ofStevie Wonder and his ‘I Just Called To Say I Love You’, though luckily for allof us, Mr. Wonder managed to establish himself decades before this blunder.) Withall due respect, ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ is utter garbage compared to the phenomenalgenius of the rest of Mr. McFerrin’s work.

It’s not just that Mr. McFerrin composeswondrously elating, unexpectedly provocative tunes – he brings notes to life ina way that is unparalleled in the history of singing. Needing no musicalinstruments, he uses his body as his drum set, his voice as his choir, andweaves sound vibrations into intricate tones with an ease indicative of someonetruly gifted. Although Mr. McFerrin’s music possesses a complexity that isalmost intellectual, it has an easygoing quality – as if the prairie wind were humminginto your ear. Listen to it anywhere you are and it will not be a burden toyour ears or your nervous system.

For my part, I only discovered Mr. McFerrin’sgenius one week ago. During that time, I’ve managed to listen to every singlealbum he’s ever made much more than once, and am refusing to part with hissoothing tones by humming them whenever having them streamed into my ears isnot appropriate. If you have the least trust in m judgment, pop over to Mr.McFerrin’s website and check out his radio, or better, browse through some ofhis albums: Bang! Zoom, The Voice, and Spontaneous Inventions are my favourites at the moment. Oh! Thequote above is copied from the website – I don’t know whose it is, but everysyllable rings true!

A burger without a patty? Why, yes!

2011-09-22T16:00:00.000+02:00

This is a complement to my previous post about veggie burgers in Prague. I decided to put it up individually because it differs in several ways from its parent – in the very least, there will be no veggie patty as such to talk of here! (GASP!) Here goes the second helping, then.

The place in question is called Yes Burger, and it’s an absolutely exhilarating joint. I first noticed it while gazing out of a tram window, and was intrigued by the good vibes that seemed to hang about its entryway: happy-looking people were coming in and out with beers in their hands, and a general atmosphere of camaraderie beckoned me to hop out of the tram and sink right into it, if even as a detached intruder. So I put aside some time one hot afternoon (a few months ago) and ventured to see what it was all about.

It turned out to be a tiny, somewhat stuffy walk-in spot where you place your order at a counter and eat it up at a miniature table in the adjacent room. When I first saw the man in charge, I thought someone had blacked his eye – blacked both his eyes – and realised only on closer inspection that he was in fact wearing blue eyeliner. His companion, who attended to the grill, was no less striking – tattoos covered the length of his arms, his long hair was tied back with a garish bandanna, and eyeliner also adorned his almond-shaped eyes.

I placed my order somewhat guardedly, and took my iced tea to the next room, happy to be out of sight of the bar, where a few iffy characters had shot me bewildered looks. Nonetheless, when I received my burger, poised breathing and glowing on a porcelain plate (all the other customers I noticed had plastic ones), I knew that I wasn’t going to feel like a stranger at Yes Burger. I was surprised to find nothing but grilled veggies (bell peppers, zucchini, and tomatoes) between the two bun halves, and had a bit of a tough time using flimsy plastic cutlery to eat it (I realise that’s unnecessary, it’s just that I’m much too much of a pig to eat with my hands in public), but the experience was nothing short of quite satisfactory! Everything was fresh and hearty, and what is more, the price was laughable by Prague standards.

Yes Burger is a modest, no-nonsense place where the accent is on quality and tasty food rather than on fancy interior design and elaborate presentation. (Though the walls are decorated with a bewildering mix of vintage picture postcards – depicting chubby cherubs and pastel Easter eggs – somehow evocative of barmy old ladies who grow poisonous plants in their gardens.) It’s all rather unusual, but very easy to fall for. Will I be back? Yes!

The gatherer's hunt: veggie burgers in Prague

2011-09-20T16:00:00.000+02:00

Being vegetarian doesn’t mean I’ve given up on the good things in life: burgers. On the contrary, becoming vegetarian has opened up a whole new world (a new fantastic point of view, no one to tell us no, or where to go) of varied meatless burger patties. Because really, that’s what burgers are all about. The patty is the heart of a burger – it must have a distinct, nutty taste advanced by herbs and spices; it must be crisp on the outside and firm on the inside; it must be complemented by a lightly toasted bun and an assortment of veggies (fresh and pickled and grilled) and yummy toppings and condiments, and served with a side of crunchy fries and fresh salad.

And since my new hobby is to pretend that I’m a restaurant critic, I decided to put together a review of all the vegetarian burgers I’ve tried in Prague. (And I’ve tried to try them all.) For the sake of fairness, I’ve omitted all mention of service and décor. (Save for two exceptions in either case, they’re all comparable). Let’s hop to it then, shall we? Yes.

Fraktál

The tastiest vegetarian burger in Prague, hands down. I’ve tried it and tried it again, countless times, and even though the quality may have varied on a few occasions (though no more than one or two), this burger excels in comparison to all the others that I’ve had to date – in Prague, or anywhere else. Chickpeas are the basic ingredient of the Fraktál vegetarian burger patty, which comes topped wtih sautéed mushrooms and melted cheese inside a humongous toasted bun. A side of fries is the standard, but can be exchanged for or halved with a salad. I wonder if I will ever grow tired of this burger – so far, I've been tending towards the opposite!

Banditos

Banditos seem to be the only place in Prague to have gotten the whole idea of a veggie burger entirely right: there’s no actual ‘veggie burger’ on the menu. Instead, you can order a vegetarian patty to go with any of their staple burgers, or compile a burger of your own with any of the available toppings. (And I'm seriously wondering why no other restaurant in Prague has thought of doing the same, perfectly logical thing.) Their patty is made of spinach, and while that’s not really what I’d be looking for in a veggie burger, it’s quite original and very tasty. Extra kudos goes to Banditos for their side of succulent (homemade!) fries and coleslaw. I’ll definitely be coming back for a second helping with a new combination of toppings.

Hard Rock Café

Prague Hard Rock Café’s ‘Veggie Leggie’ burger shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who’s tried the same thing elsewhere around the world. However, because I was new to Hard Rock Café, my reactions to this burger were first highly suspicious, then extremely dubious, then completely terrified, and finally (and definitely) utterly confused.

The problem? The alleged vegetarian patty looked like meat, smelled like meat, and tasted like… well, pretty much like what I remember the McDonald’s (meat) burgers to have tasted like, once upon a time. (I’ll let you decide whether that’s a compliment to either.) My sorry state led me to write to Hard Rock Café’s customer service the very next day and inquire about the ingredients, which they were immensely kind to provide – and which didn’t contain any meat at all.

I suppose that the ‘Veggie Leggie’ was too good to be truly enjoyed by a hard-core vegetarian like myself, who shuns mock meats and sticks to her beans. (Moreover, I was freaked out by the enormity of the Portobello mushroom that sat on top of it.) Overall, it was of excellent quality and, along with the side of decent fries and salad, provided a satisfying meal. I might go back again out of curiosity – with a Petri dish kit and a microscope.

Bohemia Bagel

My insides churn at the mere memory of this abominable burger. This was puzzling because Bohemia Bagel enjoys good reviews, and was recommended to me by several trustworthy friends (against whom I’m still holding a suppressed grudge.) Imagine the level of my disappointment when, looking forward to enjoying a ‘falafel burger with baba ghanoush’, I bit into an utterly tasteless patty served on a vile bun with a side of cheap shredded cabbage and a dollop of some sort of mustard sauce that whimpered ‘I want to be French, but I don’t know how!’ (Why something like that should accompany a Lebanese-inspired burger escapes me entirely.) I tried dripping Tabasco on it, I tried smearing ketchup over it, and it remained just as horrible. In the end, I decided not to eat it at all, and sorely regretted having had to pay for the experience. Never, ever again.

* * *

And that’s it! As you can see, the choice of veggie burgers in Prague isn’t yet worthy of envy. But it’s getting much, much better as more and more vegetarians are demanding to be fed and more and more omnivores are opting for the occasional meatless meal. (Though I doubt that many of them would appreciate veggie burgers.) And now – YOU! Do let me know if there’s a place (be it in any corner of the planet) that makes veggie burgers to make your toes curl.

Look out for burčák [BOOR-chaak]

2011-09-18T19:12:00.003+02:00

I have always been fascinated (and somewhat disgusted) by the resourcefulness of Czech cuisine. Nothing, really, nothing, is ever allowed to go to waste. If a pig is slaughtered (in the countryside, where many families raise their own meat), every last scrap of the animal is consumed. The brain is fried and sampled as a delicacy, the intestines are stewed to make chitterlings or used as sausage casings, the tongue is smoked and devoured cold, various offal is chopped and mixed in its own broth, then poured into a prepared pig stomach and left to solidify under weight to make a tlačenka ([TLA-chenka], brawn) – a favourite breakfast staple gobbled with pickled onions and bread. The tender meats provide Sunday dinners of sirloin and schnitzel, the ears are dried to provide chews for dogs, and the skin is treated to make trendy accessories. The cycle of life leaves no waste unprocessed. I’m not exaggerating.

Likewise, winemaking creates waste that is too good to be expended, which is precisely how the burčák drinking season came into being. The law stipulates that burčák can only be sold between 1 August and 30 November – this is because the highly perishable brew must be drunk within a few days of production – but the best time to drink it would probably be right about now, in September.

Burčák is a lightly alcoholic drink derived from the fermenting of grape juice shortly after the grapes have been crushed to make wine. Observing burčák in its container (which should be permeable so as to avoid explosions) makes you think of a living universe – wafts of yeast float up and about inside an opaque golden-yellow juice like restless flakes inside a snow globe. Poking your nose into a glass of the stuff will tempt you with a fruity smell, and before you know it you’ll be rolling a bubbly sweetness lightly tinged by alcohol over your tongue. My first taste of burčák reminded me of cidre and immediately made me want to eat galettes. During the second round, however, I determined that it was sweeter and pulpier, like freshly squeezed and slightly fizzied apple juice.

For all its innocent appeal, burčák is not to be taken lightly. The Czechs say that it continues to ferment in your blood stream after it’s been ingested, and while that’s impossible (right?!), it’s exactly how it feels. Having cautiously sipped two glasses, I was overcome by the feeling that my insides had started a collective yoga class. As if to confirm that something was up, countless burps began bubbling up from my rumbling tummy. While burčák is packed with healthy and beneficial goodies – yeast, lactic acid bacteria, and plenty of vitamin B1 (very important for vegetarians) – their combination is also very likely to carry out a rapid cleanse-through of your digestive system (I hope you get the euphemism).

Perhaps you’re better off grabbing a plain yoghurt to relieve your digestion. But then again, if you’re in the Czech Republic during the burčák season, you’d be a dolt to miss out on this exceptional cultural event. Go ahead and have a glass or two – just don’t drink a whole litre!

“No es fácil reconocer tan pronto y con el estómago vacío su propia monstruosidad.”

2011-09-15T16:00:00.000+02:00

Todo sobre mi madre (Sony Pictures Classics, 1999)

Writing a (digestible, as I try to makethem) blog post about Pedro Almodóvar’s masterpiece All About My Mother is a tricky endeavour – the promise ofexcavating hidden gems from deep within its bowels via a thorough study is muchtoo appealing. Just the title is enough for a discussion that would topple thewalls of convention. Because really, what do we know about our mothers?

Though I KNOW my mother, I don’t know muchABOUT my mother. What do I suspect about her sexuality? How am I acquaintedwith her fears and longings? How do I see the life she led before I was born –when she was carefree and wild, as yet untamed by the weighty burden ofmotherhood? One may doubt whether it is appropriate to even inquire, as one maydoubt the mother-and-son relationship (though perfectly innocent) outlined atthe beginning of the movie in question.

I’m currently dissecting the nuances ofevery single scene of the movie via a reading of the script. (Somewhatstrenuous, given my rudimentary Spanish.) It’s as if the film were passing inslow motion before my eyes, allowing me to reflect on every word, every gesture,to consider every nuance of the décor and wonder how many links and hints I’vemissed in-between.

The sentence quoted above, for instance, isnever uttered in the movie. It is ripped entirely out of context here, but Ithink it’s genius even in its stark nakedness. Just like the film, it describesa momentary fact (a person looking in the mirror the morning after being badlybeaten up) while relating a universal story (the difficulty of truly lookingourselves in the eye without any shields to the view). It’s a mindblowing experience.

Could an hour of blindness open your eyes?

2011-09-04T21:23:00.002+02:00

No matter how wide I opened my eyes or tried to adjust my vision, the space around me remained a suffocating, velvety blackness. My sight having gone, my other senses lurched to the rescue. I reached to my left and groped the rough surface of the wall, cautiously stepping forward towards where the pleasant alto of our guide was leading us with words and claps.

The Invisible Exhibition, taking place in Prague’s New Town Hall, is an interactive journey right into the world of being blind. For about an hour, you fumble your way around the pitch-black set of a mock apartment, touching things and guessing what they are (a chair! pots and pans! a hairdryer! a computer keyboard!), talked through your experience by a guide whose sure hand you seek when you finally find yourself in the middle of an empty space with nothing to grab for orientation. You only realise how ironic this is once you exit the darkness, and realise that your guide is blind.

It’s never easy to put yourself in someone else’s shoes, and it’s especially tricky to imagine what it’s like to be missing a sensory capacity. Being immersed in sheer blackness for an hour made me realise a million things, and raised a million questions. How do blind people shop in the supermarket? (They usually ask for assistance from an employee.) How do they count their cash? (It’s much easier to use coins.) Do they cook on a stove? (Yes, they do, with a flame and everything.)

What I especially appreciated about the Invisible Exhibition was that it created a space for the seers to interact with the blind. After our tour, we spent the rest of the afternoon in the (well lit) ‘utensils room’ chatting with our guide and exploring various machines used to help people with poor or no vision. We examined electronic magnifying glasses, played with a Braille typewriter (that we were allowed to try out and type out our names on), listened to ‘talking’ computers, and sat down to play a tactile game of Snakes and Ladders with masks over our eyes for a little while (I suggested we quit right after I stopped winning).

Our most valuable experiences are those that allow us to project ourselves into another human being. In this respect, my visit to the Invisible Exhibition was one of those times that will be tucked away and treasured for a long time to come. If you’re going to be in Prague (or Budapest!) until the end of November 2011, do check it out!

Not got a clue? Some basic rules to keep in mind when communicating with blind people

Remember that the blind are just like the rest of us – people, with their talents and weaknesses. Treat them with due respect and refrain from expressions of pity.

If you notice a blind person that you think might need assistance, approach them and ask them if they need help first. Chances are they might be doing just fine!

When guiding a blind person, let them take your arm and keep them half a step behind you so that they can follow your movements. Stop before steps and other irregularities in the ground, and give due warning.

When helping a blind person sit down, don't push them into the seat, but place their hand on the back of it. Likewise, when helping a blind person get into a car, place their hand on the rim of the car door.

When helping a blind person accompanied by a dog, do not disturb or try to manipulate the dog – remember that it is working, and that it has a master. Address the person and let them give instructions to the dog if needed.

When in the company of a blind person, describe your surroundings to them so as to give them an idea of the space they occupy. Describe your environment in concrete terms and link sounds to objects - your companions will appreciate it!

"If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water."

2011-08-28T18:19:00.001+02:00

Loren Eiseley, The Immense Journey, p.15 (Vintage Books, 1959)

Did I ever tell you that I occasionally moonlight as a speechwriter? Well, I do! (Apart from being a greedy troll and being unable to articulate the word ‘no’, writing speeches has always been a bit of a dream of mine – hence why.) A couple of years ago I was writing a speech for the closing of a workshop pertaining to worldwide water supply, and my client requested that the speech contain some literary reference to water. Following my usual method, I surfed the internet, and was navigated by its channels to one of the most beautiful and enlightening sentences that I’ve ever contemplated.

Being a thorough sourcer, and a curious squirrel, I embarked on an investigative journey to learn all about the author of those exquisite words, and discovered a poet in the robes of an anthropologist. Loren Eiseley, a passionate traveller through the formative eons of life on our planet, was known for his elegant style and his wondering reverence before the mystery of our existence. If Mr. Eiseley was well-respected during his lifetime, his fame didn’t last very long – none of my anthropologist friends had ever heard of him. Regardless, I added his work to my to-read list, and waited for the appropriate moment to roll by.

At last, this week-end I opened up the compact volume (its small size curiously inconsistent with the grandness of the title) and delved in. It's just as enchanting, insightful, and poetic as I had imagined it would be. Mr. Eiseley's writing combines the lyrical with the scientific, the personal with the universal, and teaches that magic is really contained within ourselves. Yes.

Travelling to the United States with European electronic appliances

2011-08-23T16:00:00.004+02:00

The first time I travelled to the United States (from Europe), I brought along my electric toothbrush. Having spent a considerable amount of time trying to poke its thick round prongs into the shabby-looking socket in my father’s Upper East Side flat, I finally resigned to the feeling that would haunt me throughout my month-long stay in New York City: while everything in the United States seemed familiar, it was eerily different.

Upon my second crossing of the big puddle, I was wiser in my preparation. Also, I was bringing much more technology: a phone and a camera with their battery chargers, a computer with an adaptor, and I would even have packed my electric epilator and hairdryer had I had my way. Looking around on the internet, I had extreme difficulties finding a comprehensive guide on the different electricity currents in Europe and the United States. Until I finally stumbled upon John Bermont’s website, here.

In the elated thank you e-mail I subsequently wrote Mr. Bermont, I told him that, though his site aims to advise Americans coming to Europe, his exhausting exposé on the differences in voltage, the essence of electricity, the uselessness of converters and hotel desk clerks, and the mysterious engravings on ‘black bricks’ (I literally jumped an inch off my chair when I saw that term because the lapidary description made me understand exactly what was being referred to) helped understand everything that I was puzzling about. Hence, I was able to instruct my gentle host on the exact parameters of a plug adapter to be purchased, and leave Europe worrying about nothing but the prospect of being locked up in a plane for ten hours.

And because I’m very proud of the lessons I’ve learned, I’m going to reveal to you, in my own words, the secret of using your trusted European electronic appliances in the United States (and vice versa, for the clever ones). Generally speaking, you will need to take care of two things:

Get a Europe to United States plug adapter. Without it, you’ll be trying to shove thick round prongs into rectangular holes. You will fail.

Look at the electrical specifications of your appliance (these are usually printed either directly on the appliance, or on the adaptor). If you see this: 100-240V ~ 50/60Hz, then (and only then) the appliance will work beautifully in both Europe and the United States.

You see, the voltage in Europe is supplied at 220 volts at a frequency of 50Hz, and the voltage in the United States is supplied at 110 or 120 volts at a frequency of 60 Hz – because all the numbers I’ve mentioned fall within the range of the electrical specification in the example, the appliance is fit for both continents. If my explanations weren’t quite clear, please read through Mr. Bermont’s site carefully, and soon you’ll be writing your own blog posts about voltage! (Evidently, there aren’t enough of them.)

* * *

Incidentally, my visit to New York in 2003 coincided with the Northeast Blackout. (It wasn't my toothbrush, I pledge you!) I was bewildered and excited, and I took a valuable photo of Times Square completely immersed in an ebony blackness.

It's already a long story, though it's only just begun

2011-08-19T20:00:00.000+02:00

Peeps, I would like to introduce Carlos to you. He's kind of important.

(And now you know who 'we' were in San Francisco.)

Ever heard of olallieberries?

2011-08-17T16:00:00.005+02:00

How about Sweetie Pie’s? For me, the two will remain closely connected for as long as my big wrinkly brain continues to serve me. You see, the first time I ever heard of olallieberries was precisely on the day that I first heard of Sweetie Pie’s. And the combination was a pretty memorable experience. We were looking for the perfect place to have breakfast on our drive back to San Francisco from Lake Tahoe when we happened upon an idyllic town called Placerville. Lo and behold! Sweetie Pie’s, located in an adorable Victorian house, beckoned us with its ample menu of stodgy buttermilk pancakes and fragrant country pies... and olallieberries galore.

The olallieberry, despite its name sounding like Hello Kitty’s take on the BlackBerry device, is a perfectly edible cross between the raspberry and the blackberry (or, you know, roughly). It was developed in the United States and released for general consumption in 1950, since when it has taken to growing abundantly on Californian soil and, it would seem, principally in Sweetie Pie’s backyard, because everything on their menu seems to have the possibility of having olallieberries in it, on it, or with it. So we went ahead and tried these little things: first as refreshingly tart and tumbled over crêpes filled warm mascarpone, then as sweet mush inside a delightful country pie. And it was divine.

Sweetie Pie's won us over in all respects: its patriotic décor, the friendly and relaxed, yet wonderfully efficient staff, the locals meeting over coffee and fluffy omelettes, and the delicious, fresh cooking that smelled and tasted just like home. Which left us, upon having paid our check, with only solution: we will return, Sweetie Pie’s – some day, we will return!

The silent beauty of Lake Tahoe (or how I became a camping enthusiast)

2011-08-16T16:00:00.015+02:00

One thing that (especially as a European) has always fascinated me about the United States (I should perhaps say America) is the sheer immensity of everything: if there are cars, then they are huge cars; if there are mountains, then they are gigantic mountains; if there are lakes, then they are vast sheets of clarity mirroring the graceful blue heavens above. Such is Lake Tahoe [TAH-oh] – a freshwater mammoth in the Sierra Nevada range on the border between California and Nevada. It is the largest alpine lake in North America, and the second deepest lake in the United States. It was formed about 2 million (give or take a couple of hundred thousand) years ago and is a popular tourist destination throughout the year, famed for its crystal clear water and the breathtaking panorama of the surrounding mountains. See for yourself!

The place we called home for a night.

Here, I look like a hero. But I was a big ninny climbing up those rocks and demanded the support of a strong man's arms at every step.

This water was irresistible - and heart-stoppingly cold! Nonetheless, the dip was wonderfully refreshing and a perfect prelude to drying off on a rock.

There were chipmunks EVERYWHERE. We fed them Graham Crackers. Did you know that those were initially invented to curb sexual appetite? Apparently so!

To hug a tree and look up into its branches is one of the coolest things in the world.

Emerald Bay, inside of Lake Tahoe, was one of the most picturesque places I've ever seen. We hiked all around it, discovered tiny beaches, took our shoes off, and dug our toes into the soft, soggy sand.

Enchanting, what?

And then we got hungry...

Well, that's not exactly how it happened, but hunger did prompt us, as we drove into South Lake Tahoe on the first day of our trip, to look for a place to sit down (waha!) and (that was an inside joke) chow down on something other than the standard offer of a global fast-food chain. The tides of providence led us to a place called Margaritas – a charming, family owned and family operated casa, where the crimson and ochre interior complements the genuine home-cooked savours of Mexico. We moaned with pleasure on our first visit, and came back the next day for seconds.

Where (and what) to eat in San Francisco

2011-08-14T13:14:00.009+02:00

If I had to choose one word to describe the food scene in San Francisco, it would be ‘local’. Here, it seems, every other restaurant grows its own organic veggies on its own little farm, makes its bread and pasta from scratch, and supports regional producers of dairy and venison. This, I have come to conclude, is in line with the above-average awareness of San Franciscans about their life, their environment, and their community. This is not a city where recycling is considered an achievement, my friends, this is a city where composting is the law! (And, for those that might be confused by my tone, I think that’s awesome.)

Breakfast

* Café du Soleil (Fillmore Street)

My favourite place in all of San Francisco, hands down. Tatty on the outside, homely on the inside, it feels as authentic as the Mediterranean sun that shines on Provence – and the pastries are excellent. It’s perfect for a typically French breakfast (coffee in a bol accompanied by a delicate croissant or a wholesome financier), but will satisfy those with a healthier appetite throughout the entire day.

* Tartine Bakery (Guerrero Street)

Gwyneth Paltrow isn’t the only celebrity to have raved about this place, which is probably why the line of people waiting outside to get breakfast (mid-morning on a weekday, mind you) was insane. In my opinion, the lovely rustic interior and the scrumptious butter-heavy croissants aren’t entirely worth a visit to this rather harried spot. Leave this landmark to those without a sense of adventure, spare yourself a twenty-minute wait agonising over whether you’ll be able to secure a seat at a table, and pop into one of San Francisco’s many quieter, cheaper, and no less authentic or delicious bakeries instead.

* Thorough Bread & Pastry (Church Street)

This was the first place I was taken to upon my arrival in San Francisco, which is perhaps why it has since been inextricably associated with my feel of the life in the city. This one, like many places here, is a family owned establishment offering artisanal pastries (and my favourite brand of tea!) that you can watch being made on the spot. Among the tweed-clad and bespectacled clientèle, you’ll feel as much at home as on boulevard Saint Germain – except that I’ve never had an almond croissant as delicious as theirs!

Snacks/elevenses

Snacking in San Francisco is immense fun mainly due to the abundance of farmers’ markets scattered throughout the city. Purchase dried fruit to nibble on as you trek up and down the hills, buy a home-baked loaf or baguette to share with seagulls while you rest on a pier by the bay, or enjoy the California-sun-ripened flavour of locally grown fruits and veggies.

Lunch/dinner

* The Little Chihuahua (Divisadero Street)

Don’t let the prospect of bussing your own table keep you from walking into this hole-in-the-wall, ordering their fried plantain burrito, then being beamed straight up into heaven. This place has both an arty interior (Gavin Worth's stencil paintings on the walls) and flavourful food, which makes it a great venue for an informal date. Just make sure you come here REALLY hungry, because the portions are large and you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t finish them. Trust me, I’m still on that guilt trip!

* Gracias Madre (Mission Street)

This vegan restaurant feels like a bustling beehive. You’ll most likely be seated at a table with lots of other people, realising to your great surprise that you don’t mind at all, because the vibes of communal belonging and good cheer that flow through this spot are quite contagious. If you’re at a loss as to what to pick off the creative menu, I can heartily recommend the prickly pear stew accompanied by warm home-made tortillas. Bastante rico!

Fine dining

* Yoshi’s (Fillmore Street)

Thank heavens for the professional staff at Yoshi's – our petite waiter didn't blink an eye when we asked him to guide us through the vegetarian options on the menu. Luckily, San Francisco's most renowned sushi restaurant caters to all kinds of weirdoes, and so we joyfully gobbled several platefuls of different and delicious (and fish-free!) sushi, even ordering seconds of the excellent heirloom tomato maki. For me, this place was the ideal fine dining expereince (a term I employ loosely) – it was stylish yet laid-back, the food was exceptional and the staff attentive, the green tea genuine, and the price just right!

If you're going to San Francisco...

2011-08-09T22:20:00.015+02:00

Be sure NOT to wear flowers in your hair, unless you want to look like a complete nut. Instead, dip your nose into some of the flowers being grown all over the city, and savour the sweet fragrance of jasmine, roses, gardenias, and lavender. If you’re a fan of flower scents, pop over to the Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate Park for some awesome treats, or take a stroll through the ‘scent garden’ at the Botanical Garden nearby.

Go to the legendary City Lights bookstore, get a copy of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl, and read it in the bohemian den of Café Vesuvio just next door. Do check out the many other quirky bookshops in the Castro and Mission districts, too. My favourite remains the Adobe Bookshop on 16 Street – a delightfully disorderly place cluttered with the yellowed pages of covetable volumes.

Have a picnic – absolutely anywhere! There’s Crissy Field with cinematic views of the Golden Gate Bridge, there’s Golden Gate Park with wilderness tucked into its nooks, there’s Alamo Square with the Painted Ladies (the row of Victorian-era homes emblematic of San Francisco) poised smack in front of it, there’s Stern Grove with (free!) performances of the San Francisco Symphony on hot July afternoons, and many, many more spots where you can feast al fresco.

Take a walk along the Marina Green Drive and feed the seagulls lounging there. Throwing balls of bread (you can try shrimp if you can spare the expense) to birds eagerly suspended in mid-air right above your head will remind you what it’s like to feel a joyful child again. This was one of the best ideas of all time!

Wait one hour and fifteen minutes (yes, that is correct) to take a cable car, and discover that it’s TOTALLY worth it when you nose-dive into the pit of Jackson Street, past ogling onlookers, holding on for dear life. If you’re short on time (or near roller-coaster experiences are simply not your thing), board one of San Francisco’s cute historical streetcars (from the first half of the twentieth century) – the so-called F-line – that run up and down Market Street, for a trip back in time.

Visit the Asian Art Museum to explore one of the largest collections of Asian art in the Western World. The building itself – adapted for its purpose by the same architect who oversaw the transformation of a dilapidated Parisian train station into the Musée d’Orsay – is worth visiting. Asians (of Chinese descent in particular) have contributed importantly to defining the history and development of San Francisco, making it the city with the highest percentage of Asians (more than 30%) in the United States.

Don’t miss a visit to one of the farmers’ markets taking place around the city. They’re smaller than what Europeans (les français en particulier) might be used to, but quantity doesn’t matter when you have quality! Purchase something you’ve never had before (squash blossoms? fresh lemon pasta?) and ask the merchant how to prepare it (the secret to everything seems to be garlic olive oil). Alternatively, nip into the family owned Haight Street Market grocery store, and see if you can resist not buying out their deli section.

Join one of the free walking tours organised by volunteers from San Francisco City Guides. You’ll find out lots of interesting titbits about the ever-exciting city from locals passionate about its history and social life. During the architecture tour, for instance, you’ll learn that, in the 1970s, the City Council of San Francisco undertook steps to prevent the so-called Manhattanisation of San Francisco, resulting in skyscrapers being built mindfully so as to let more sunlight into the streets and avoid a ‘canyon of glass and steel’ look. Cool, what?

A guidebook tailored to your needs

The reason I never buy city guides is because they’re usually filled with unimportant nonsense. (Moreover, who would want to frequent the same restaurants as ALL the other tourists? Pas moi, merci.) Thus, before coming to San Francisco, I decided to purchase a Moleskine City Book instead. In case you’re unfamiliar with the concept, this is a series of fully customisable guidebooks containing a map, some conversion tables, and lots and lots of blank pages for you to fill in with your favourite eateries, places of interest, and memories. (To make it all nice and organised, the book has pre-labelled and customisable tabs.) While I wouldn’t recommend these nifty books for short trips, I didn’t take one step without mine (lovingly filled in by my precious host) while roaming the streets of San Francisco. I loved that I could peer into the map at any time without looking like a befuddled tourist – but only as if I were checking something in my notebook. It makes for a great souvenir of the trip, too!

Bridging the transatlantic divide: why Europeans think Americans are rude oafs and Americans think Europeans are hostile snobs

2011-08-06T22:50:00.001+02:00

Whether you’re European or American, you’ve surely encountered it before: that bewildering arrogance, that absurd enmity, which seems to define the frosty crackle and hiss of communication between us. (I’m exaggerating, of course, for purposes of clarity.) What I’ve established during my recent holiday in the enthralling city of San Francisco – having subjected the American psyche to meticulous scrutiny – was that the faulty interaction between Americans and Europeans is rooted in a misunderstanding between their fundamentally different modes of communication. If you never want to meet another obnoxious American, or cross paths with another haughty Frenchwoman, by all means read on.

American society revolves around efficiency. As a result, day-to-day communication between Americans is maximally economical. I’ve noticed on several occasions that most Americans don’t bother with formalities, going straight to the point and keeping their interactions concise and practical. (It reminds me of Hemingway.) As an interesting aside, they have a habit of shunning eye contact, as if looking someone straight in the eyes were a gross intrusion of the other person’s privacy. Here’s a real-life example of an American’s request for the metro stop (and I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have found that it was me who was being addressed).

“Where’s the BART station?”

A functional appeal, by all means. However, in most European countries, a shout-out like that would be considered inconceivably crude, and met with corresponding aloofness. (Personally, I wouldn’t speak to anyone who failed to make eye-contact, for the simple reason that they could have been talking to the person behind me.) European society revolves around conventions. Therefore, when addressing a European, your first task is to make eye contact, in order to claim their attention. It would then be appropriate to excuse yourself, so as to signal that you will want something from them. After that, it is customary to find a common language (usually starting with the local language or English) to make sure you would understand each other. It is only then that you can proceed to voice your request.

“Would you happen to know where the nearest BART station is?”

(Note the use of the subjunctive tense. Europeans LOVE the subjunctive tense.) (Okay, I might be substituting the French for Europeans. But I’m not French, and I certainly love the subjunctive tense, so there.) After receiving your reply (and missing three BART trains bound for the airport), you would take extra time (and miss the fourth, and last, BART train bound for the airport) to vigorously thank the person who helped you, even giving a little bow as you would scurry off in the indicated direction.

Now, before you get all upset, let me assure you that the differences outlined above are not meant to criticise either mode of communication. The objective of this post is to foster understanding and prevent pointless peeves. If you’re still unsure of my motives, let me tell you that I loved how friendly and chatty the shop assistants were in America. They would ask me questions (with seemingly sincere interest) and go out of their way to help me get exactly what I was looking for. Upon my return to Europe, having spent a considerable amount of money in a shop that I often frequent, the assistant couldn’t muster the energy to properly articulate a ‘goodbye’, much less beam me a smile of infinite gratitude for blessing her day with my presence.

So much for stereotypes.

Coming soon!

2011-08-01T16:00:00.000+02:00

San Francisco – Fog City, City by the Bay, Golden City, or Frisco – was originally named Yerba Buena, after a rambling aromatic herb whose dense green mats sprawl the windy Pacific coast of North America.

In 1945, the UN Charter was drafted and signed here by representatives of 50 nations, instituting a global authority for peace and human rights on the cusp of humanity’s most devastating war.

A quote, incorrectly attributed to Mark Twain, has the beloved author assert that the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. While it’s true that the wind can get a little chilly, the California sun still shines through with mighty force, causing people I love to ask whether my nose is always red. (Only when it’s sunburnt, my heart.)

How do I know? Why, peeps, I was just there! And I can’t WAIT to tell you all about it! Soon.

Rules for living

2011-07-31T23:25:00.003+02:00

Olivia Joules couldn’t be farther removed from her clueless literary cousin, Bridget Jones: fearless, dazzling, independent, and entirely in control (despite her occasional propensity to accidents). As this freelance beauty journalist turned secret agent uncovers a global terrorist plot in a series of outlandish, James Bond-like escapades (with a special underwired bra for a gadget, no less), she keeps her head by abiding by her personal rules for living.

Even if we, regular mortals, will never get to attend celebrity-packed miracle face-cream launches in Miami, scuba-dive in the crystal waters of the Caribbean, or escape certain death from the underground caves of the Sudan, we can definitely use Olivia Joules’ rules for living in our daily lives. Though Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination wasn’t my favourite book by Helen Fielding (and I’ve read them all), the author's wit, her humour, and her humanity have won me over once again. With this post, I’d like to pay homage to her talent, and thank her for making a 10-hour flight feel like an exciting adventure.

Rules for living by Olivia Joules

1. Never panic. Stop, breathe, think.
2. No one is thinking about you. They’re thinking about themselves, just like you.
3. Never change haircut or colour before an important event.
4. Nothing is either as bad or as good as it seems.
5. Do as you would be done by, e.g. thou shalt not kill.
6. It is better to buy one expensive thing that you really like than several cheap ones that you only quite like.
7. Hardly anything matters: if you get upset, ask yourself, ‘Does it really matter?’
8. The key to success lies in how you pick yourself up from failure.
9. Be honest and kind.
10. Only buy clothes that make you feel like doing a little dance.
11. Trust your instincts, not your overactive imagination.
12. When overwhelmed by disaster, check if it’s really a disaster by doing the following: a) think, ‘Oh, fuck it,’ b) look on the bright side and, if that doesn’t work, look on the funny side. If neither of the above works then maybe it is a disaster so turn to items 1 and 5.
13. Don’t expect the world to be safe or life to be fair.
14. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow.
15. Don’t regret anything. Remember there wasn’t anything else that could have happened, given who you were and the state of the world at that moment. The only thing you can change is the present, so learn from the past.

Helen Fielding, Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination, p. 93 (illustration p. 236, Picador, 2004)

Back to the oven

2011-07-29T23:43:00.006+02:00

People! I've just returned from a marvellous holiday, far, far away. (Postcard subscribers might already know.) But before I spill my observations and awe you with a selection from my 700+ uniquely artsy photos, let me boast my artful use of a couple of souvenirs that I brought back with me: a cupcake carver and a set of delightfully frisky cupcake cups. (If your eyebrows just reached for your hairline, be informed that the cupcake-making culture in my present homeland is direly backward – months ago, Marks & Spencer's stopped carrying chocolate chips!! Actually, I should write them about it. Yes, I think I'll do that.)

One of my favourite things about coming home after leisurely frolicking in foreign locations and discovering the nooks and crannies of different lifestyles, is donning my leopard-print apron and cooking in my own kitchen. (Because let me tell you, every oven has its own personality.) This time, I went out on a limb and improvised a little, squeezing half a lemon right into the dough before baking and inventing a delectable frosting by blending a couple dollops of quark with several spoonfuls of home-made cherry marmalade. The end cupcakes turned out exactly as good as they look on the photos! (Sweet yet refreshing, delicately cake-like yet wholesomely filling... alright, I'll stop now.)

Wondering about the difference between a muffin and a cupcake? Refresh your memory here.

A joke

2011-06-30T22:53:00.000+02:00

On the occasion that I’m currently reading Jokes and their relation to the unconscious by Sigmund Freud, as well as on the occasion that I happened upon a tiny ebony fly dancing in my glass of water and lime yesterday afternoon, I thought I might share a rather endearing joke with you.

It was told to me many years ago by a Romanian ambassador (a Transylvanian type of man if ever there was one, and very amusing) at a party in Algiers. (This fact bearing no importance beyond that of being superbly glamorous.) In Algiers, there’s an extremely famous (though slightly shabby, in that nostalgic way) hotel which hosted some of history’s most respectable names. The hotel has an extensive garden, which overflows with a green freshness, the scent of jasmine, and gurgling fountains. The joke is set in this garden.

On a fine evening, a lady guest of the hotel stood admiring the splendour of the garden, when suddenly she became thirsty.
‘Garçon!’ She called to the valet in a pristine white uniform, standing at attention nearby, ‘bring me a glass of water.’
The valet briskly exited and returned a few moments later with a glass of cool water on a silver tray, which he offered the lady. She took the glass and, as she was about to take a gulp, spotted a huge black fly dancing its death dance on the surface of the water.
‘Garçon!’ She called. ‘There’s a fly in my water! Get rid of it!’
The valet took back the glass and disappeared behind a tree, where he dipped two nimble fingers into it, caught the fly, and tossed it away. He promptly returned the glass to the lady, who gulped its contents down greedily.

The next evening, the same lady guest of the hotel stood admiring the splendour of the garden yet again, and yet again she suddenly became thirsty.
‘Garçon! Ha! It’s you again?! Bring me a glass of water. And be quick!’ She called.
The valet dashed away and returned in the blink of an eye with a glass of cool water on a silver tray, which he held up to the lady’s nose. She took the glass and, as she was about to press her painted lips to its rim, noticed a huge black fly rowing on the surface of the water.
‘Garçon!’ She exclaimed in frustration. ‘There’s a fly in my water! Get rid of it immediately!’
The valet took back the glass and disappeared behind a tree, where he dipped two nimble fingers into it, catching the fly and tossing it away. He speedily returned the glass to the lady, who downed its contents with abandon.

The third evening, the same lady guest of the hotel stood admiring the splendour of the garden for the last time before her departure. Dabbing away tears of emotion, she addressed the valet standing at attention nearby in a pristine white uniform.
‘Garçon! Bring me a glass of water, won’t you?’
The valet disappeared in a cloud of dust and just as soon reappeared with a glass of cool water on a silver tray, which he piously extended to the lady. She took the glass and, examining its contents, turned to the valet matter-of-factly.
‘But, garçon! Where is the fly?!’

And that would be all for today.

No more jam

2011-06-29T21:10:00.001+02:00

What's left after you've eaten a jar of jam?

This is just a random post, which may (or may not) be explained in exactly two weeks' time.

Having a dumb day? Enjoy it!

2011-06-22T16:00:00.009+02:00

It’s Monday morning and you’ve overslept horribly. Jumping out of bed in a sobering panic (you have a meeting with your boss in half an hour!!), you bang your big toe against the bedside table and groan in pain. Your coffee spills, your toast burns, your toothpaste drips on your fancy shirt and you realise that all your stockings have holes in them. (For the gents, that would be akin to a broken zipper in all your trousers.) You rush out of the house realising – too late – that your car is in repar, so you take the bus, which is late and packed with people and you begin to sweat like a pig as you uncontrollably twist underneath the rubber handle that you’re hanging onto for life. You’re late for your meeting, you’ve missed three deadlines since 9 a.m., and your boss shouted obscene insults at you in front of your sniggering secretary.

Lunchtime is nearing. You plonk down into your swivel chair, which slides back just as your bum is about to land on the seat and causes you to drop down and batter your jaw against your desk. As you shake away a momentary concussion and rub your sore chin, picturing the spectacular bruise that will grow on it tomorrow, what are your thoughts? Mine would go something along the lines of ‘HELL, YEAH! BRING IT ON!’ Harrumph.

We all have what I call ‘dumb days’: clumsy and irritated days full of general misfortune and juicy dog excrements on our suede shoes. What do you do on days like these? I say: embrace them, and have yourself your dumbest day yet. See if you can get juicy dog excrements on BOTH your suede shoes! (Yes, I know I already wrote ‘shoes’ in the previous sentence. I tried changing it to just ‘shoe’ but that didn’t sound so good.) How about standing in the slooowest queue at the supermarket on your way home with exactly one carton of milk under your arm? What if you managed to stop at every. single. red. light on your way to your dinner date that evening? Here’s what: it won’t happen. Because when you challenge misfortune, it shirks. Moreover, making a game of your dumb days already vindicates your hardship by positioning you on top of it, so to speak.

Take my advice, therefore, and enjoy your dumb days as you would the best days of your life. Make them memorable. Heck! I don’t think I’ve ever HAD a truly memorable dumb day before! Have you?! Boast away! Let’s all bask in the proverbial muck together, so to speak.

Thank you, Mr. Postman!

2011-06-20T16:00:00.006+02:00

(Actually, I have my post delivered by a woman, but Ms. Postlady sounded so strange!)

I'm lucky to receive letters and packages every so often from thoughtful souls. Here are some of the most cherished items that found in my mailbox in the past few months: cheesy Disney Princess keys, sweet home-made strawberry jam with a chilli kick to it, Whole Living magazine, love letters (!!), and pressed flowers.

Can you guess which ones are from the same person?

Did you know... (XXI)

2011-06-18T15:00:00.006+02:00

... that the word ‘robot’ comes from Czech? It first appeared in a play titled R.U.R. (Rossum’s Universal Robots, the English sub-title to the Czech original), written in 1921 by a certain Karel Čapek [CAR-elle CHA-peck]. Although you might have never heard the name before, this man is the most accomplished and versatile Czech-language writer of all time, both in terms of style and content (and anything else that might be important in literature). Though he remains virtually unknown outside of the Czech Republic (and tremendously underappreciated here), his writings possess a universal sensibility as relevant to the human condition today as those of Shakespeare or Chekhov.

And yet, Karel Čapek maintains a voice that is unlike any you may have encountered before. Throughout his active life, he wrote an assortment of essays, columns, short stories, novels, children’s books, travelogues, letters, and plays. The intellectual thread that binds all his works is anchored in his (contagious) love of Czech language, his passion for the ordinary and the everyday and his poignant observations of it, and most importantly, his humanism. Čapek himself asserts that he belongs “among those idiots who love man because he is human”.

However, it was Čapek’s brother, Josef [YO-zeff], who coined the word that has since become international. Though Karel originally wanted to use labor (from the Latin word) to designate artificial creatures created and exploited by humans, Josef suggested using robot (from the Old Slavonic rabota, designating servile drudgery). It is worth noting Josef Čapek was a writer in his own right (having co-written many works with Karel and authored a few independently), though he is better known for his cubist paintings and literary illustrations.

Perhaps luckily, English speakers won’t face an overwhelming choice of Karel Čapek’s translated works. A collection of his writings has been published recently, Believe in People: The Essential Karel Čapek, offering a taste of his essential ideas through the enjoyable medium of easily digestible literary morsels.

“When you ask a person to jump, his attention is mostly directed toward the act of jumping, and the mask falls, so that the real person appears.”

2011-06-15T16:00:00.001+02:00

Since I talked about jumping in my last post, I thought I'd take up the opportunity and reference Philippe Halsman's famous quote. Drawing on his simple assumption, Mr. Halsman developed a whole new mode of photography, which he termed 'jumpology' and presented in a collection of delightfully silly photographs of airborne celebrities titled Philippe Halsman's Jump Book. (Think Grace Kelly coquettishly hitching up her skirt in mid-air, Julius Oppenheimer stretching up in a reach for the heavens, and Aldous Huxley suspended in a star shape.) The photo above, also in the collection, shows Philippe Halsman together with Marilyn Monroe.

It's happening

2011-06-13T16:00:00.003+02:00

There’s something magical about jumping. Unshackling your feet from gravity’s firm hold, for a moment you defy the laws of physics and remain suspended in the air. As simple as it seems, jumping takes courage, and effort, and, most of all, will.

I’ve never been too keen on jumping. As a child, I would sincerely fear for my life when my ice-skating instructor would ask me to do anything beyond the Salchow. Even during simple pencil jumps my elevation would be near zero and the jump itself would last a fraction of a blink.

Proverbially, I’ve jumped once in my life, and that leap took me distances that I never, in all my ambitious dreams, ever conceived. It was a sensational experience of self-discovery, coming to terms with who I am, settling comfortably in my own skin and defining my life goals. It was also a thrilling journey which, gradually, brought me where I am today, looking across the distance at another horizon.

I’m jumping. Closing my eyes, holding my breath (because you never know!), reaching my arms out for balance, and confidently leaping out into the unknown, fully intending to miss the ground after I throw myself at it.

Please don’t forget to pick me up.

A strawberry treat

2011-06-12T11:31:00.002+02:00

Yo! I’ve been hit, straight in the dial (before you think that I’ve gone cuckoo, that’s a Czech expression for face), by The Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award! A humongous hug goes out to CAM of Home is where the teapot is and a menacing finger is being pointed at... ah, but you’ll have to read until the end to see who the next awardees are! (My eyes! That’s an actual word!)

While I perplexedly wipe dollops of cream off my nose and pick bits of strawberries off my cheeks, let me reiterate the rules:

* Thank and link to the person who bestowed the award upon you.

* Share seven random facts about you.

* Pass the award onto ten deserving buddies and contact them to let
them know.

CAM, you amazing woman, THANK YOU! In case you peeps are unfamiliar with Home is wher e the teapot is, know that its author is an exceptional person. There’s truly something homely about CAM’s blog that makes you come back to it time and again, a bit like to your favourite friend’s kitchen, when you need a cuppa to soothe your nerves and a bickie to pep you up. Although we’re in touch with CAM through postcards and e-mails, I’ve never actually told her how greatly I admire her and how eagerly I look up to her. I yearn to, some day, sit down in a kitchen with her (mine or hers, no matter, because there will be a steaming pot of brewing tea leaves between us in both spaces) and let her tell me all about her housekeeping books and her seasonal menus and her gardening plans. There’s a richness to CAM’s writing that makes you want to stuff both your cheeks with a big chunk of life and savour it flavour by flavour... Actually, why don’t you read one of my favourite posts from CAM’s blog to get a better idea of what I’m talking about, here? You’re welcome.

Since there’s a whole rubric on this blog dedicated to random me facts (harrumph), I’ll just stick to really, really random titbits that I’m unlikely to write about in an independent blog post. Ready?

c) I’ve never been hit on the face with a cake before. I’m thinking it could be something I’d like to experience one day. (Though perhaps not on my birthday – all those candles! Eesh!)

h) I had a bowl of strawberries with a splodge of vanilla ice-cream for breakfast today.

e) I’m strangely averse to people touching me – to the point that I avoid massages, and take care of my manicures and pedicures at home. (Loved ones don’t count.)

d) I can sing several songs in Portuguese, although I don’t speak the language at all. I just memorised the sounds of Garota de Ipanema, Muita Bobeira, Lambada, and several others. It was fun!

d) I detest waiting to the point that I always take the stairs rather than the lift (well, unless I’d have to climb a hundred floors or so) – it always takes too long to arrive and standing around waiting for it always ends up with me performing an impatient tapping jig.

a) When I’m finished reading a book, I only keep it if it blew my mind (or close enough). Otherwise, I give it away. This keeps my bookshelves nice and uncluttered, with plenty of space for pretty pictures and souvenirs.

r) I recently discovered that sorting lists according to random words is much more fun than following the alphabet. I’ve already totally infected one person (who claims to have come up with the exact same idea independently of me) and intend to spread the epidemic. Are you in on the cheese?

Right! Whom shall we hear from next? I’m throwing strawberry cakes at Nancy, Susie, Jenna, and, very cautiously, at a newbie on my blogroll, Stephanie of Sassy Stylings. Stephanie should be on your blogroll, too, because she’s awesome: funnier than Helen Fielding and more clued-up on the celebrity world than Perez Hilton. And she's sassy!

Say it with a (different kind of) sticky note

2011-05-30T16:00:00.003+02:00

Are you a fan of sticky notes? I’m not majorly addicted, though I do keep a batch permanently on my office desk where my colleague leaves phone messages for me (from various pranksters who’re looking to talk to me before 9 a.m.) and which I most often use to scribble work-related shopping lists on (tea and biscuits and such). However, I discovered something recently that might change my whole approach to sticky notes and, along with it, my whole life.

The something is called Colle, décolle et recolle (French for ‘paste, un-paste, and re-paste’) and was developed by two super-cute graduates of a Parisian art school, Élodie Chaillous and Vahram Muratyan, owners of Viiiz. (The latter keeps a creative outlet in the form of an exhilaratingly creative blog, Paris vs. New York: A Tally of Two Cities.) What it is a set of 10 boxes (for various occasions and sold separately: couples living, friends, work, holidays, etc.), each containing 10 blocks of yellow sticky notes with pre-printed messages that allow you to fill in check lists and/or complete drawings and then stick them anywhere that you feel might need a little pizzazz.

(My favourite, for instance, is the one from the Ton couple box that says: ‘We’ve really got to...’, then gives you a choice between ‘... talk’ and ‘... have sex’, and allows you to specify by offering another choice between ‘... right now’, ‘... tonight’, and ‘... never again’.)

Until I manage to get myself some of these things directly from Paris, I intend to bombard the people I love (francophone or not) with yellow e-mail notes from the SuperViiiz website. The choice is not huge, but it’s fun and it’s free and I fully adhere to both.

* * *

On a side (sticky) note: are you aware of the proper way to remove one sticky note from the batch? Chances are that if you peel it from the bottom up, it will start curling frustratingly once fixed on a surface. What you should do is peel it off from the side – then it won’t curl! (I kid you not, there are courses for this, or so I’ve been told.)

"Easier to get people to hate than to get them to love."

2011-05-28T10:00:00.000+02:00

Robert A. Heinlein, The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress, p. 92 (Berkley Medallion Books, 1968)

Sad, but very telling. I used to think that the main purpose of science fiction was to leave an audience overwhelmed with unlikely scenarios featuring elaborate technological inventions. (And I’m sure there’s plenty science fiction of that sort on bookshelves somewhere.) However, having read one and a half (one and a third, to be precise) science fiction books to date, I’m discovering that the genre presents an exceptionally crafty medium for social commentary. Times, places, attitudes may change, but human nature remains the same – or does it?

Random me fact no. 13

2011-05-24T16:00:00.098+02:00

I’m a huge fan of huge accessories. In accordance with my half-male brain, there’s no better than bigger when it comes to pins, bracelets, handbags and glasses. My favourite flower pin is about the size of my face, and has never gone without some comment or other from pretty much all of my acquaintances. (Not mentioning old gents stopping dead in their tracks and staring like they were about to have a seizure.) Once, my beloved secretary and good friend ran up to me at work and sniffed at my breast, after which she informed my baffled self that she expected the (evidently fake) flower to be perfumed. (A direct result of the encounter was my consequent application of the pin a little higher, nearer my shoulder.) But i digress.

Although I like to claim that my love for bigger accessories (and buffalo-sized cars that gobble gallons of petrol) stems from my cerebral allegiance with the hairier sex (though the size of my hands might also overwhelm some), it once occurred to me that my specific fascination with large flower pins might actually have germinated during the countless occasionas on which, as a child, I watched a movie that, I still maintain, features the most BEAUTIFUL evening gown of all eternity – designed by the awesome Dorothy Jeakins and worn by the ever-elegant Eleanor Parker in her role as Baroness Schraeder – The Sound of Music.

Can you spot the similarity? (Thanks to Mischa for the beautiful photo (of my favourite pin) on the left.)

Despite the innocence of it all, some people tend to over-think my penchant for over-sized embellishments. (Although, who knows? Perhaps I AM compensating for something.) (A hint for style rookies: if you have big bosoms, don't wear over-sized flower pins.) One such person was a distinguished government official who happened to bump into me during a fancy buffet some time ago. We found ourselves blocking each other's access to the platters of our choice at the salad bar (black olive and feta salad in my case and a seafood pasta salad in his), and so he decided that the best way to resolve the situation was to make small talk. Naturally, his attention focused on the humongous flower suspended near my left shoulder.

"My, that’s an impressive pin. Is it a symbol of anything? Allegiance with Israel, or something like that?"
What?! Why Israel?! Holy feta, Jules, think of something clever to say! QUICK!
"Um... it’s... a... symbol of... my... liking... big... accessories."
Phew! That was close. WAIT! Jules, did you just say something dirty?!
(In case I haven’t told you before, I’m an oaf.)

The distinguished government official didn’t say a word. He blinked at me for a few everlasting moments, after which we both politely lowered our gazes and glided past each other to the respective salads we had both initially been aiming for. I’m still haunted by the uncomfortable feeling that I’d been rude to him, but then again, I still can’t think how I could have better responded to his (strange, if anything) remark. Some things, sometimes, are just what they are!

P.S. Also, what on the orange-round Earth could a large flower pin have in common with Israel?! Am I missing some essential information here?

Time for Picnik

2011-05-22T14:00:00.005+02:00

Do you feel that your digital photos could do with a little something? An original twist on colours, a funny sticker or a pretty caption, rounded edges, perhaps? And yet, you’re not ready to invest oodles of money into professional photo-editing software? Perhaps it’s the right time for you to have a little Picnik.

I exploit a combination of (free) photo-editing programmes, but Picnik has been by far the most exciting and the easiest to use since I discovered it, oh, about a year ago. (Thank you, Sarah of Yes and Yes fame!) For one, it’s a free program that allows you to edit your photos online without having to download or install anything. For two, it offers a bajillion pre-defined functions that allow you – literally with one click – to transform your mediocre photos into something very artsy. The prevailing advantage of Picnik is that it’s addictively easy to use. What’s more, while you’re waiting for the site to load, it will tell you adorable things like ‘warming breeze’, ‘buttering sandwiches’, or ‘stealing picnic basket’.

For me, Picnik was a life-altering discovery. (I could suddenly do SO MUCH more with my photos, and SO EASILY!) Hence I decided, a few days ago, to get a subscription in order to grant myself access to all the premium features. And peeps, it’s AWESOME! Speaking of which, the photos are ones I took (and then tweaked in Picnik) at our first, er, picnic of this year.

How about you? Been to a picnic yet?!

The sound of music

2011-05-16T16:00:00.004+02:00

My downstairs neighbour happens to be a concert pianist. One of my favourite things about staying at home during the week (apart from staying at home during the week per se) is that I can listen to her praticing on her grand piano - the most versatile and beguiling of all musical instruments. Sometimes the music would float up to my windows in unassuming waves, at others it would trill dramatically from under the floor. Whichever it is, it's always an intense and uplifting joy to listen to.

The unruly mess of a marathon

2011-05-13T20:13:00.007+02:00

If you’re awesome like Jenna, you’ve run a marathon. If you’re awesome like me, you’ve volunteered at a marathon. (I’ll let you work out the difference between our respective awesomenesses for yourself. Let me also mention that that Jenna is blonde while I’m brunette, that she has bouncy boobs while I’ve been candidly offered a ‘super-push-up’ bra the last time I stepped into Intimissimi, and that she is an extraordinarily devoted pet owner, whilst my greatest achievement with caring for anything, ever, are three pots of the world’s least fussy violets in my office.) (Moreover, I think Jenna is younger than I.)

Volunteering at a marathon is – give me a minute to chase the swarms of sinewy old men in shorts out of my head – an exhilarating experience. It’s also an experience that prompts philosophical considerations on the meaning of, well, marathons, and the general worth of similarly pointless mass endeavours.

(Mind you I’m not referring to various sports matches. Like every other political science student I am aware that sports is an incarnation of war, and for my own sake I’d much rather the French fought the Germans on the pitch rather than in the fields of Bohemia.)

Of course, I get why people would want to run marathons. They want to prove to themselves that they can take up a challenge and overcome it, and feel great about themselves afterwards, like they absolutely should, because running 42+ km is (in my imagination, at least) akin to hitting yourself on the foot with a heavy hammer and sucking it in without yelling for your mum to stop the pain. (Certainly awe-inspiring.) I’m also guessing that they like the idea of sharing their experience along with hordes of other like-minded individuals (some 8000 people signed up for the Prague Marathon). Nevertheless, from behind the refreshments counter at 13km, a marathon looks a lot like a wasteful and meaningless indulgence.

Apart from having a swell time strutting about in a cute t-shirt in the warm sunshine of an early May morning setting plastic cups on tables and filling them 1/5 high with water, then focusing intently on balancing the cups on your open palm and getting a kick when a sweaty, smelly, huffing, ugly man scoops it up, I felt that the marathon was a form of perverse entertainment where we arrived in the morning to set everything up, then made an INSANE mess of everything we’d set up while throngs of desperate-looking people hobbled by like they were walking on knives, then transferred the mess into plastic bin bags a couple of hours later, and went home.

Still, I’d like to volunteer again next year. Because few things feel as good as handing a drink of water to someone who more than evidently needs it, even if kilogrammes of plastic cups get wasted in the process.

(And now, I bet Jenna's going to give my tush a good bloggy kicking.)

Explaining the puzzles of the art market

2011-05-07T20:03:00.005+02:00

I was standing in the Guggenheim in New York, intensely absorbing a Kandinsky, when a baggy teenage lad blocked my view. He took a brief look at the painting, then at me, stuck out a scrawny middle finger at no one in particular, and trundled off. At first, I was shocked. The uneducated plebe! It’s a Kandinsky! But then the humour of the situation caught up with me and I couldn’t help but chuckle – I’ve been fixedly contemplating a black square painted on a white background.

Of COURSE it was ridiculous. Though I’ve been an aficionado of fine art since I was still clueless about the real world, I was never able to quite grasp why some artworks – that seemed like vile but harmless doodles at best and were a disturbingly offensive yet utterly uninteresting waste of space at worst – were as highly priced (and as amply praised) as they were. Yet the great thing about art is that it can reach out and address you for reasons you may be unaware of, and the Kandinsky I was studying at the Guggenheim had produced just such a sensation, which I was in the process of exploring further when the plucky youth happened upon me. I don’t consider myself to be a reveller in nonsense.

If you’ve ever stood in a museum or gallery puzzling over the artistic value of a leather jacket tossed in a corner, two books may help restore your peace of mind (and your belief in contemporary art). I followed the recommendations I came across on Amazon to read The $12 Million Stuffed Shark by Don Thompson and Seven Days in the Art World by Sarah Thornton in conjunction (thank you, random reviewers!), and in my humble opinion couldn’t have done better to comprehend the complexities of the art market and to gain insight into the intricacies of the art world.

The $12 Million Stuffed Shark (the name referring to a controversial piece by the British artist Damien Hirst) is a slightly academic elucidation of the mechanisms of the art market. It does a great job of explaining why certain pieces are valued above others (the catchword is branding, peeps, and yet, I could have known better, too), and describing the (very often incestuous) roles and relationships of the different art world players – auction houses, galleries, dealers, and artists. Upon finishing this book you will be much more confident in your estimation of contemporary art, but you will also have lost pretty much all faith in it.

And to be quite honest, even contemporary art doesn’t deserve such harsh treatment, which is why you will need to follow-up with the next book.

Seven Days in the Art World will restore your faith in art. This elegantly observant probe into seven parts of the art world (an auction, an art class, a fair, a studio visit and a biennale, among others) reads like a glossy magazine article, with meticulous descriptions of people’s hair and passing mention of salmon soufflé (or some such) lunches. Though not short of sarcasm (I found the portrayal of the art class especially ludicrous), it wins back the case for contemporary art, placing it soberly where it belongs. (Er, well, not in the bathroom.) Flipping this book closed, you will exhale with relief that there IS contemporary art out there that is both relevant and aesthetically pleasing, and worthy of your attention and even your money (be it a meagre 10 EUR fee for a museum entry) – such as is produced, for instance, by the Japanese enfant terrible Takashi Murakami.

Who is Takashi Murakami?

This man is so phenomenal (viral is a better word, perhaps) that though you might never have heard his name, you’re SURE to have come across his artwork. Take the cover for Kanye West’s hugely successful 2007 album Graduation. It was designed by Murakami. Not a fan? How about Louis Vuitton handbags? Everyone is familiar with the company’s century-old signature pattern of beige and brown LV initials floating on a field of four-petal flower and diamond shapes – and as of 2000, everyone is equally familiar with the multicolour twist on the same pattern that uses thirty-three candy colours on white and black backgrounds. It, too, was designed by Murakami.

Impressive? I should say so! The Louis Vuitton line is emblematic of Murakami’s work. Like Warhol (of whom I am a hopeless fan), he distorts the lines between art and commerce (which I don’t see as wrong when it is a purpose in and of itself). More importantly, and again like Warhol, he poses a poignant mirror to society, his work being a playful yet disturbing reflection on the squeaky-clean superficiality of today.

Unfortunately, I haven’t managed to hunt down (bewilderingly enough) where Murakami is currently (or shortly) exhibiting, but since Oval Buddha is a work that I have resolved to see with my own peepers before I straddle a dolphin and leave this planet, please give me a poke if you come across any information.

On sexiness

2011-05-03T16:00:00.027+02:00

“What makes a woman sexy?
When she tells a REALLY good joke.”

If you're wavering, here's a good one to get you started: "What's better than a rose on my piano? Tulips on my organ." (Wahahaha! Ahem. 'Scuse me.)

The time of love

2011-05-01T17:16:00.007+02:00

“Late evening, on the first of May—

The twilit May—the time of love.

Meltingly called the turtle-dove,

Where rich and sweet pinewoods lay.”

* * *

No heart-shaped cards, no chocolate-covered rum cherries, no special deals on candlelit dinners for two. The Czechs’ celebration of their equivalent of the Anglo-Saxon Saint Valentine’s Day is surprisingly uncommercial. (Surprisingly because, well, if I owned any kind of business I’d find it the most natural thing in the world to try to tap into the monetary potential of Lovers’ Day, as 1 May is called here.)

I don’t know when the tradition started, but it was already well underway in 1835 when one of the most celebrated Czech romanticist poets, Karel Hynek Mácha [CAR-elle HE-neck MAA-kha], wrote his epic and tragic love poem, Máj ([MY], meaning May), at the tender age of twenty-five. Although today the work is considered to be one of the most significant Czech-language poems of all time, showing an exceptional command of the language as well as meaningful thoughts on life, love, death, and spirituality, Mácha struggled for recognition during his lifetime and published the first 600 copies of his master opus at his own expenses.

The first lines of the poem are known by heart by pretty much every Czech person, and the English translation featured at the top of this post is, in my humble opinion, a very poignant one. If you’re into Byron and Shelley and Keats and the like, check out the complete English version of Máj here.

Oh! And in case you are of the opinion that one day a year dedicated to celebrating love is not enough, you can join the Czechs in celebrating their own Lovers' Day every 1 May. All you need to do is take your sweetheart to the nearest blossoming cherry tree, embrace them underneath it, and plant a sumptuous kiss on their sweet lips.

Did you know... (XX)

2011-04-30T23:48:00.002+02:00

... that whales are descended from land animals? (Like all sea mammals, doh!) You didn’t?! BRILLIANT! I didn’t either, you see, until quite recently. Let’s have a look into the matter together then, shall we? We shall.

I used to think (B.C.)* that evolution was a straightforward process from point A to point B. From the bottom to the top, from the sea to the land, from simple to complicated, from ape to woman. Not so! As it happens, evolution is more of a trial-and-error process, by which nature improvises (not always gracefully) on the variations of the lust for life. It charges forward, then steps back, turns left and edges sideways, only to change its mind and come back to roughly where it started and start charging forward again under different circumstances. Had you any clue, for instance, that there is documentation of a process called reverse evolution? It all makes things so much more exciting all of a sudden! Like omnivores becoming herbivores and land animals returning to the sea.

(Why this reminds me of a tiny Trinidadian crab singing to a lovesick mermaid every single time I think about it is beyond me.)

Whales then (along with dolphins and porpoises, which are all cetaceans), have evolved from land animals. The transition remained quite a mystery until discoveries in Pakistan helped fill in some of the important missing links. Pakicetus was a wolf-like creature that was, some 50 million years ago, driven to look for food in shallow waters as an increasingly warm climate diminished its chances of finding plants and small animals on land. It only took about a million years (that’s nuthin’, luv) to transform into the crocodile-like Ambulocetus that already had flippers on its feet and coud hence move around in the water more easily. Give or take another ten million years or so and the Ambulocetus exchanged its legs for some rad fins and, under the name Dorudon, began looking much more like the bulky modern-day whale.

If you’re into computer images of ugly, toothy creatures, have a look here at the National Geographic website for an animation of the whole process. (And also to learn about how dinosaurs ended up in your turkey club sandwich.)

* Does not stand for Before Christ.

Qu'est qu'on attend pour être heureux?

2011-04-13T21:42:00.002+02:00

First, listen to this breezy song by Patrick Bruel and Johnny Hallyday. (A cover of a 1937 French tune off of Bruel’s album Entre Deux.) Second, ask yourself the exact same questions: What are we waiting for to be happy? What are we waiting for to have a ball?!

They’re so simple they sound almost like a provocation! Wouldn’t you think?

A lesson in positivity

2011-04-11T23:32:00.001+02:00

“I sometimes wonder how you operate in this world.”

I am known to be of a fairly cheerful disposition. Let’s just say that some people are lucky and know and appreciate how good they have it when wonderful things fall straight from the sky into their proverbial inboxes, to be opened with nervous fingers and relished like sweet apricot jam. Although my approach is mostly unconscious, I do believe that any mood can be helped along, so when the person I love most in the world inquired about this particular quality of mine, I thought I might just as well share a few tips with the rest of you peeps here that might help you understand how we – hopeless optimists – operate in this world.

Get a kick out of the little things

I’m not kidding you when I tell you that I go absolutely ape with joy every single morning just by looking out of my window. (Okay, the various ways in which my hair sticks out also makes me laugh heartily. But that’s only once I’ve shuffled into the bathroom.) If you care for my opinion, few things are more beautiful than morning sunshine. Sunday morning sunshine is like ice-cream for lunch in the park. And even when the sky is grey, you can exclaim Hot chocolate weather! in chorus with me. In other words, it’s the little things that make the big picture. Don’t take them for granted, and enjoy every single tiniest one of them!

Enjoy with all your senses

A lot of us tend to forget that we not only have eyes, but that we can also experience with our noses (the smell of a hot-cross bun fresh from the oven), our skin (the goose-bumps following the touch of a butterfly’s wing on a naked shoulder), our ears (the crunch-crunch of the snow on a squeaky-clean winter’s day), and our tongues (the sweetly-sour juice of a ripe orange). The absolute master-hedonists (I’m almost there) are able to enjoy things with all of their senses at once: think of a bottle of wine, which you uncork with a gentle ‘pop’ and then listen to the rich pouring of the liquid as it fills the glass, then admire the colour against the sun, inhale a lungful of the bouquet, and then feel the refreshing taste fill your mouth and enter your throat as you take a sip. Don’t you love it? Heck, I love it – and I’m a barbarian who don’t drink wine!

Spread the cheer

Guess what? Smiling, chuckling, giggling, chortling, roaring with laughter, laughing your socks and undies off and sniggering inside your head are all enormously therapeutic. (So says Julie Buz., M.D.)* Whenever I feel uneasy in a situation, I force myself to laugh (or smile, or whatever is socially appropriate). A typical example would be when I’m sitting in the metro in the vicinity of pimply extra-terrestrials with strange haircuts wearing skinny jeans and gaudy sneakers (teenagers, I think they’re called): these ephemeral existences ALWAYS manage to make me feel self-conscious, which is a state easily wiped away with a conspirative snicker to myself. Try it sometime. Force yourself to smile, then to giggle, then to laugh out loud, and you’ll realise that you’re actually HAPPIER as a result. (I once got a bit carried away in a tram doing just that, don’t worry, apart from a few bewildered stares no one really gives half a poke in the eye.)

Switch off the news

If you watch the news every night, you don’t know how bad you have it. You should stop and go on a cleansing sabbatical. (Let’s make it a week to start with. I’d have a thing or two to say about television in general, but I’ll go easy on you here.) Seriously, do you NEED to know? You don’t. And TRUST me when I look you in the eye and tell you that all the information will find its way to you even without your nightly sessions in front of the magic box. More often than not, televised news are negativistic, misleading, and shockingly irrelevant. You’ll be much better off choosing a nice and colourful weekly (better yet, a bi-weekly or a monthly) that you could peruse on a Sunday morning in your pyjamas and slippers while listening to little birdies chirruping to their mates. (THEY know how to spend their time!)

Listen to lots and lots of Stéphane Grappelli

Just looking at this cheerful French monsieur makes me smile inside. His breezy, light, playful violin improvisations have become a staple sound in the world of jazz music. You’ve most likely heard his music at some point – perhaps in a movie theatre underscoring a scene where a father and son lie on the grass squinting up at the sky, cloud shape guessing, or in a quaint little café in a foreign town where you suddenly became strangely and indefinably happy. Whichever your case, Stéphane Grappelli is like the cherry on the cake when it comes to taking a positive approach – essential! Fill your ears with his jazzy vibes, and life will be a fiddle.

Have I omitted anything?

* M.D. stands for mine de rien.

Random me fact no. 12

2011-04-01T23:48:00.002+02:00

I’m a shameless prankster. (Ha! Would you have guessed?) Mind you, I don’t like hurting people physically (apart from pinching them in the ribs from the back, but ever since I tried that on a jittery Swede who happened to be holding a cup of coffee in his hand, I try to control the impulse – don’t worry, nothing happened, although he broke the high-jump record the coffee stayed in its place), I just like confusing them out of their routine limbo. The only difficulty is that, oftentimes, my humorous shenanigans fizzle out into odd situations that leave the brash prankster more confused than the intended sufferers.

Take the day when I came to work to find the hallway scattered with umbrellas that my colleagues had left outside their offices to dry. As I contemplated the beautiful display of colours and designs, it only took a moment – after I’d dropped my stuff in my office and made sure my own umbrella was safely out of public reach – to deftly switch the umbrellas in front of two non-proximate doors. (I would have jumbled all of them, were it not for my fear of being seen prancing about getting it done.)

What do you think happened? Mid-morning, on my way down the hallway to see a colleague about something or other, I noticed that one of the umbrellas had disappeared, whilst the other one remained where I had left it that morning, id est in front of the wrong door. My reaction can only be expressed thus: %@*&?! I mean SERIOUSLY, how can you pick up an umbrella that isn’t yours?! (The person had to fold it and put it away somewhere, and the ones that I switched would only look similar to a colour-blind person.) Or do other people not coordinate their umbrellas with their outfits like I do? Bah.

If that were my only encounter with epic failure, I wouldn’t so much as peep. But it wasn’t. On another occasion I was on my way to the kitchen to fill up my kettle and, passing by the shower-room, heard it being used. Confirming this assumption, a pair of humongous black sneakers were unsuspectingly lounging in front of the door. My kettle flew out of my head and almost out of my arms as I stooped to grab the by now horrified sneakers by their white laces and ran off in the direction of the (empty yet open) office of a female colleague of mine who I KNEW would freak out at the sight of a pair of man’s shoes under her pristine desk. No one saw me at it (I was faster than The Flash), and I returned to the kitchen, chuckling as I heard the chirpy whistle coming from inside the shower-room.

What do you think happened?! (In my memory, I hear a disgusted squeal coming from somewhere in the vicinity of my female colleague’s office a few minutes hence.) Walking down the hall SEVERAL HOURS later, I noticed the same black sneakers elegantly abandoned on top of the magazine table. They were still there in the afternoon. My reaction: ... ? ... ? ... ?

Do you get any of this? Bah. Enjoy April Fool’s Day!

How to improve your future

2011-03-29T16:00:00.007+02:00

“The secret is here in the present. If you pay attention to the present, you can improve upon it. And, if you improve on the present, what comes later will also be better.”

Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist, p.108 (Harper Collins, 2002)

I just finished re-reading this book, looking for inspiration. It didn’t let me down.

Don't panic!

2011-03-27T22:39:00.003+02:00

I’m a godsend when panic strikes. While others might sit with their hands folded in their lap, tears of surrender welling up in their eyes, this here damsel takes matters into her own firm hands and carries herself through any sticky situation with grace, efficiency, and speed. And she always, always succeeds.

Payment card swallowed by an ATM machine in a foreign country at 11pm? Sponge cake. A closed gate five minutes prior to departure at a tiny airport and not a soul around to ask for help? Cherry pie. A loved one disappearing after having claimed to feel that something horrible was going to happen? Popsicles! (HA! Well, not quite, but... in retrospect, you know... all’s well that ends well, and all that.)

Being the genius that I am at navigating through dire straits, I thought I might share some of my wisdom with you right here. Next time panic so much as raises an eyebrow, follow the golden rule of POPS (prioritise, organise, plan, and scenario), and you’ll be just fine!

Prioritise

The first – and crucial – step in any panicky situation is to define your priorities. Think about what is most important (to do, to keep, to remember) at that precise moment, and never let go of the order of your priorities. Your plane is about to leave whilst your suitcase is still at the hotel? Depending what’s more important to you, you can either board the flight and sort out the suitcase later or wait for your suitcase and wait for the next plane.

Organise

Time is often the most deficient commodity in sticky situations, and deserves not to be wasted. Once you’ve set your priorities, organise your time. Especially when impatiently waiting for something, a practical thing to do is to give yourself a limit (five, ten, or twenty minutes, or until your watch shows a certain time). This will prevent you from a) feeling like you’ve already wasted oodles of time when in fact only three minutes have passed, and b) wasting your time when you could already have moved on to an alternative plan.

Plan

After you’ve organised your time, look ahead and think about the steps you’re going to take. Go through all the details of those steps – write down numbers and names, check out maps and double-check distances, think about possible obstacles and how you will deal with them. Don’t leave anything to chance.

Scenario

Imagining a worst-case scenario is actually the most fun part in any worrisome situation. In the vast majority of cases, you realise that things, really, can’t be so bad. If your plane leaves without you, if you never find your passport, if you’ve left your wallet with valuable bills on a bench in the park, you can always get the next flight, have a temporary passport issued at the embassy, and make more money to buy a lovely new wallet.

Eh? What advice would you give to the worrywarts out there?

Note: The image is that of a poster produced by the Ministry of Information of the United Kingdom in 1939. It was never widely distributed, but gained popularity upon being discovered in a second hand bookshop in 2000. It is now in the public domain, hence totally steal-able and transform-able! (Which is why I took the liberty to tweak the background colour a little bit. Red is too ragey!)

Something in the air

2011-03-22T23:20:00.002+01:00

Spring is upon us here in the 50th parallel north, peeps, and I’m experiencing something strange. I’ve read about it in scientific magazines (or perhaps I’m just trying to sound clever – it wouldn’t be the first time, you know), and I’ve heard about it from people who live beyond the polar circle (or perhaps I’m just pushing their home latitude a bit farther North for the sake of credibility), but I’ve never ever really understood it before. Neither will you, unless you’ve lived in the north, or unless you’ll read the following blog post very, very attentively.

(How’s that for a teaser, eh? Prepare to be disappointed so that you won’t be disappointed.)

I’m shedding my clothes, layer by layer. Tearing off my turtlenecks and swinging my opaque black stockings high above my head and out of sight. (YEE-HAW!) I’m slipping my feet into brand new, thin-soled ballerina flats and exposing my whitened insteps to the chilly morning breeze that dances in and out of my legs like a cat and plays with my hair.

My nose is twitching. It’s chasing the smell of softening soil and last summer’s grass that’s been resting beneath heaps of snow for over three months.

I’m going bat-shit crazy with spring awakening, dizzy with elation. My skin caresses the refreshing wind every evening as I return home from work, my eyes paint the sky with the lemon meringue hues of early sunshine as I hurry to the office in the morning, and my ears chirrup like restless birds in the middle of the moonstruck nights.

(If only I had a garden! I’d start composting.)

All of this makes me want to drink Pu-erh. In case you’re wondering, that’s the stinkiest kind of tea there is. It smells like a rotting dump composed of used socks, dried fish, and old potatoes. The reason for that is that it’s made by leaving the tea leaves to actually rot for several years (technically, the process is called microbial fermentation). Once it’s brewed, it tastes like a medicine composed of the pounding hot source of existence, life-giving earth, and desert rain. Spring is upon us here in the 50th parallel north, peeps, and I’m experiencing something very, very strange indeed.

"There's nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it's sent away."

2011-03-18T21:26:00.002+01:00

Did you like this quote? Then you’ll LOVE Sara Kay’s spoken word poem, B (available here). Fancy that I’ve never heard of spoken word poetry before! Who knew? Many, many, many thanks, M.!

The Disney Princess in you (III)

2011-03-13T20:49:00.004+01:00

How I could I ever choose such a lame title for a grown-up blog post escapes me. Nonetheless, here I am with the next installation of what has turned out to be a strikingly insightful and instructive text about the evolution of the Disney Princess characters over the past seven decades.

My deep and meaningful analysis (supported by thorough research on the Disney Princess website – it’s hoards of fun, peeps! you can dress Ariel up in terrific outfits and listen to Pocahontas natter on about the wind! but I digress) stems from the initial assertion that the stories we’re exposed to as children contribute importantly to shaping the way we deal with life as adults: the relationships we maintain, the expectations we have, the manner in which we handle life’s dilemmas and the verve with which we pursue our goals. What I discovered throughout my venture into the history of Disney Princesses as prototypes for little girls (and boys?!) to look up to and emulate was that they have undergone a significant transformation, mirroring the changing values of (Western) society.

Since my last post, two additional Disney Princess movies have been released: The Princess and the Frog (exceptionally exhilarating), and Tangled (utterly unforgettable). For the purposes of research (whom am I kidding, I LOVE both movies), I watched each several times, and am very envious of all the little girls that will grow up to be confident, independent, determined young ladies – who would know their way with a frying pan – as a result being offered such formidable idols.

Girls who know what they want and how to get it

Tiana, The Princess and the Frog (2009) – I’ve worked hard for everything I’ve got.
Rapunzel, Tangled (2011) – For every minute of the rest of my life I will fight.

Girl power to the power of awesome is what, in my opinion, best describes the latest Disney Princess characters, Tiana and Rapunzel. Each knows exactly what she wants – and guess what? it’s not a pimped up prince with an irresistible smolder! – and thinks she knows exactly how to get it. What makes both their stories interesting and relevant is that, in the process of pursuing their dreams, they both find out that not everything always goes according to the perfect plan, and that ultimately, without love every dream is just an empty shell.

I can’t decide which of the two movies I like better: The Princess and the Frog is a fun adventure packed with amazing songs, whilst Tangled is exquisitely illustrated and overflows with weighty symbolism. Nonetheless, where the question concerns relationships, my penchant is towards the The Princess and the Frog. What I appreciate in this story is that two completely different personalities – the industrious Tiana and the indolent Naveen – learn, through each other, to become better and fuller people and discover that together, they can enjoy life much more. This dynamic is missing in Tangled, although Flynn does play a crucial role in Rapunzel’s shocking breakthrough from her mental and physical prison.

***

For the time being, it looks like no new Disney Princess releases are planned for the nearest future. Have you seen either of the new movies? And what did you think of them? Ultimately, who's your favourite Disney Princess?! (Come on! Play along!) Mine would have to be Ariel – after all, I watched The Little Mermaid when I was but a wee ginger-haired girlie. (I'm still perfecting that wave.)

"The mind is its own place, and in itselfCan make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."

2011-03-08T16:00:00.014+01:00

John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book I, lines 254-255

The sexiest man alive*

2011-03-06T22:13:00.004+01:00

“I tried to fathom whether human feelings were able to withstand such a vast power machine, if it was possible to act in a way, in any way, that would permit me to live outside of the dynamics of power. I tormented myself trying to grasp if it was possible to try to understand, to discover, to know, without being devoured or destroyed. Or if the choice was between knowing and being compromised, or ignoring – and thus living serenely. Perhaps the only option was to forget, to not see. To listen to the official version of things, to half-listen, distractedly, and respond with nothing more than a sigh.”

Roberto Saviano, Gomorrah, p. 299 (Picador, 2008)

Mr. Saviano, aged 31, has been living under permanent police supervision since he was 26 years old. When his first book, Gomorrah, where this Neapolitan philosopher-cum-journalist unveils the workings of the huge economic empire of the camorra (the Neapolitan organised crime network), became a bestseller upon its publication in 2006, a string of serious threats from camorra bosses led to his being granted government protection.

I have just finished reading it, and the degree of awe and admiration I feel for this man is beyond anything I have ever felt before. I am longing to meet him, although I have no idea what I would say to him if I did. I am imagining that I would take his right hand into both of mine and squeeze it until someone would detach me from him. I am infinitely proud to be able to claim him for my oblivious generation, and would encourage everyone to read his book and take its lessons to heart.

Gomorrah is not just a report on a country crippled by organised crime. It is a striking mirror of societies everywhere across the world, an acute dissection of human weakness of lust for power and wealth, an insightful journey into the world of those who govern – really govern – the world we inhabit. However, what's most admirable about Gomorrah is that it was written and published in the first place. The book has its ups and downs, alternating illuminating philosophy with tedious lists of gangster names, but no amount of faulty pages could take away its main asset: the power of its voice, and the extent of its message.

True heroism is not inherent to spectacular deeds such as killing multitudes or commanding masses. True heroism is inherent to the simplest and most natural actions, such as speaking out to tell what one knows to be the truth. Following his mantra – I know and I have proof – Mr. Saviano threw all scruples to the wind and spoke out what he knew to be the truth. And that is why he has bigger balls than any of us, anywhere.

The book’s last line is borrowed from the final scene of Papillon: like Steve McQueen, Roberto Saviano’s words symbolise desperation and elation in one echoing bawl: Hey, you bastards, I’m still here! For the sake of my oblivious generation, I hope that Mr. Saviano will remain here for a long time to come.

* The second sexiest, actually.

Before the world was made

2011-02-28T16:00:00.033+01:00

I was recently reminded of one of my favourite songs of all time: Before the World Was Made, off Van Morrison’s album Too Long in Exile. Unless you’re an ardent fan of the Irish crooner, you probably don’t know it (and it’s a huge shame, because it’s a beautiful, beautiful song). Even if you do know it, you probably don’t suspect that the lyrics were inspired by the eponymous poem penned by another Irishman, William Butler Yeats, towards the close of the 19th century. It’s mainly due to the lyrics, you see, that this song is pure magic.

When I first overheard those words – oh, about five years ago – I was mesmerised by the depth of their beauty: I’m looking for the face I had, before the world was made.

While I realise that what we do is significantly influenced by who we are, and that our faces are reflections of our character traits and approaches to life, I find it a fascinating endeavour to try to look beyond all of that, and point the torch of our scrutiny right into the golden core of our souls.

What, indeed - if we were stripped of all but our essence – would we look like? Before original sin, before innocence and before knowledge, before responsibility and before happiness. Who – if all our little troubles, all our great scars, all our decisions resulting from rational contemplation and all our actions ensued by complete and reckless abandon to bliss, were erased with one swift swoosh of a magic wand – would we truly be?

This man is your man, this man is my man

2011-02-27T19:11:00.003+01:00

From California, to New York Island – the American man was made for you and me! My dear ladles (what’s that? you’re a jellyspoon?! alright, alright, come join the flock), allow me to wax lyrical about the superior romantic qualities of American men over all (and any of) those hailing from other cultures – past, present, or future. (Go eat your heart out, Mr. Spock.)

It’s logical, after all – what other land offers such abundant variety, such breathtaking diversity, such thrilling versatility, from sea to shining sea? From devastatingly handsome Texans to peppy Californians, a woman need not look further than the barrel-chested American man to find comfort in the hairy arms of happiness. Who needs the French and their intoxicating sweet talk? Who needs the Germans and their unorthodox sexual practices? Pas moi, schätzchen.

Although he might, at first encounter, appear grouchy and odd, you shouldn’t be fooled by the American man’s superficial appearance. Trust that he is most affectionate, most considerate, and expect no less than to be ravished with his tender and unyielding attention. He will rock your socks with his understanding, keep you on your tippy-toes with his ruminations on subjects both frivolous and grave, and have you in stitches with his riotous sense of humour.

You can be sure, moreover, that he will never put milk and sugar in his morning coffee, and up and leave upon drinking it, without a word to you, without a look at you (as French perverts are wont to do), leaving you, with your heavy head in your shaking hands, to weep at the humiliating reality of the circle of life, of the spiral of love...

Rest assured, my dear ladles (and the occasional jellyspoon), that the American man is no mere dream. The American man is a living beast, heart a-throbbing and passion a-blazing. Or, if you like, he is a dream. A dream that might – really might – someday come true. Qui sait?

* * *

If you’re currently massaging your scalp thinking something along the lines of ‘what the [your favourite expletive] is this?’, please pick an explanation from the list below:

          a) This post is a desperate attempt to please an exceptional friend of mine.
          b) I lost a wager to someone capable of indescribable wickedness.
          c) A shamelessly flirtatious European needed to be put back in his place.
          d) I really just wanted to embarrass myself.

Hey, it’s all in good fun.

Un mot sur la mozzarella

2011-02-24T16:00:00.004+01:00

« Mondragone est, dans l’imaginaire collectif, la capitale de la mozzarella. Quand j’étais enfant, mon père m’envoyait faire des festins de mozzarella à Mondragone. Certes, il était impossible de dire avec certitude d’où venait la meilleure mozzarella, car les saveurs étaient trop différentes : douceâtre et légère à Battipaglia, salée et corsée du côté d’Aversa, pure à Mondragone. Mais les maîtres fromagers de Mondragone connaissent un moyen : quand elle est vraiment bonne, la mozzarella doit laisser en bouche un arrière-goût que les paysans appellent « ‘o ciato ‘e bbufala », le souffle de la bufflonne. Si on ne sent pas cet arrière-goût dans la bouche après en avoir avalé un morceau, c’est que sa qualité n’est pas satisfaisante. »

Roberto Saviano, Gomorra, p. 395 (Gallimard, 2006)

So much wiser now, aren't you? The gist of this excerpt is that, when a mozzarella is really, really good, you should - upon swallowing a bite - feel an aftertaste that the farmers in Mandragone (the mozzarella capital of the world) call 'the breath of the buffalo'. I assure you that it's spot-on!

Did you know... (XIX)

2011-02-21T16:00:00.000+01:00

... that the world’s most popular food – the pizza – as we know it today, hails from Naples? The word itself derives from the Greek πίτα [peeta], meaning ‘pie’ or ‘bread’ (which is unsurprising if you bear in mind that it was the Greeks who founded present day Naples, calling it Νεάπολη [ne-APO-lee], or ‘new city’). In their earliest days, pizzas in Naples were topped with olive oil and garlic, while in the course of later centuries the genius of Neapolitan civilisation gradually added tomatoes, mozzarella, anchovies, and herbs such as oregano and basil.

For a long time, pizza remained a peasant meal (one Neapolitan legend tells of a king who would sneak out into the city in disguise just to grab a bite of the delectable pizza): simple yet hearty, filling, and nutritious. They were mostly sold in market stalls scattered all over the narrow and grubby streets of Naples, and the tradition survives to this day as most pizzas in Naples still have a counter looking out onto the street, tempting passers-by with their richly topped pies and attracting swarms of locals for a nibble and a chat. (One of the things I personally appreciate most about Naples is that it seems to be completely void of pretentiousness – even famed Neapolitan pizzerias remain tiny, bustling places where the common local man rubs elbows with the snooty foreign dame.)

There is even a special kind of pizza that has been exported from Naples into the entire world (incidentally, it is also my favourite) – I’m sure you’ve heard of the Pizza Margherita! This simple yet scrumptious pizza, topped with just tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil (the colours of the Italian flag, by design) was first served to Naples’ honourable guest, Queen Margherita Teresa Giovanni of Savoy, who expressed interest in sampling the city’s traditional peasant dish during a visit to the city with her consort in 1889.

Genuine Neapolitan pizza remains unique in the world. It is made from fresh local ingredients (seriously, there must be SOMETHING in the soil around here) and baked for no longer than 90 seconds in ovens fired by volcanic rock from Mount Vesuvius, which alone reach the mindbogglingly high temperatures (around 900˚C/1652˚F) required to give the pizza pie its genuine texture and taste. You’d have to be extremely unfortunate to stumble upon a bad pizza in Naples, but if you can’t trust your judgment, the Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana label should guarantee a top-quality pizza experience – participating restaurants can be found outside of Italy, as well!

I ♥ Napoli

2011-02-17T16:00:00.032+01:00

Many different things have been written about Naples. And although their sum might somewhat prepare you for what to expect, I found none of them to have quite done the city justice. One reason for this might be that Naples seems to lack a strong defining character – it eludes you, much like the unidentifiable haze that clings to it.

Naples is a thrilling, chaotic mess. It looks just like the morning after a wild party. The streets are covered in litter, paint is peeling in thick chunks off of beautiful historical buildings, and high piles of garbage stink contentedly on the main streets, twiddling their thumbs at nosey tourists.

As you make your way up the maze of narrow pallonetti, like mountain passes between tall buildings leaning in eagerly to eavesdrop on your conversations, Vespa scooters vroom past you at preposterous speeds. They pass so close you fear your hand might get whacked off, and are gone in a flash, leaving behind only a whiff of exhaust fumes that mingle with the smell of fabric softener that oozes from the washing dangling all around you.

In my opinion, what best captures the soul of Naples is the food: hearty and simple, fresh oh-SO-delicious. The Campania region (of which Naples is the capital) is famed for its buffalo mozzarella, and when this scrumptiousness is combined with juicy tomatoes and basil on a pie of the tastiest pizza dough in the entire world (due to being baked in lava-rock ovens, among other things), you truly feel like you’ve by-passed Saint Peter at the gate and somehow gotten into heaven through a side entrance.

If you’re planning to visit Naples

You might have come across a lot of frightening information, and you might be just as terrified as I was prior to leaving. I can only speak for my experience, but nothing even remotely unpleasant happened upon me while I was there: staying out after dark, unabashedly taking photos with my Canon SX20IS, following my nose in and out of the tiny streets without a map, and smiling idiotically at everyone as a result of not speaking a word of Italian. That said, I was accompanied throughout my entire stay by my wonderful colleague – fluent in Italian and fierce as a pit-bull (that’s a compliment, in case you’re wondering). My best advice is, be vigilant, but don’t let your fears spoil your trip – Naples is worth exploring!

Chocolate is the answer

2011-02-14T12:00:00.005+01:00

Or, if you're like me, ginger snaps. :o)

Happy noodles!*

2011-02-11T16:00:00.000+01:00

Luckily, the Chinese New Year festivities (or the Asian New Year festivities, if you insist on being politically correct) carry on for no less than fifteen days. Which means that, though I’m rather late with this post, it will still be relevant for another week. Party not pooped – YAY!

Last year, I initiated a little tradition with two of my foodie friends – celebrating the Chinese New Year for the pure fun of it. (The wintry winds blow cold and dreary here in February, which means that single bright young people look for appropriate entertainment indoors.) This year, we decided to celebrate by making noodles (which represent longevity, by the way, although we didn’t know that at the time we decided to make them) in Mischa’s beautiful and exceptionally equipped kitchen. (I fell in love with her Jamie Oliver for Tefal wok pan, among other things.) The evening turned out to be just as glamorous and convivial and delicious as it looks on the photos. Let me guide you through a closer look.

We more or less invented our recipe (I would never do such a thing alone, but Mischa is a fantastic cook and I trust her like a babe in this respect): oodles of Chinese egg noodles, carrots and red and yellow bell-peppers (for an appetisingly colourful meal), all chopped into thinnish strips, then leek, chopped into sturdy slices, sweet peas, mungo bean shoots, soya sauce, and diced chicken breast for the omnivores. And a dash of fresh ginger and tiny chilli peppers to make the dish unfor-Fiona-gettable!

We sautéed the vegetables first, then tossed in the mungo bean shoots, the (in the meantime accidentally slightly over-cooked) noodles, added soya sauce to taste, and then conspiratively added the ginger and chilli peppers, wondering who got more. We used two pans, cooking the omnivore version in one (in which case we fried the chicken before adding the veggies), and the vegetarian version in the other, as shown in the photos below. (Don’t EVER become a vegetarian unless the idea of becoming a permanent pain in the arse to all your friends leaves you entirely cold, and unless you can pacify any waiter (even in a foreign country) with your disarming smile. Fulfilling both conditions is imperative to survival.) It was scrumptious!

Happy noodles, everyone!

* Many thanks go out to a person exceptionally dear to me (who likes to be referred to as Candy Ass) for unwittingly coming up with the title for this post. Hi-five! Also, a humongous hug goes out to Mischa for sending me the photo under the title and the one of us cooking.

Taking time

2011-02-03T18:00:00.002+01:00

I’m a selectively punctual person. I can’t seem to help it: whilst I’m hardly ever late for a lunch appointment, there have been countless occasions on which I had to dash like lightning past my boss’ gaping door on the way to my office and sneak behind my desk like I’d already been there for half an hour.

I’m also quite absent-minded at times. I forget common expressions and standard words and retort to a language and imagery that is entirely my own, or borrowed from inappropriate contexts and jumbled together in the maelstrom of my imagination.

However, with my workload of the past couple of months, I’ve displayed an exemplary punctuality. I make my lunch and iron my outfits the night before, I go to bed early and get up immediately after Jack Johnson lures me into awakening with promises of banana pancakes, to make it to work by nine every single morning.

Just the other day, I breezily walked into my office at precisely oh-nine-oh-oh hours central European time (making sure to extend a loud and clear salute to my boss as I glided slow-motion past his gaping door at oh-eight-fifty-nine hours central European time – it's essential to appropriately highlight your achievements in front of your superiors), to find my colleague standing there with her arms full of paperwork, looking slightly flustered.

“Ohmygosh! What time is it?!” She squealed.

“Excuse me?!” I feigned a cardiac attack. “It’s precisely nine o’clock. Don’t you know that I always arrive here at precisely nine o’clock?!” Then, assuming an air of comic superiority, I decided to elaborate: “I’m as punctual as a…“

(and this is where I realised that I’d forgotten the expression that is usually employed to describe very precise clocks – several attempts at improvisation followed)

             “… a cuckoo clock…” (that doesn’t sound right)

                        “… a ticking clock…” (that doesn’t sound right, either)

                                    “… a digital clock… ” (that can’t be it, blast, what IS it?!)

While my mind was whirring with confusion, M. looked at me like a loving mother at her only child: “a Swiss clock,” she corrected gently.

“Yes! Yes!” I exclaimed victoriously. “I’m as punctual as a cuckooing, ticking, digital Swiss clock!” (Ha!)

Because really, the worst thing you can do when you’re faltering is to admit that you’re faltering.

In the mood

2011-01-31T14:00:00.002+01:00

yellow butterfly

fluttering inside my heart

messenger of spring

I know it's much, much too early for spring. But I can't help myself! The days are unstoppably stretching out into sunny afternoons, the birds often chatter outside my window in the mornings... But really, it's a feeling more than anything else.

"How we cook is how we are in our relationships."

2011-01-30T21:24:00.003+01:00

A very interesting thought indeed, Jenna.* Incidentally, no statement could be less true in my case.

I’m a wildly enthusiastic, spontaneous, and fearless cook. I am constantly on the lookout for new flavours and unafraid to grab unknown ingredients off supermarket shelves (which can be quite a lottery in a country like Sweden where, if you don’t speak the language, you can’t understand the ingredients on a tube of Kalle’s Kaviar) (horrible, horrible stuff that by the way, but I digress).

In my kitchen, clad in a stylish leopard-print apron (one of the best gifts I’ve ever received), I’d modify new recipes and concoct unlikely mixtures and toss untimely spices into bubbling pots and pans. A pinch of this, a dash of that, let it simmer, and voilà!

Often enough, my culinary endeavours would end in a finger-licking meal. Often enough, they would end in utter disgusting dis-ARGH!-ster. (Which never fails to profoundly baffle me – how can vile things come out of something where only good things were put?) Yet, even in the worst cases, no serious harm is done – at least, none that couldn’t be put right with the aid of some buttered toast with cheese and jam.

Now, when it comes to relationships, I take NO risks. (Which would explain the close to zero relationships I’ve actually had. I remember being overcome with a feeling of profound panic when I recently read a post on another blog, saying that “[b]y the time you hit your twenties, you’ll have dated more than one man/woman”. Euh... that would mean two, right?) The reason is that I don't want to make compromises with love – after all, you wouldn’t eat if you were only half-hungry, would you? Do share your thoughts.

* If you’re unfamiliar with Jenna’s fabulous blog, by all means check it out. (What have you been reading all this time?!)

EK139

2011-01-21T21:54:00.006+01:00

The moment I saw him, I knew he was Czech.

Without a word of greeting, he plonked down in his seat next to mine, unfolded a huge laptop, and glued himself to the screen. Luckily, he didn’t smell. (Kudos to the girlfriend.) I checked my seatbelt and looked out of the window. Pressing my head against the plastic panelling, I breathed goodbye to the bleached sandy terrain outside. I didn’t really want to leave.

A few minutes later, we were up in the air.

He looked at me directly. “Where are you flying from?”
I blinked several times before gathering my thoughts.
(Let me think. Could the airport we just took off from provide any clues?)
“Dubai” I answered, perhaps much too calmly.
“Oh! Right, right. So you have a direct flight. I’m flying from Bangkok.”
(A transfer! My eyes, who was to know?!)
I smiled with relief. “I was lucky to get a direct flight.”
“Yes, yes, so was I. Very lucky.”
(?!?! Never mind. Shouldn’t we be getting our wet towels?)

Wet towels were given out. Food trays arrived and were promptly cleared away. Another round of complimentary drinks.

He turned to me and asked me about the book I was reading.
“It must be very funny, you’re laughing a lot.”
(Guilty as charged.)
“It is. It’s easy reading.” I looked back at him and showed him the front cover. “It’s chick-lit,” I added, slightly embarrassed.
“Aha. What’s it called?” He got out a pen and pad and started jotting.
(No, no! What are you doing? Didn’t you hear?! It’s CHICK-LIT! It’s not for you! You’d hate it!)
“Cause Celeb, by Helen Fielding,” I obliged composedly. “She’s the one who wrote Bridget Jones’ Diary.” Strong accent on Bridget Jones’ Diary.
(If you didn’t get that warning, you’re doomed, my dear fellow.)
His interest hadn’t ebbed an inch.
“Aha. Great. Thanks a lot!” He finished jotting, and gave me a smile and a nod.

I sat bewildered. And then I got an idea. I refocused on the story. (Only twenty pages or so to go.) Soon enough the plane started descending.

He disappeared from my view in the baggage claim area, but I found him. He had gotten out a pea-green sweater and put it on over his checked orange shirt. I kept an eye on him as I waited for my suitcase to arrive, grabbed it, and walked over to him.

“I just finished the book, so I thought you might like to have it.”
(I don’t understand. But I won’t judge. If you like chick-lit – to hell with it! Enjoy!)
“Oh, WOW!” His eyes doubled in size. “Thanks a lot! I was going to get it for my wife.”

And all was well in the world again.

Beginnings

2011-01-19T14:00:00.011+01:00

I love beginnings:

                 the beginnings of days and the beginnings of evenings
                            the beginnings of books, of spring, and of winks
                                     the beginnings of journeys, the beginnings of stories
                                                            the beginnings of ends,

but most of all, I really think,

I love the beginnings of friendships.

Transcending gender

2011-01-16T15:58:00.007+01:00

A man should plant a tree, build a house, and have a son.
A woman should water the tree, clean the house, and look after the two idiots.

This ingenious quip was discovered by a frolleague deep in the pits of an internet discussion. (Behold! There’s quote-worthy stuff lurking in internet underworld!) I LOVE it.

The reason I love it is that I can cynically laugh along with it. Whilst I acknowledge that, for some women (as for some men – and I know at least one such (straight) man, adorable creature that he is), taking care of others might very well translate into a lifetime vocation (after all, there is nothing wrong with being a housewife or househusband if you love what you’re doing and see purpose in it – which is heaps more than can be said about many others who work uninspiring jobs and come home to microwave dinners for one), I appreciate the freedom I have to live exactly how I like and do precisely what I want. That is, without having to conform to a predefined gender role.

A friend of mine accuses feminists of confusing gender roles. I’d go further than that and say that feminists are doing away with gender roles altogether.

(NOTE: What are gender roles? They’re not sexes in their strict, biological, sense, but rather – and I’m surprised how feminist this sounds coming from me, since I claim no such affiliations – social constructs sprouting from the biological realities. Since men and women complement each other biologically – to procreate – they consequently complement each other socially as the core of a family, which is in turn the building block of society.)

Feminists are wiping the grime of gender roles off the face of humanity with angry rags, leaving behind female and male members of society with no pre-defined social roles owing to their sex.

If you’re craving mental exercise, try defining an emancipated woman (or an emancipated man, if you wish). You’re very likely to discover that the characteristics you listed could just as well apply, quid pro quo, to the other sex. That’s because there is no difference between female and male emancipation: as human beings, we have no specific general needs that spring from our sexes (albeit we might have them as parents, as people with disabilities, et cetera).

Think about same-sex couples (who seem to be doing no worse a job of raising little monsters than different-sex couples) as an example: the social roles are still there (the carer, the provider, the what-have-you), whilst the gender roles are absent. The movie The Kids Are All Right (which I immensely enjoyed sitting sandwiched in the cinema theatre between two couples – one adorably goofy, the other gay) was a poignant reminder that same-sex families deal with the same issues as different-sex families: the responsibilities, the issues, the problems are still there.

Therefore, my theory is that we will eventually come to a point where gender (unlike sex) will be inconsequential. This might seem confusing to some at the outset, but ultimately, I think it will better cater to our individual needs as members of society and create more room for our individual (and variegated) awesomenesses (terrible word) to come out into the light. Right? Feel free to polemise!

I owe a zillion thanks to Carlos at The Tired One in connection with this post. He's tirelessly discussed the terrifying subject of feminism with me and contributed hugely to helping me straighten out my vague ideas. (That said, any faults in this post are purely my own.) Thank you, Free Man.

Sun or moon?

2011-01-04T12:14:00.000+01:00

Actually, it's both!

Coming to you live from the office (it's my lunch break, peeps – I am very disciplined at the office and would never blog from my desk) is a picture of the partial solar eclipse we watched in Prague this morning, huddled on the third floor landing, squinting up at the shining sky with magnetic disks (from inside floppy disks) pressed to our eyes (to our glasses, in my case) for protection. (Please note that you should never, ever watch a solar eclipse without appropriate protective eyewear.)

I have never seen a solar eclipse – have you? And I can’t say I particularly cared for this one, either. (Although I am not entirely uninterested in observing celestial bodies: I love to look up at a clear night sky packed with beaming stars and other twinkling debris, and seeing Jupiter from a telescope that my science teacher put up in the school tennis courts for us one night when I was eleven was probably one of the biggest “WOW!” moments of my life.) Still, the photo is cool (taken with a phone, through the magnetic disk, which is why the sky is dark).

And now, back to work.

Czech doodle on Google

2011-01-02T16:17:00.009+01:00

I always fail to notice Google’s doodles (just as I fail to notice cars approaching me in the street). Which is probably why, although I spent most of this lovely Sunday morning researching the web, a friend had to point it out to me via a message – and surprise exploded like a slap on the face.

I’ll vouch that a lot of Czech folk – young and not so young – will pause their furious net search today to lovingly contemplate Google’s homepage. Eyes glazing over, for a moment they will be transported through a magical mist back to the wallpapered living rooms of their childhood when, just before the boring grown-up televised news service, it would be time to squat down in front of the TV enjoy an episode of Večerníček [VETCH-air-knee-check] just before bed-time.

Translated as Little Eveninger (as per Wikipedia, God bless Jimmy Wales infinite times), this five-minute animated programme for kids has been broadcast by Czech Television since 2 January 1965. It consists of various animated series (that change periodically) mostly drawn by Czech artists. Over the years, many characters from Večerníček cartoons have become integral to Czech popular culture.

The one uniting element of all Večerníček broadcasts is the opening sequence (which is exactly the same today as it was 46 years ago). A little boy (called Večerníček), in a newspaper hat swirls onto a background of pale blue starry sky with a thick book of stories under his arm. After some fooling around in the sky - climbing a staircase, riding a twinkling car, balancing on a unicycle - throwing out sheets of stories all the while, he says “Good evening!“ (in Czech, obviously). (There is also a closing sequence where, after saying “Good night!“, the little boy disappears back into the depths of the starry heaven.)

You know what, though? You should just watch the video here. Graphics and music by Radek Pilař and Ladislav Simon, respectively. Enjoy!

P.S. I hear that this particular doodle only shows in the Czech Republic – makes me all the more happy to have printscreened! (Printedthescreen? Screenprinted? Wjghtyeuxlfh?)

"Your thoughts are your destiny."

2011-01-01T16:32:00.002+01:00

My yoga instructor is one of the most wonderful people I know. Surpassing her duties as my weekly guide to greater awareness of my body (which is what yoga is mostly about to me), she is a teacher of life. My favourite moments in class are those (fairly rare occasions) when she pauses the routine, folds herself up like a cat on her cushion, and starts talking... about India, about health, about life, about family and happiness and kindness and love.

Your thoughts are your destiny.

Think about it as you wake up to a brand new decade – and don’t let your thoughts be anything else but positive, constructive, ambitious, fearless, a little outrageous, thoughtful and thought-provoking, creative, exciting, inviting to novelty, energetic, indulgent, bubbly, and loving. Have I forgotten anything? Happy New Year!

Home is where the books are

2010-12-27T08:00:00.014+01:00

A friend recently asked – in reaction to my waxing lyrical about life in Prague – why I love living here so much. The question baffled me a little. After puzzling over it for a while, and then for a while more, the most accurate answer I could come up with was that, well – I’m just so nicely settled in here!

I wake up every morning in a lovely, sun-filled home to go to a job that I genuinely love. Outside of working hours, my local friends and numerous interests never leave me with quite enough time to get up to all the activities that I’d like (and I like that!). If I were to move – good heavens! Where would I look for a yoga instructor as awesome as mine?! And how would I find a cinema that shows old musicals and artsy movies for the price of a tram ride?! Where would I get my fix of vegetarian soup on those rainy days when no cooking has been done at home?! (That said, Prague is in DIRE NEED of a place that sells soup to go. I’ve been toying with the idea of elaborately planting this thought (Inception fashion) into the mind of a good friend of mine who’s brilliant at cooking and business management – I should do it already!)

I’ve written about these (and other) places on this blog. But I haven’t told you about my most coveted Prague retreat – my Sesame, my El Dorado, my bona fide treasure cove, hiding in a tiny cobbled street in the Small Town just off Charles’ Bridge – the Shakespeare & Sons bookshop.

I happened upon it quite by accident ages ago while in Český Krumlov [CHESS-key CROOM-love], and was delighted to find out about the Prague shop. I LOVE going there. Not only because I can spend hours perusing their enormous and expanding selection of English-language books (new ones are brought in from the UK every week), but mainly because the guys working there are super-friendly and 100% efficient every time I decide I can’t live without a specific edition of a specific title.

* * *

I had been intending to delve into the petrifying world of feminist literature for a while now (although I don’t think I could stomach anything too radical – my weakness for men is too great – I’m finding my way around the subject through authors like Virginia Woolf and Simone de Beauvoir for the moment). After conducting thorough research (read: googling ‘feminist literature’ and skimming through the corresponding list on Wikipedia, God bless Jimmy Wales) and eliminating the most drastic authors, I settled upon The Female Man by Joanna Russ – a feminist science fiction novel first published in 1975.

(The fact that I failed to see just what I was in for with a FEMINIST SCIENCE FICTION novel only highlights my extreme naiveté. I have recently started reading it and, after 30 pages, have utterly no clue what the heck is going on, although having read the synopsis on Wikipedia – God bless Jimmy Wales yet again – I learned with some alarm that lesbian sexual intercourse is forthcoming. Hmm.)

Usually, I’m not very picky with my books (two covers and pages in-between pretty much satisfy my standards), but with this one, I really wanted to get the first edition with the original, BONKERS front cover. Tingling with nervous anticipation at Shakes’, I leaned on the counter and watched the the computer screen as the bookshop guy scrolled through the available volumes.

“Nope, nope, nope... that one! Please, could I have that one?”

Needless to say, about a month later an e-mail notified me that my order had arrived. The bookshop guy recognised me the moment I walked in and, picking up the tatty paperback from underneath a towering pile, handed it to me with a wide grin.

“Sorry it took so long, we finally got it from some itty-bitty bookshop out in Kentucky.”

It was the one I wanted: cheesy cover, yellowed pages, old-book smell – the works.

* * *

Also, I have a bit of a crush on the bookshop guy. (There are actually three, but I refer to all of them collectively as ‘the bookshop guy’.) So even if there were a bookshop as awesome as Shakes’ elsewhere in the world (Kentucky?), they wouldn’t have a bookshop guy as awesome as the one(s) here. I'm sure!

"Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars."

2010-12-26T09:00:00.006+01:00

Les Brown's words on a bookmark given to me recently by a friend.

I love this quote so much I find myself thinking of it several times a day. Everytime I open my book, actually.

Female courtesy

2010-12-19T14:00:00.002+01:00

I’ve already talked about chivalry on this blog: men opening doors, carrying bags and boxes, pulling out chairs and shoving away ruffians, buying and paying – all for women. But have you ever thought of women being courteous towards men? Have you ever EXPERIENCED female courtesy?!

I was confronted with the idea a few nights ago as I was shuffling down a narrow street on my way to an artsy cinema, trying not to perform a triple Lutz on the slippy layer of new snow that had thinly covered a thick layer of old ice. Right before me, a guy was making his way forward just as cautiously. He was carrying about twelve heavy-looking grocery bags in each hand and scuffling along in a penguin-like fashion. He didn’t look very comfortable – not so much because of the grocery bags (I mean, a guy should be able to carry dozens of grocery bags in each hand without so much as a huff of discomfort) as because of the 12-pack of toilet roll that he was artfully squeeze-balancing under his arm.

Now, I don’t need to be endowed with abnormal empathy to know what it feels like to be carrying several grocery bags in all the hands you’ve got AND a struggle with a 12-pack of toilet roll to boot. Until I bought my shopping caddie, I suffered like a merchant’s mule pretty much every week. (No, we don’t have cars in Europe. Well, we do, but we can’t use them because we don’t have driving licences.) The guy in front of me was having a difficult time of it: his 12-pack of toilet roll kept sliding out from its position under his arm and wriggling out from under his grasp. Even in the dark, it was plain that he was struggling.

And behind him, I was struggling with myself. There was no question that I would offer to carry his bags for him (after all, I don’t spend precious hours in the gym lifting piles of one-tonne brick-shaped things, and besides, I think I could have offended him), but perhaps I could have tapped him on the shoulder, and...

“Excuse me, shall I help you carry your toilet roll?”

Shoulda woulda coulda. Instead, I ended my dilemma by precipitously overtaking him, almost swirling into a double Salchow as I did so.

But, in case there’s a next time, what do you think about female courtesy – a do, or a don’t?!

Sad, but true

2010-12-17T08:11:00.004+01:00

When a university friend was visiting from London earlier this month with her mum and sister, I took them all to one of my favourite cafés in Prague for the sweetest piece of cheesecake in town. Here's a snippet of the evening's conversation.

Roxanne: Do you know, this place has some of the hunkiest guys
I've seen in Prague so far!

Me: That's because we're in a gay joint.

But then again, looks (hunk?) don't really matter. No, really!

Did you know... (XVIII)

2010-12-15T08:10:00.000+01:00

... that the UAE are the world’s largest grower of date palm trees? Somewhat unexpectedly, though, the 42 million (!!) date palm trees growing in the UAE (that’s roughly 500 trees growing on every square kilometre, ducks) aren’t enough to make them the world’s largest date cultivator. Egypt is the frontrunner in that domain, I suppose because the UAE don’t exploit all of their date palm trees for date cultivation (duh).

The majestic date palm tree is also the UAE’s national tree and symbol (explaining to some extent the fascination with artificial palm-shaped islands). Historically, it was the most important plant in the region, providing all the necessities of life: food, medicine, shelter, and materials for building and for weaving. The Bedouin tribes of the Middle East survived on a staple diet of camel’s milk, lean meat, and the nutritious date fruit, which was also used as a secondary product to make succulent sweets (one of my favourite date desserts is made from date paste mixed with pistachio nuts and cardamom – excellent with a black tea as strong as a hundred horses!)

An old Bedouin saying declares that “dates and milk are best for health, if you are in doubt, give them to me then try my strength”. (I admit that date milkshake was one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted). Date fruits are excellent sources of sugar, potassium, protein, fat, and minerals. Date syrup or infusion may also be administered to cure colds, sore throats, and to relieve fever.

A date palm tree would generally start bearing fruit after 5 to 8 years and would then produce anywhere between 80 and 120 kg of dates per harvest season (between September and December). The ripe date fruits are delicious to the taste: as opposed to the dried, sticky, sugary things that we’re used to eating in Europe (I call them ‘cockroaches’, lovingly), fresh dates offer joyous mouthfuls of juicy, honeyed pulp that is at once sweet and refreshing.

So can someone please explain to me why, according to the UN Food and Agriculture Organisation, world date production is in annual excess of 6 million tonnes? That’s what I’d like to know! (Also, I’d love to help out, so if you know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody, I’m sure I could ‘process’ a few extra kilos of delicious dates.)