Been sick with the fever, but have been taking my paracetamol and ibuprofen, so was functional to go out for our last dinner here. The Waaw Centre is closing for a couple of weeks, and I'll be in Dakar for a few days.
There was a real restaurant buzz tonight at Siki's - more people in town post-Noel? As last time we were the only ones there. Tonight is the annual Fanale. It used to be the procession before Christmas Mass, but now it's on another date, and doesn't have to do with Mass. I also hear the 'procession' is not as neat as it sounds. Possibly more like bleeding through the streets. It starts at midnight, so taking a nap before.
Tuesday, 30 December 2014
Sunday, 28 December 2014
Sump
Have just returned from a walk around the markets of Ndar across the bridge, and have a 'sump' nut in my mouth. I thought it was a date. Except for a thin bit around that is mostly collects dust it is almost entirely a stone. My mouth doesn't really know what to do with it, but it doesn't seem to pose a problem. The area was generally a visual overload. I learned that if I want to take pictures, the thing to do is greet them, ask for permission, and thank them and then wish them a good day. This I learned from the Wolof apothecarist. If only we all had good manners!
New exhibition of Malian bogolanfini at the gallery, so S&J have been busy with that. I went on a bit of a shopping spree, and among things have ordered a pagne (wraparound fabric) to be made, exactly per a 100-year old piece I saw in the traditional weaving exhibition. Quite pleased with this. Anyways, a fabricky day.
A lot of wind today. Harmatten. Dusty everywhere, and it is thick and yellow. All the shutters are shut, and today is no day to hang laundry. Swept the floors. Tough to think the Sahara could be put in a bin - futile exercise but we do it anyways.
Random things sprinkled in a normal day. We saw a couple of 'fake-lions' (guys in lion character) on the streets. And last night was stadium-sized party noise until dawn, but it was far away so no issue. Have a feeling that I do not see an entire subset of the population that is up at night.
New exhibition of Malian bogolanfini at the gallery, so S&J have been busy with that. I went on a bit of a shopping spree, and among things have ordered a pagne (wraparound fabric) to be made, exactly per a 100-year old piece I saw in the traditional weaving exhibition. Quite pleased with this. Anyways, a fabricky day.
A lot of wind today. Harmatten. Dusty everywhere, and it is thick and yellow. All the shutters are shut, and today is no day to hang laundry. Swept the floors. Tough to think the Sahara could be put in a bin - futile exercise but we do it anyways.
Random things sprinkled in a normal day. We saw a couple of 'fake-lions' (guys in lion character) on the streets. And last night was stadium-sized party noise until dawn, but it was far away so no issue. Have a feeling that I do not see an entire subset of the population that is up at night.
Saturday, 27 December 2014
Du velo fou
A strong wind this morning, and I sniffle. I should be so fortunate to not succumb to anything worse while I'm here. One's health is always on borrowed time, and regular gratitude would not be out of place.
A nice ritual these days, with breakfast at Delices du Fleuve, and lunch at La Linguere, The Queen in Wolof. Apparently there have been some Drama Lingueres here - I mentioned that actors and actresses would be good residents here. So much here is about the mask, as anywhere else.
A kora concert yesterday evening in the cathedral, by Ablaye Cissoko. A short concert to a captivated crowd, and by the time we realized it, the cathedral choir sang the last half to a captive audience, or at least me, as they say all the tunes from Christmas Mass, though they did add more local songs which was nice. We then all went for dinner, only to be served by a woman who sung in the choir. Small world!
No evening chanting. Bon Al-Jouma. We are making up our own neologisms as we speak here. Good Friday, we hope to express. Good Mosque, we are probably saying. The waiter at La Residence seemed to enjoy saying 'kittos kee bitte' (kittos < thank you, in Finnish; kee < (of unknown origin); bitte < please, welcome, in German). I'm not quite sure if there is a weekend, or if there is one or the other, or a bit of both, signalled by the lack of chanting.
Visited Meissa Fall yesterday, who I am calling a magician. I suggested to S&J that they should consider expanding the scope of resident activities to magic. In the cool shadow of a street on the south part of the island is this oasis of black(smith) magic. What seemed to be the best boutique on the island, I told him, is also a storage space, a sculptural workshop, a bike repair shop, and a first-class metal dump. From a pamphlet he gave me is a poem by Louis Nucera:
On a le sens du velo
Comme on a l'oreille musicale.
Il y en a des velos
Dans la litterature,
Du velo passion,
Du velo poesie,
Du velo humour,
Du velo fou,
Du velo tendresse.
A nice ritual these days, with breakfast at Delices du Fleuve, and lunch at La Linguere, The Queen in Wolof. Apparently there have been some Drama Lingueres here - I mentioned that actors and actresses would be good residents here. So much here is about the mask, as anywhere else.
A kora concert yesterday evening in the cathedral, by Ablaye Cissoko. A short concert to a captivated crowd, and by the time we realized it, the cathedral choir sang the last half to a captive audience, or at least me, as they say all the tunes from Christmas Mass, though they did add more local songs which was nice. We then all went for dinner, only to be served by a woman who sung in the choir. Small world!
No evening chanting. Bon Al-Jouma. We are making up our own neologisms as we speak here. Good Friday, we hope to express. Good Mosque, we are probably saying. The waiter at La Residence seemed to enjoy saying 'kittos kee bitte' (kittos < thank you, in Finnish; kee < (of unknown origin); bitte < please, welcome, in German). I'm not quite sure if there is a weekend, or if there is one or the other, or a bit of both, signalled by the lack of chanting.
Visited Meissa Fall yesterday, who I am calling a magician. I suggested to S&J that they should consider expanding the scope of resident activities to magic. In the cool shadow of a street on the south part of the island is this oasis of black(smith) magic. What seemed to be the best boutique on the island, I told him, is also a storage space, a sculptural workshop, a bike repair shop, and a first-class metal dump. From a pamphlet he gave me is a poem by Louis Nucera:
On a le sens du velo
Comme on a l'oreille musicale.
Il y en a des velos
Dans la litterature,
Du velo passion,
Du velo poesie,
Du velo humour,
Du velo fou,
Du velo tendresse.
Friday, 26 December 2014
Baa
Dinner at La Residence yesterday, I think the finest hotel here. The public streetscape leaves much to the imagination; it is without doubt what is behind the deuils, the veils, that there is sensory treasure. Again, where on a normal year the restaurant would be packed, here it is barren of guests. The style is Art Deco, and the effect of the ceiling to the skies, dim lights, wood bar, white walls, and generous rattan chairs tries to bring out the languid Humphrey or Lana in all of us. A fitting frame around the middle-aged man in a suit, nursing a drink as he waits for his companions. I try a part of S & J's mbarouk'e (?). _This_ is my madeleine. Things in powdered form bypass visual cues to their origin and identity. Peanut-ish. Possibly chicory, but the taste-memory lies in the unconscious. Dark-brown, maybe roasted, but not burnt.
On the table is a bottle of water. Bon Magal, it says, referring to the annual pilgrimage to Touba in respect of Shayk Ahmadu Bamba, founder of Mouridism here. His image is found on many walls in town, a man with a scarf around his mouth, after the only photo of him. There also seems to be an ad for a prostitute in town, but these two don't meet on the same wall. The role of the intermediary runs pervasively here, like signares here in St. Louis and magicians outside, and Ahmadu Bamba is perhaps the prime intermediary that binds and unifies the country. No small peanuts.
The atmosphere is conducive to chatting well beyond dessert, our talk a bubbly kind of digestif. The waiter asks twice if we want champagne, as if we came from the land of Saunders and French. We talk about past residents. The pioneer was a Korean woman who came on a sept-place, stayed for 3 months, knew no French, learned a significant amount of Wolof, and worked with the street cleaners at 5am. In the end, cleaned a park and made an exhibit of the trash, to heighten people's appreciation of the work of the street cleaners.
We leave what felt like our cruise boat. The actual cruiseboat is docked, and we had thought that maybe passengers would come in. It is a small boat that looks like it would be home on the Mississippi. For 700 €, passengers can spend five days on it going up the river, probably a pretty nice experience.
We head back, find the centre much the same as we left it 3 hours ago. The music starts again, this time with a kind of call and response 'hour', where people learn tunes. After that, wayward sounds with what really sounds like sheep baaing as backup singers.
On the table is a bottle of water. Bon Magal, it says, referring to the annual pilgrimage to Touba in respect of Shayk Ahmadu Bamba, founder of Mouridism here. His image is found on many walls in town, a man with a scarf around his mouth, after the only photo of him. There also seems to be an ad for a prostitute in town, but these two don't meet on the same wall. The role of the intermediary runs pervasively here, like signares here in St. Louis and magicians outside, and Ahmadu Bamba is perhaps the prime intermediary that binds and unifies the country. No small peanuts.
The atmosphere is conducive to chatting well beyond dessert, our talk a bubbly kind of digestif. The waiter asks twice if we want champagne, as if we came from the land of Saunders and French. We talk about past residents. The pioneer was a Korean woman who came on a sept-place, stayed for 3 months, knew no French, learned a significant amount of Wolof, and worked with the street cleaners at 5am. In the end, cleaned a park and made an exhibit of the trash, to heighten people's appreciation of the work of the street cleaners.
We leave what felt like our cruise boat. The actual cruiseboat is docked, and we had thought that maybe passengers would come in. It is a small boat that looks like it would be home on the Mississippi. For 700 €, passengers can spend five days on it going up the river, probably a pretty nice experience.
We head back, find the centre much the same as we left it 3 hours ago. The music starts again, this time with a kind of call and response 'hour', where people learn tunes. After that, wayward sounds with what really sounds like sheep baaing as backup singers.
Thursday, 25 December 2014
The Love Pirogue
Happy first day of Christmas!
We had a lovely Finnish Christmas dinner here, presented by the Finnish residents. Rice porridge with a peanut instead of an almond, pancakes, potato salad and rye bread, glogg with Garrouane wine from Morroco. It all started with the theme song from the Love Boat. Of course.
I bought a bottle of wine last night, Dec 24th, at about 10 pm. First time for everything, J says. I think that it is not so much that there is this crack of opportunity between a Muslim, Christian, and neither/Wolof community, that space perhaps a foundation of possibility that has always been.
At 10:30 H and I went to the Catholic cathedral, reportedly the oldest in Africa. (This blog is not a repository of fact). J and I agreed that between Senegal and Mali, this place is more developed but it is more chaotic. Mass was no exception. A cat paid a visit to the alter, and a bird also swung by, none too intelligently. The French songs do no justice to the voices of the choir; the 3-4 songs of local flavour and djembe drumming rocked out in a proper way.
At midnight, the streets were packed with young'uns, and firecrackers. What I thought was koranic caterwauling that began when I got home, lasting until morning birdsong, was not; apparantly it's just a bunch of guys that go around with megaphones at night.
Proud reader of a Wolof dictionary. In the 'l's and 'm's.
- look (for): wut. Yow la alkaati biy wut. You are the one the police are looking for.
- lung: xeter gi. Man duma lekk xeter. I do not eat lungs.
- massage: damp. Damay damp sama ndigg ak karite. I am massaging my lower back with shea butter.
We had a lovely Finnish Christmas dinner here, presented by the Finnish residents. Rice porridge with a peanut instead of an almond, pancakes, potato salad and rye bread, glogg with Garrouane wine from Morroco. It all started with the theme song from the Love Boat. Of course.
I bought a bottle of wine last night, Dec 24th, at about 10 pm. First time for everything, J says. I think that it is not so much that there is this crack of opportunity between a Muslim, Christian, and neither/Wolof community, that space perhaps a foundation of possibility that has always been.
At 10:30 H and I went to the Catholic cathedral, reportedly the oldest in Africa. (This blog is not a repository of fact). J and I agreed that between Senegal and Mali, this place is more developed but it is more chaotic. Mass was no exception. A cat paid a visit to the alter, and a bird also swung by, none too intelligently. The French songs do no justice to the voices of the choir; the 3-4 songs of local flavour and djembe drumming rocked out in a proper way.
At midnight, the streets were packed with young'uns, and firecrackers. What I thought was koranic caterwauling that began when I got home, lasting until morning birdsong, was not; apparantly it's just a bunch of guys that go around with megaphones at night.
Proud reader of a Wolof dictionary. In the 'l's and 'm's.
- look (for): wut. Yow la alkaati biy wut. You are the one the police are looking for.
- lung: xeter gi. Man duma lekk xeter. I do not eat lungs.
- massage: damp. Damay damp sama ndigg ak karite. I am massaging my lower back with shea butter.
Wednesday, 24 December 2014
A landscape of madeleines
A lazy morning today. I haven't had much jetlag, possibly because I started out in less than perfect form. This morning the bones seemed heavy. S knocks on my door to check in, as I didn't arrive at their apartment for breakfast. They are off to do some work, and I yawn and mention 'cafe.'
Breakfast is a classic affair here. It starts off with a dozy walk along the backyard of a water's edge in, lately, beautiful silky light. It has been unusually cloudy, but there are shadows. Perfect for photos, but this trip isn't about snapshots too much. Four-packs of guys sit - a world-wide phenomenon - and street booths set out their stuff.
The side streets are encadrements of desert sand. I can smell in my room what I imagine is the Sahara. We got a dump of sand not far from our front door, for the neighbour's wall work, a temporary traffic calming measure. Long streets are paved, but they are crumpled in spots, like the tops of madeleines. I embody the five-year old in me, hum a tune and hop along the ridges.
The cafe has the ambiance of Our Town cafe at Main and Kingsway in Vancouver but with the patisserie quality of The French Bakery at the same intersection. A casual interior decor, by one who is attempting something but could probably be more skilled in making the necessary visual calculations. The bread which comes gratis however soars above anything I've had in Vancouver. The softness within is second to none - does that speak of a softness of spirit, within the hard outer shell of us all?
There are two single women and a mixed couple. Yesterday was a woman that smoked in the cafe. She looked pretty good taking a puff. On the plane from Brussels, I recall them saying that it was a non-smoking flight. Wait till your get off, marginalized smokers, you will be able to increase your chances of cancer here at your leisure.
I pick up an events notice at the counter - there's an interesting event each evening this week. I tell J this and he says that they typically start at 2. One time, some people went to a concert at midnight, only to have the musician start at 3. Things happen at night here. I wandered with J yesterday as he tried to take footage for 'empty space' in his documentary project. We saw loads of pirogues by the river, with fishermen ready to head out in the night to fish.
The day was a big one for S and J, and so in the evening we went to a very swanky restaurant for dinner. At a time of year when it should be packed, but we were the only ones there; the tourism industry has been all but completely devastated by the hands of a single Guinean earlier this year.
We chat about how S got his laptop screen fixed that day. No 'we have to get a part from Dakar.' No 'it's not worth fixing' if in Brussels. There was a book fair earlier this month, and we talk about how some writers tend to write from their own experience.
'Except for science fiction writers,' qualified J, as he takes an ikea spoonful of potage de legumes.
'I hope not.'
Breakfast is a classic affair here. It starts off with a dozy walk along the backyard of a water's edge in, lately, beautiful silky light. It has been unusually cloudy, but there are shadows. Perfect for photos, but this trip isn't about snapshots too much. Four-packs of guys sit - a world-wide phenomenon - and street booths set out their stuff.
The side streets are encadrements of desert sand. I can smell in my room what I imagine is the Sahara. We got a dump of sand not far from our front door, for the neighbour's wall work, a temporary traffic calming measure. Long streets are paved, but they are crumpled in spots, like the tops of madeleines. I embody the five-year old in me, hum a tune and hop along the ridges.
The cafe has the ambiance of Our Town cafe at Main and Kingsway in Vancouver but with the patisserie quality of The French Bakery at the same intersection. A casual interior decor, by one who is attempting something but could probably be more skilled in making the necessary visual calculations. The bread which comes gratis however soars above anything I've had in Vancouver. The softness within is second to none - does that speak of a softness of spirit, within the hard outer shell of us all?
There are two single women and a mixed couple. Yesterday was a woman that smoked in the cafe. She looked pretty good taking a puff. On the plane from Brussels, I recall them saying that it was a non-smoking flight. Wait till your get off, marginalized smokers, you will be able to increase your chances of cancer here at your leisure.
I pick up an events notice at the counter - there's an interesting event each evening this week. I tell J this and he says that they typically start at 2. One time, some people went to a concert at midnight, only to have the musician start at 3. Things happen at night here. I wandered with J yesterday as he tried to take footage for 'empty space' in his documentary project. We saw loads of pirogues by the river, with fishermen ready to head out in the night to fish.
The day was a big one for S and J, and so in the evening we went to a very swanky restaurant for dinner. At a time of year when it should be packed, but we were the only ones there; the tourism industry has been all but completely devastated by the hands of a single Guinean earlier this year.
We chat about how S got his laptop screen fixed that day. No 'we have to get a part from Dakar.' No 'it's not worth fixing' if in Brussels. There was a book fair earlier this month, and we talk about how some writers tend to write from their own experience.
'Except for science fiction writers,' qualified J, as he takes an ikea spoonful of potage de legumes.
'I hope not.'
Tuesday, 23 December 2014
SeneGal
There was no 'first sign' of things to come. It came gradually, like the minute adjustments of the beating of the drummer boy. Perhaps it was the delay, the plane having arrived late and therefore delayed itself by some 90 minutes. We are given a letter as we board, given with the question, 'Have you received this?' as if I had checked my mailbox lately. It informs that the plane and carrier has been changed from Brussels Airlines to Blue Panorama, on a 767-300ER. For those who know of the Vinyl Cafe's Christmas turkey, this plane type is literally the B-grade, bruised turkey that tried to make a run for it.
This plane could socially engineer unhappiness. The service on the plane understands this, and as in the art of war, they try to diminish perceptions, and we are offered nut and chocolate-coated ice cream sticks to palliate the experience. For those whom this care meant something. This certainly did not stop the constant, constant, ringing of the service bell throughout the flight. An interesting button for a child? A life-long disgruntled human? I was surprised that at the end, all the flight attendants did not simply open the hatches and slide down to freedom. But perhaps they did upon their return to Brussels.
The feeling in the air was restlessness. Like restless dust. Like the coating of a sawmill with that fine coating of small particles, where an instant explosion was imminent. It felt as if the only thing that kept all the buckles intact was the lack of Senegalese music on the PA to bring harmony to the system. Whereas on my first flight, it seemed to have unloaded off international students back on EU soil, this one simply had kids. Lots of small kids. People asked questions at the wrong time - a bit of water? No, we are now doing this job, you have to ask when we are doing our drink service.
At the airport, we take the bus for about 200 m. I am told later it is worthwhile to spring ahead. The consequences otherwise was a 2 hour wait for the final act of official visa-dom. Before this however I am greeted by a health worker who zaps my forehead. Perhaps they are trying to find out who in their right mind wants to enter this country.
I am driven to the guesthouse by Ibrahim, of Thies. The 'th' I note us something between a soft ch and a th. Chthies. The guesthouse is perfect and has the essentials of quiet etc and the bonus of nice guests. I meet a women researching the revolutionary movement if 1968, and is here interviewing people who were part of it. A family of three from Holland, one originally from verdant Casamance; they scurry off to go to do some paperwork. Ornaments, Senegalese-style thingies made of colourful re-used scrap metal, each given a wig of tinsel, hang from the courtyard roof. I am initiated in the mysterious bounty of la brousse, given a hint of how good preserves are from local fruits.
Sandjery takes me off to St. Louis. A perfect driver, he has been hired for safety and speed. He is equally good at silence and answering questions. He laughs when I ask him if his wife is beautiful. He patiently tells me what a diderie is, and I tell that in my country we do not have griots. I ask him about something long sold by the road, which looks like a smudge stick times ten. He tells me that it is a kenkeliba, and that they eat it for breakfast, and that women have it when the baby is on the way. We stop often for him to buy toll tickets. They are not posted nor are the people he buys they from differently clad. It so happens that entrepreneurial peanut sellers figured this is a good place to offer wares. I have no fcfa, all 3 bank machines at the airport en panne the night before, one almost eating my card (hint:do not press 'cancel', breathe and press 'change transaction' to get the thing to spit my card out). I do a quick figure sketch and show it to her. She laughs, as if it struck a chord in her.
I arrive at the cultural centre Waaw which my two dear friends started some two years ago. We joke at breakfast that they are re-colonising St. Louis and that before long there will be an expatriate community of retired Finns that take over the entire old city here and will greet bewildered tourists from Japan. I am in a room that is twice as large as my own bedroom. The is a small community of artists and language learners. A quiet group, I am told, not the type that takes in the nightlife and brings in overnight guests. We go out for lunch, and I have the national dish, which also happens to be the dish of the day (everyday?) - theboudienne. We wander around until I get accustomed to the 7 blocks that will be my home for 10 days. I am able to extract funds, but only after a woman tells me the machine did not work for her.
In the evening we pack up baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph and some sheep in a buch of buckets and head out. For Jesus will be born in a creperie this year. In the back, there is a library. It is owned by the eglise across the street, where we hear the choir singing. The library languished and was inaccessible until the creperie kitchen came along and presented its menu of savoury and sweet. Like a benificent, parasitic relationship, the library lives on and at the back of the creperie. Andreas, a designer who otherwise works with those in need in Helsinki, designed a creche of very effectively covered corpulant water bottles. We baa as the sheep go in the 6' wide by 5' high frame, which the crepe-master has prepared with care and concern for the incoming nativity scene.
At night, as I lie in bed, what sounds like koranic karaoke duets off the mineret speakers have me dreaming of quieter nights. By 11:30 I have the sense to close my windows, and then it sounds more like a muffled production of classic Chinese opera.
In the morning I awake by the sound of the same bird I remember from somewhere else. C-C#-D-F-C. I think, I want to think, that it came from Damascus. The courtyard is about half the width of the one I love the Damascus. A black-capped chickadee chips and chirps around, courting my attention.
I unwrap myself from the evening mosquito net. The gauze drapes a soft, white blur to the world. Of safety, of comfort, of a kind of princessness. It is chilly. About as cold as it can be before people start considering permanently insulating a building. I put on all my layers, glad for my wool cardigan. Waaw has some blue painted accents here - windows and doors. I connect it with the blue of Tunis.
We head off for breakfast. The menu is full ... of hope. It tells you what you might like. It won't tell you what they have. To make up for the difference, they will give you more of what they do have, but what you cannot enjoy, such as laying out 5 sets of cutlery for 3 people. To give peace to the rational mind they place ordered items randomly at each setting.
Because they know exactly what you have come here for. And offer it as if you didn't know.
This plane could socially engineer unhappiness. The service on the plane understands this, and as in the art of war, they try to diminish perceptions, and we are offered nut and chocolate-coated ice cream sticks to palliate the experience. For those whom this care meant something. This certainly did not stop the constant, constant, ringing of the service bell throughout the flight. An interesting button for a child? A life-long disgruntled human? I was surprised that at the end, all the flight attendants did not simply open the hatches and slide down to freedom. But perhaps they did upon their return to Brussels.
The feeling in the air was restlessness. Like restless dust. Like the coating of a sawmill with that fine coating of small particles, where an instant explosion was imminent. It felt as if the only thing that kept all the buckles intact was the lack of Senegalese music on the PA to bring harmony to the system. Whereas on my first flight, it seemed to have unloaded off international students back on EU soil, this one simply had kids. Lots of small kids. People asked questions at the wrong time - a bit of water? No, we are now doing this job, you have to ask when we are doing our drink service.
At the airport, we take the bus for about 200 m. I am told later it is worthwhile to spring ahead. The consequences otherwise was a 2 hour wait for the final act of official visa-dom. Before this however I am greeted by a health worker who zaps my forehead. Perhaps they are trying to find out who in their right mind wants to enter this country.
I am driven to the guesthouse by Ibrahim, of Thies. The 'th' I note us something between a soft ch and a th. Chthies. The guesthouse is perfect and has the essentials of quiet etc and the bonus of nice guests. I meet a women researching the revolutionary movement if 1968, and is here interviewing people who were part of it. A family of three from Holland, one originally from verdant Casamance; they scurry off to go to do some paperwork. Ornaments, Senegalese-style thingies made of colourful re-used scrap metal, each given a wig of tinsel, hang from the courtyard roof. I am initiated in the mysterious bounty of la brousse, given a hint of how good preserves are from local fruits.
Sandjery takes me off to St. Louis. A perfect driver, he has been hired for safety and speed. He is equally good at silence and answering questions. He laughs when I ask him if his wife is beautiful. He patiently tells me what a diderie is, and I tell that in my country we do not have griots. I ask him about something long sold by the road, which looks like a smudge stick times ten. He tells me that it is a kenkeliba, and that they eat it for breakfast, and that women have it when the baby is on the way. We stop often for him to buy toll tickets. They are not posted nor are the people he buys they from differently clad. It so happens that entrepreneurial peanut sellers figured this is a good place to offer wares. I have no fcfa, all 3 bank machines at the airport en panne the night before, one almost eating my card (hint:do not press 'cancel', breathe and press 'change transaction' to get the thing to spit my card out). I do a quick figure sketch and show it to her. She laughs, as if it struck a chord in her.
I arrive at the cultural centre Waaw which my two dear friends started some two years ago. We joke at breakfast that they are re-colonising St. Louis and that before long there will be an expatriate community of retired Finns that take over the entire old city here and will greet bewildered tourists from Japan. I am in a room that is twice as large as my own bedroom. The is a small community of artists and language learners. A quiet group, I am told, not the type that takes in the nightlife and brings in overnight guests. We go out for lunch, and I have the national dish, which also happens to be the dish of the day (everyday?) - theboudienne. We wander around until I get accustomed to the 7 blocks that will be my home for 10 days. I am able to extract funds, but only after a woman tells me the machine did not work for her.
In the evening we pack up baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph and some sheep in a buch of buckets and head out. For Jesus will be born in a creperie this year. In the back, there is a library. It is owned by the eglise across the street, where we hear the choir singing. The library languished and was inaccessible until the creperie kitchen came along and presented its menu of savoury and sweet. Like a benificent, parasitic relationship, the library lives on and at the back of the creperie. Andreas, a designer who otherwise works with those in need in Helsinki, designed a creche of very effectively covered corpulant water bottles. We baa as the sheep go in the 6' wide by 5' high frame, which the crepe-master has prepared with care and concern for the incoming nativity scene.
At night, as I lie in bed, what sounds like koranic karaoke duets off the mineret speakers have me dreaming of quieter nights. By 11:30 I have the sense to close my windows, and then it sounds more like a muffled production of classic Chinese opera.
In the morning I awake by the sound of the same bird I remember from somewhere else. C-C#-D-F-C. I think, I want to think, that it came from Damascus. The courtyard is about half the width of the one I love the Damascus. A black-capped chickadee chips and chirps around, courting my attention.
I unwrap myself from the evening mosquito net. The gauze drapes a soft, white blur to the world. Of safety, of comfort, of a kind of princessness. It is chilly. About as cold as it can be before people start considering permanently insulating a building. I put on all my layers, glad for my wool cardigan. Waaw has some blue painted accents here - windows and doors. I connect it with the blue of Tunis.
We head off for breakfast. The menu is full ... of hope. It tells you what you might like. It won't tell you what they have. To make up for the difference, they will give you more of what they do have, but what you cannot enjoy, such as laying out 5 sets of cutlery for 3 people. To give peace to the rational mind they place ordered items randomly at each setting.
Because they know exactly what you have come here for. And offer it as if you didn't know.
Sunday, 21 December 2014
Enroute to Dakar
Gate T64 at Brussels. Most everyone is dark-skinned here at the gate. I feel like now, I am going somewhere. Delayed flight, but it's my final leg.
The part of the airport here is fairly bleak. An extruded, grey hangar with mostly hard surfaces. Announcements by airport goddesses above echo slowly across the vast space. The Brussels Airlines logo tries to soften and warm up the environment, with a red 'B' logo in the shape of a heart.
Flight from YVR mostly uneventful. It seemed like half the passengers were international students returning home for the holidays.
The part of the airport here is fairly bleak. An extruded, grey hangar with mostly hard surfaces. Announcements by airport goddesses above echo slowly across the vast space. The Brussels Airlines logo tries to soften and warm up the environment, with a red 'B' logo in the shape of a heart.
Flight from YVR mostly uneventful. It seemed like half the passengers were international students returning home for the holidays.
Wednesday, 15 October 2014
Apple Birthday
The richness of Anna Netrebko Verdi fills my apartment, which has just been post-trip-admin'd - depacked, machines whirring. Netrebko sang the role of the sexy vamp Lady Macbeth at The Met last Saturday to much praise. My seat was Orchestra Centre Row BB, a row that tested my now 40 year-old eyes. Among the details that did not independently jump into my luggage were my binoculars. So opera is experienced the old-fashioned way - without interviews, without amplification, without visual assistance. To the right of me were two empty seats, reserved for the schnauzer of one of the HD cameras. The cameraman has been filming at the Met since 1979, and while he sitting just behind, has an entirely different experience of opera. While, say, a normal opera-goer is somewhere between enthralled and sleeping, this man is part of the production of seeing opera, and the less we see of him, the better he is doing his job successfully, he says. I'm not sure if opera is better and is truly meant to be appreciated 'unaided', or if this is one of the last bastions of art forms that desperately needs to revamp itself with technology to survive. As I grow older, I will appreciate what I can sense. Perhaps with less sensory inputs, I grow more inwardly, and that is the progress of life.
G and I were sitting in different parts of the auditorium, but we met at intermission. I had never seen her smoke, and usually I am averse to it. She is a fine woman of grace, and her cigarettes had equally fine particles. I have taken to some of her habits, and if smoking became a culturally acceptable activity again I would be tempted to follow in her footsteps. G happened to be in town, and happened to be at the opera - a happy happenstance.
After the performance we meet again, and make our way to Chambers, and then to the foot of Brooklyn Bridge, where my eyes spy a small sign, pointing towards what looked like a gardenhouse by the water. We have in the end the best meal I think I will ever have in my life. A piece of heaven, I write on the receipt, for an amount a friend suggested I consider amortizing over 10 years. I am so happy, I tell S, over and over again that evening. Certainly for me it was everything that I did not order that was the 'main course' - the lobby that seemed to double as the warehouse supplying local florists, the light that transferred from the sunset to the skyscrapers across East River. A bottle of champagne arrived courtesy of the chef. Humble wine choices from one of the world's best wine lists fell into this cup of perfection, around which was an aura that insulated us from anything otherwise: a young 2012 Chablis Champs Royaux - Fevre to start; a mellow, rich 2007 Chateauneuf du Pape - E Guigal for the mains. The amuse-bouches - in particular a local foie-gras - were singular strokes of tastefulness that competed with the mains and won our hearts. Anything we ordered was simply something in between the real thing, it seemed; small bits of life with no names, and which come unbidden. Who called for the semifreddo, which magically appeared, as well as magically disappeared, with gasped exclamations.
We walk around on a cloud afterwards, myself thinking that anything entering my stomach would be considered contamination. We had thought to take the ferry back to our townhouse, but the last ferry had left hours ago. Our taxi driver, we discover, is from Senegal, and has been here for 8 years. S ripples off names of Senegalese dishes, and I tell him that Senegal is on my travel list. He tells us that we are so friendly, that we don't just say the address. As we all know, but as we often need reminding, it is of course the journey that is the destination. I ask him to drop us off one block away. Presumably to avoid the one-way street. But also, may we not get to where we think we need to go to, too soon.
---
It is a good idea to invite a Dane to one's birthday. If there is one reason why Danes are so happy, it may be that they have really perfected the celebration of birthdays. The more, the merrier. On the morning of, I climb up the stairs and find the handrail wrapped in Danish flags, a kind of symbol of celebration that I love, and that simply would not have the same effect should Canadian flags be substituted. The situation might in fact tumble down to confusion, as the separation of state and birthdays is quite clear. I am quickly ordered to blind myself, and hasten toward the lemon yellow settee into which I enfold, listening to rustling and whipping sounds in the kitchen. Most people would, should they find themselves in New York whilst considering an event which involved a birthday cake, put into process some operation to extract a cake from a New York bakery. And then there are Danes. Such as this one, B. Who brought a cake from Denmark and openly declared it at the airport. It tests, and spreads, the presence of humanity and compassion among airport security officers, much like the transport of containers exceeding 100 ml of baby food for one's accompanying infants. B even bought 40 candles, but the cake would have been a complete fireball. Blueberries, bananas, and whipping cream formed the most lovely birthday cake that was our breakfast, starting our day, and my year, on an awfully good footing of lightness and sweetness. A paper cartoon image of the Statue of Liberty is put on the top of the cake as well, and it seemed so fitting - her flame in one hand, her book of law in the other. I'll try to photoshop in the cover of the Building Code onto her book.
---
I had a small checklist for this trip: opera, dinner, Brooklyn's oldest bar, and a park on Roosevelt Island. I generally call it precision tourism and it comes with a healthy amount of getting lost. I couldn't quite remember why I wanted to visit this park - the checklist box was formed about a year ago - but it tumbled into spectacular focus when I got there. It was designed 40 years ago by Louis Kahn, a major architect who has designed very few buildings. We share the same initials, occupation, and he passed away the year I was born. I remember seeing a house he designed in Pennsylvania, simply knocking on the door. The original owners still live there, and even drove me to the train station. He died of a heart attach in the men's washroom in Penn Station, penniless and in debt, with the drawings of this park under his arm. The park is called the Franklin D Roosevelt Four Freedoms Park, the four freedoms being freedom of speech and expression, freedom of religion, freedom from want, and freedom from fear. I know no project that was built 38 years after it was designed. While the worth of many buildings are revealed only after time, this design was already mature with timelessness 'built in.'
Most of the park is outside the park - the vastness of the water around and sky above. But also from away - viewed across from a shore, the park is a blazingly white, horizontal form that contrasts with the grey high-rises around, that perhaps make us think about the varying forms of ambition and freedom, and the forms that relate to looking up and those that instinctively look down. I bought a lapel pin - four silver rectangles on a blue background - as a gift to my 4x10 self. For me to think about these four freedoms, and to remember these four days.
G and I were sitting in different parts of the auditorium, but we met at intermission. I had never seen her smoke, and usually I am averse to it. She is a fine woman of grace, and her cigarettes had equally fine particles. I have taken to some of her habits, and if smoking became a culturally acceptable activity again I would be tempted to follow in her footsteps. G happened to be in town, and happened to be at the opera - a happy happenstance.
After the performance we meet again, and make our way to Chambers, and then to the foot of Brooklyn Bridge, where my eyes spy a small sign, pointing towards what looked like a gardenhouse by the water. We have in the end the best meal I think I will ever have in my life. A piece of heaven, I write on the receipt, for an amount a friend suggested I consider amortizing over 10 years. I am so happy, I tell S, over and over again that evening. Certainly for me it was everything that I did not order that was the 'main course' - the lobby that seemed to double as the warehouse supplying local florists, the light that transferred from the sunset to the skyscrapers across East River. A bottle of champagne arrived courtesy of the chef. Humble wine choices from one of the world's best wine lists fell into this cup of perfection, around which was an aura that insulated us from anything otherwise: a young 2012 Chablis Champs Royaux - Fevre to start; a mellow, rich 2007 Chateauneuf du Pape - E Guigal for the mains. The amuse-bouches - in particular a local foie-gras - were singular strokes of tastefulness that competed with the mains and won our hearts. Anything we ordered was simply something in between the real thing, it seemed; small bits of life with no names, and which come unbidden. Who called for the semifreddo, which magically appeared, as well as magically disappeared, with gasped exclamations.
We walk around on a cloud afterwards, myself thinking that anything entering my stomach would be considered contamination. We had thought to take the ferry back to our townhouse, but the last ferry had left hours ago. Our taxi driver, we discover, is from Senegal, and has been here for 8 years. S ripples off names of Senegalese dishes, and I tell him that Senegal is on my travel list. He tells us that we are so friendly, that we don't just say the address. As we all know, but as we often need reminding, it is of course the journey that is the destination. I ask him to drop us off one block away. Presumably to avoid the one-way street. But also, may we not get to where we think we need to go to, too soon.
---
It is a good idea to invite a Dane to one's birthday. If there is one reason why Danes are so happy, it may be that they have really perfected the celebration of birthdays. The more, the merrier. On the morning of, I climb up the stairs and find the handrail wrapped in Danish flags, a kind of symbol of celebration that I love, and that simply would not have the same effect should Canadian flags be substituted. The situation might in fact tumble down to confusion, as the separation of state and birthdays is quite clear. I am quickly ordered to blind myself, and hasten toward the lemon yellow settee into which I enfold, listening to rustling and whipping sounds in the kitchen. Most people would, should they find themselves in New York whilst considering an event which involved a birthday cake, put into process some operation to extract a cake from a New York bakery. And then there are Danes. Such as this one, B. Who brought a cake from Denmark and openly declared it at the airport. It tests, and spreads, the presence of humanity and compassion among airport security officers, much like the transport of containers exceeding 100 ml of baby food for one's accompanying infants. B even bought 40 candles, but the cake would have been a complete fireball. Blueberries, bananas, and whipping cream formed the most lovely birthday cake that was our breakfast, starting our day, and my year, on an awfully good footing of lightness and sweetness. A paper cartoon image of the Statue of Liberty is put on the top of the cake as well, and it seemed so fitting - her flame in one hand, her book of law in the other. I'll try to photoshop in the cover of the Building Code onto her book.
---
I had a small checklist for this trip: opera, dinner, Brooklyn's oldest bar, and a park on Roosevelt Island. I generally call it precision tourism and it comes with a healthy amount of getting lost. I couldn't quite remember why I wanted to visit this park - the checklist box was formed about a year ago - but it tumbled into spectacular focus when I got there. It was designed 40 years ago by Louis Kahn, a major architect who has designed very few buildings. We share the same initials, occupation, and he passed away the year I was born. I remember seeing a house he designed in Pennsylvania, simply knocking on the door. The original owners still live there, and even drove me to the train station. He died of a heart attach in the men's washroom in Penn Station, penniless and in debt, with the drawings of this park under his arm. The park is called the Franklin D Roosevelt Four Freedoms Park, the four freedoms being freedom of speech and expression, freedom of religion, freedom from want, and freedom from fear. I know no project that was built 38 years after it was designed. While the worth of many buildings are revealed only after time, this design was already mature with timelessness 'built in.'
Most of the park is outside the park - the vastness of the water around and sky above. But also from away - viewed across from a shore, the park is a blazingly white, horizontal form that contrasts with the grey high-rises around, that perhaps make us think about the varying forms of ambition and freedom, and the forms that relate to looking up and those that instinctively look down. I bought a lapel pin - four silver rectangles on a blue background - as a gift to my 4x10 self. For me to think about these four freedoms, and to remember these four days.
Wednesday, 17 September 2014
Georgiousness
Home now, waking up at midnight and seeing a landscape of hours of quiet time in front of me - a foreign but friendly home that welcomes me as a guest for the time being.
Processing a bit now. Reading the books that I bought, going through the photographs I made. One has 12 short stories that illustrate the Georgian mentality. The first story is by Ilia Chavchavadze, who lived in the 19th century. He is generally known as the 'Father of Georgia' and revered by the nation; the last president claimed political legacy. Whereas the Russian woman who I met on my first day in Tblisi said that the neighbouring house was a 'period house' museum, I learned on my last day that it was the house of Chavchavadze himself. The grey street then started to sparkle, and the colours of the neighbourhood came out from beneath its veneer, otherwise damaged by years of neglect.
There is another memorial house across the street, but it is of someone that exists beyond the confines of Google. And I learn on my last day that my guesthouse was the house of Giorgi Chubanishvili, who, as mentioned, was the father of the guesthouse 'husband'. The house is landmarked with a plaque, as he founded the Tbilisi State Academy of Art, and this street is named after him too. (There is a much larger boulevard named after Chavchavadze.)
It was a beautiful last and lazy sunny day, and I spent it exploring the southern part of Old Tblisi, which I had neglected until then. It was a gorgeous - georgious? - Saturday, and it seemed I passed by at least 5 wedding parties which were having photographs taken, all in the same part of Old Tbilisi. They all seemed to be each in a glistening soap bubble, each party close to another but lots of space and happiness within. Of note in the area, actually of extraordinary note, is a mosque which serves both Shia and Sunni Muslims. Perhaps this band ought to connect up with female imams in western China and develop some sort of unorthodox mosque.
By the end of the afternoon I went by Sioni Cathedral. It was, I learn in Google, the main Georgian Orthodox Cathedral for centuries until 2004. It is, like all of the churches that I visited, without pews. During the two hours that I was there, people came in and out as a service went on - and in my experience of Orthodox churches, a service has started at some point before I arrive, and ends at some point after I leave. Pews seem to be 'unorthodox' and not something I should take for granted ever again in a church. People went in and out of the Cathedral - normal enough - and some people were standing inside. But many were standing outside listening to the service which was broadcast on speakers outside. I was lucky to have a bench seat outside.
The scene was beautiful on a variety of levels. That the congregation seemed willingly and earnestly there, and were there for an indeterminate length of time that was not dictated by form or schedule. That there was this openness and informality to it all - that people kissed and touched the church (I'm an architect, but have I ever kissed a building?), walked around, that children were running around and playing. That people were clothed in all ways such that one's facade and one's interior might not necessarily 'look' the same. That people ritually made the sign of the cross, 3 times, right shoulder then left. The sounds of the service were Christian sounds, and the music a light and open chanting the Georgians do so well. Indeed a polyphony to the music and to the people in this arrangement.
I have often invoked on this trip my time in Damascus, and this scenario was no exception. The open area was like the open court outside of the former Cathedral of St. John, which together (court and cathedral) constitute the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus. Sacred space open to the skies and open to the masses, but connected to a ritualized, interior space.
I read through my Georgian food and culture book yesterday night. It seemed to really drive the nail in - that much of what I experienced has some derivation to this country's comfortable and daily relationship with their form of Christianity. It's like a really snug fit in a lambswool slipper. That the wine would have a connection - i.e. the grapevine cross. That the Transfiguration seems to be timed with wine harvesting and production. That some of the foods I had were Lenten or ritual foods. That the Georgian tradition for hospitality stems from Matthew 25.
On my last evening, I see the marionette play "The Autumn of My Spring" at the Gabriadze Theatre. A very good production that describes a personal story but also broadly paints a picture of post-war and post-Soviet Georgia using finely crafted marionettes of a grandmother, a bird, and other creatures in a Georgian 'Alice in Wonderland.' As I remember in Damascus, and as I rarely if ever see here, modern politics and in particular corruption, disguised quite lightly, come out in fine form. And what better way to describe politicians as marionettes?
Just before the show I had sat at an outdoor bar/café, in a little plaza outside the theatre and had a cup of tea. It seemed like the new, quietly pumping heart of the old city. It had been completely redone, so it does not resemble the rest of the crumbling city. Behind me was a pack of guys from the UK watching 'the game'. In front is the theatre, an artistic labour of love with a crooked clock at the top, and embraced in colourful tilework and whimsical sculpture. Every day at noon and 7 a little mechanical display of marionettes happens for a minute, and a gathering of tourists provides the mirror image, myself included.
A women seats herself a couple of tables away from me, and we nod. I rarely, if ever, nod, to another person simply sitting down at a nearby table. But we are in another world, and we can make this other world the way we see most fit. The theatre crowd starts to fill the plaza, and the other woman leaves. As I enter the theatre, I find that my seat is next to her, and I am not the least bit surprised. She tells me that these things seem to happen. We chat as if we've known each other all along, and are just catching up.
A good trip. I knew before I arrived that I would return, and that remains.
Processing a bit now. Reading the books that I bought, going through the photographs I made. One has 12 short stories that illustrate the Georgian mentality. The first story is by Ilia Chavchavadze, who lived in the 19th century. He is generally known as the 'Father of Georgia' and revered by the nation; the last president claimed political legacy. Whereas the Russian woman who I met on my first day in Tblisi said that the neighbouring house was a 'period house' museum, I learned on my last day that it was the house of Chavchavadze himself. The grey street then started to sparkle, and the colours of the neighbourhood came out from beneath its veneer, otherwise damaged by years of neglect.
There is another memorial house across the street, but it is of someone that exists beyond the confines of Google. And I learn on my last day that my guesthouse was the house of Giorgi Chubanishvili, who, as mentioned, was the father of the guesthouse 'husband'. The house is landmarked with a plaque, as he founded the Tbilisi State Academy of Art, and this street is named after him too. (There is a much larger boulevard named after Chavchavadze.)
It was a beautiful last and lazy sunny day, and I spent it exploring the southern part of Old Tblisi, which I had neglected until then. It was a gorgeous - georgious? - Saturday, and it seemed I passed by at least 5 wedding parties which were having photographs taken, all in the same part of Old Tbilisi. They all seemed to be each in a glistening soap bubble, each party close to another but lots of space and happiness within. Of note in the area, actually of extraordinary note, is a mosque which serves both Shia and Sunni Muslims. Perhaps this band ought to connect up with female imams in western China and develop some sort of unorthodox mosque.
By the end of the afternoon I went by Sioni Cathedral. It was, I learn in Google, the main Georgian Orthodox Cathedral for centuries until 2004. It is, like all of the churches that I visited, without pews. During the two hours that I was there, people came in and out as a service went on - and in my experience of Orthodox churches, a service has started at some point before I arrive, and ends at some point after I leave. Pews seem to be 'unorthodox' and not something I should take for granted ever again in a church. People went in and out of the Cathedral - normal enough - and some people were standing inside. But many were standing outside listening to the service which was broadcast on speakers outside. I was lucky to have a bench seat outside.
The scene was beautiful on a variety of levels. That the congregation seemed willingly and earnestly there, and were there for an indeterminate length of time that was not dictated by form or schedule. That there was this openness and informality to it all - that people kissed and touched the church (I'm an architect, but have I ever kissed a building?), walked around, that children were running around and playing. That people were clothed in all ways such that one's facade and one's interior might not necessarily 'look' the same. That people ritually made the sign of the cross, 3 times, right shoulder then left. The sounds of the service were Christian sounds, and the music a light and open chanting the Georgians do so well. Indeed a polyphony to the music and to the people in this arrangement.
I have often invoked on this trip my time in Damascus, and this scenario was no exception. The open area was like the open court outside of the former Cathedral of St. John, which together (court and cathedral) constitute the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus. Sacred space open to the skies and open to the masses, but connected to a ritualized, interior space.
I read through my Georgian food and culture book yesterday night. It seemed to really drive the nail in - that much of what I experienced has some derivation to this country's comfortable and daily relationship with their form of Christianity. It's like a really snug fit in a lambswool slipper. That the wine would have a connection - i.e. the grapevine cross. That the Transfiguration seems to be timed with wine harvesting and production. That some of the foods I had were Lenten or ritual foods. That the Georgian tradition for hospitality stems from Matthew 25.
On my last evening, I see the marionette play "The Autumn of My Spring" at the Gabriadze Theatre. A very good production that describes a personal story but also broadly paints a picture of post-war and post-Soviet Georgia using finely crafted marionettes of a grandmother, a bird, and other creatures in a Georgian 'Alice in Wonderland.' As I remember in Damascus, and as I rarely if ever see here, modern politics and in particular corruption, disguised quite lightly, come out in fine form. And what better way to describe politicians as marionettes?
Just before the show I had sat at an outdoor bar/café, in a little plaza outside the theatre and had a cup of tea. It seemed like the new, quietly pumping heart of the old city. It had been completely redone, so it does not resemble the rest of the crumbling city. Behind me was a pack of guys from the UK watching 'the game'. In front is the theatre, an artistic labour of love with a crooked clock at the top, and embraced in colourful tilework and whimsical sculpture. Every day at noon and 7 a little mechanical display of marionettes happens for a minute, and a gathering of tourists provides the mirror image, myself included.
A women seats herself a couple of tables away from me, and we nod. I rarely, if ever, nod, to another person simply sitting down at a nearby table. But we are in another world, and we can make this other world the way we see most fit. The theatre crowd starts to fill the plaza, and the other woman leaves. As I enter the theatre, I find that my seat is next to her, and I am not the least bit surprised. She tells me that these things seem to happen. We chat as if we've known each other all along, and are just catching up.
A good trip. I knew before I arrived that I would return, and that remains.
Friday, 12 September 2014
Today
Today has been a typical day in my time as a tourist in Georgia:
It starts with breakfast on the deck here at the guesthouse, which has been 'decked out' with dried flowers and corn, garlic braids, pottery, and other things to provide the full domestic effect. The interesting aspect of this type of house is that the interior courtyard facade is the kind that is considered traditional, and is mostly (not always) viewed from either within or from a lane. I haven't tired from looking at it, it being an L-shape, me sitting at breakfast along one of the sides.
Breakfast here makes me happy. I hear the dog lap up water in the courtyard below, and a light wind rustle through the chestnut tree. A cat purrs in the distance. The husband of the house returns with puri, warm Georgian bread. It is a shotis puri, and in the country a round oven, open from above, bakes these along the inner walls, giving it its round form. Today I am treated with tangerine jam and a wild small-plum jam. Plums, among other foodstuffs, are very typical here, and tomorrow I will probably buy some tkemali, a sour plum sauce, otherwise known as Georgian ketchup. There is also a glass blue bowl with yoghurt with small cherries, little plates of cheese and butter, a big cup of coffee, and a basket of fruit. It's really been an excellent way to start the day.
Accompanying me are usually people who speak Russian and no English. I have met many people of this sort here. The vast lot are smokers from Poland, and occassionally some from Latvia, France and Moscow. I hear Germans and Americans, and a few Danes. Some ask me if Georgia is well-known as a place to visit. I respond saying unfortunately not. Georgia certainly has all things required for its tourism industry to ferment; it simply needs more tourists. As far as I can see, nothing is to capacity, but my hostess says that this year has been atypical.
After my morning ritual I walk out to Chubinasvili kucha (street), named after my hostess' husband's father, and down Marjanisvili kucha. A beautiful, made-up young woman with high heels etc. pauses by the Russian Orthodox church, turns towards it, and makes the sign of the cross. She could be on the front cover of a fashion magazine but if anything she wants to attract something else in her life. Georgia is fundamentally Christian. Most cars have an icon as a constant companion. Monasteries exist ad infinitum here. And tonight at dinner at an upscale restaurant, while a supra (Georgian feast) is being enjoyed, at another table a group of three women, one in black habit, stands and offers thanks for nourishment.
At Marjanishvili Moedani (Square) I catch the metro. There is always a uniformed guard at each metro station. Such guards or officers are in expected places, such as directing traffic or unmuddling an accident, and sometimes they are randomly in the middle of seemingly nowhere by the highway. The metro is similar to the one in Moscow in that one seems to go down 7 leagues, but the similarity stops there. There is no art inside, just advertisements. One in particular is for something called 'Express Pay' - and throughout the city are ATM-like machines where one can do transactional banking and, um, pay bills in particular. For to fill the state coffers and end corruption, the government is making a valiant leap with the help of technology. It's a bit of a 'smart bribe' - the more you use it, the more bonus points you get for free public transportation. I take the metro for two stops, and there is usually a sales pitch or an act of poverty for one stop. There was one boy, about 10, who handed out tarot cards. Many passengers rejected having these cards forced onto them.
I get off at Freedom, or Liberty Square. The metro stop is at the south end of the Rustaveli, a boulevard that seems like a Haussman boulevard in Paris, in that just adjacent are some very mean streets. It is very wide and hosts top institutions. Many of the finer buildings are on one side, and what better way to keep people apart than put a six-lane highway between 2 sides of a street, and not a single crosswalk. There are underground crossings but these are a kilometer apart. One if these by chance brought my into the arms of the English bookstore recommended by Miss LPG. And here I exchange lari (< lira) for a pound of books.
Today's tour went to David Gareji, truly a monastery that went out of the way to carve its own path. They couldn't get to the moon to get away from it all, and this was the next best location. The monastery steps into Azerbaijan a bit, and there were a couple of guards there to make sure we walked back into Georgia.
At the end of the day, I treated myself to a taxi ride, otherwise known as a Georgian language lesson. Navigated with success by being able to say words effortlessly memorized from my cheat sheet minutes prior: pirveli, pirdapir, mokthke kucha, marts hniv (first, straight, fourth street, left). My polyglotic thrills!
It starts with breakfast on the deck here at the guesthouse, which has been 'decked out' with dried flowers and corn, garlic braids, pottery, and other things to provide the full domestic effect. The interesting aspect of this type of house is that the interior courtyard facade is the kind that is considered traditional, and is mostly (not always) viewed from either within or from a lane. I haven't tired from looking at it, it being an L-shape, me sitting at breakfast along one of the sides.
Breakfast here makes me happy. I hear the dog lap up water in the courtyard below, and a light wind rustle through the chestnut tree. A cat purrs in the distance. The husband of the house returns with puri, warm Georgian bread. It is a shotis puri, and in the country a round oven, open from above, bakes these along the inner walls, giving it its round form. Today I am treated with tangerine jam and a wild small-plum jam. Plums, among other foodstuffs, are very typical here, and tomorrow I will probably buy some tkemali, a sour plum sauce, otherwise known as Georgian ketchup. There is also a glass blue bowl with yoghurt with small cherries, little plates of cheese and butter, a big cup of coffee, and a basket of fruit. It's really been an excellent way to start the day.
Accompanying me are usually people who speak Russian and no English. I have met many people of this sort here. The vast lot are smokers from Poland, and occassionally some from Latvia, France and Moscow. I hear Germans and Americans, and a few Danes. Some ask me if Georgia is well-known as a place to visit. I respond saying unfortunately not. Georgia certainly has all things required for its tourism industry to ferment; it simply needs more tourists. As far as I can see, nothing is to capacity, but my hostess says that this year has been atypical.
After my morning ritual I walk out to Chubinasvili kucha (street), named after my hostess' husband's father, and down Marjanisvili kucha. A beautiful, made-up young woman with high heels etc. pauses by the Russian Orthodox church, turns towards it, and makes the sign of the cross. She could be on the front cover of a fashion magazine but if anything she wants to attract something else in her life. Georgia is fundamentally Christian. Most cars have an icon as a constant companion. Monasteries exist ad infinitum here. And tonight at dinner at an upscale restaurant, while a supra (Georgian feast) is being enjoyed, at another table a group of three women, one in black habit, stands and offers thanks for nourishment.
At Marjanishvili Moedani (Square) I catch the metro. There is always a uniformed guard at each metro station. Such guards or officers are in expected places, such as directing traffic or unmuddling an accident, and sometimes they are randomly in the middle of seemingly nowhere by the highway. The metro is similar to the one in Moscow in that one seems to go down 7 leagues, but the similarity stops there. There is no art inside, just advertisements. One in particular is for something called 'Express Pay' - and throughout the city are ATM-like machines where one can do transactional banking and, um, pay bills in particular. For to fill the state coffers and end corruption, the government is making a valiant leap with the help of technology. It's a bit of a 'smart bribe' - the more you use it, the more bonus points you get for free public transportation. I take the metro for two stops, and there is usually a sales pitch or an act of poverty for one stop. There was one boy, about 10, who handed out tarot cards. Many passengers rejected having these cards forced onto them.
I get off at Freedom, or Liberty Square. The metro stop is at the south end of the Rustaveli, a boulevard that seems like a Haussman boulevard in Paris, in that just adjacent are some very mean streets. It is very wide and hosts top institutions. Many of the finer buildings are on one side, and what better way to keep people apart than put a six-lane highway between 2 sides of a street, and not a single crosswalk. There are underground crossings but these are a kilometer apart. One if these by chance brought my into the arms of the English bookstore recommended by Miss LPG. And here I exchange lari (< lira) for a pound of books.
Today's tour went to David Gareji, truly a monastery that went out of the way to carve its own path. They couldn't get to the moon to get away from it all, and this was the next best location. The monastery steps into Azerbaijan a bit, and there were a couple of guards there to make sure we walked back into Georgia.
At the end of the day, I treated myself to a taxi ride, otherwise known as a Georgian language lesson. Navigated with success by being able to say words effortlessly memorized from my cheat sheet minutes prior: pirveli, pirdapir, mokthke kucha, marts hniv (first, straight, fourth street, left). My polyglotic thrills!
Tuesday, 9 September 2014
'Morning mood elevator'
An in-town ramble today, after yesterday's wine tasting tour to Kakheti. The guesthouse I am staying in is very nice, though I suspect that due to it being 2 metro stops away from the thick of things, it is officially off the path to beat. The tour yesterday included a 20-something Chinese-Australian mermaid off the Gold Coast beaches, and, like the 20-something Russian older sister, also had many travel tips. If there was a Miss Lonely Planet Georgia, she would rank high as a contender. The English language bookshop 'Prospero', the French cafe Entree, and an Italian restaurant were warmly recommended as her regular haunts of the past week. We bonded as we both forego explaining precisely to our parents where we travel. The other two, aside from our driver Altor, was a 20-something couple from Poland, both who speak very good English, and who opened up our driver with an impressive mash-up of Russian and German. If it weren't for their interaction with Altor, it would have been a day of refining the art of hand gestures.
Today was a typical travel day for me. It combined Getting Lost - which involves chunks of time in both unforgiving parts of the city, as well as in places of grace - and The Hunt. The Hunt is for the Doll Museum. Many online pages point to it in the Old City, but the Information Centre (at which the man asked me if I had a map, clarifying his role as providing information only) said that it is in fact on a street near where I live. Confusion ensues, as I walk there (without a specified address) and find nothing, and in Damascus form think, do they do this too here? I.e., provide a response, but not the correct answer? I walk home and google up an address, which was last facebook-posted 9 months ago. Recent enough. I return to the street, and find '103-105'. These numbers are on either side of an open gate which leads to a courtyard about the size of a city block. Nothing. My guesthouse hostess said she will call tomorrow - I have read that she herself has made dolls for the museum. But it seems odd that puppets are nowhere to be found. If this was New York, and if these were Muppets, there'd be a movie.
Museums are not really part of the wine world that is coincidentally the happy meeting point between this host culture, and the current and significant 20-something subset of the tourists here. I find many museums cultural artifacts themselves, pocket time-pieces so to speak, and worthy of inspection. I wandered into the State Museum for Folk Music today and, true to times past, two uniformed guards were at the front watching tv, while a young woman - who spoke English and sings in the group Nanina - gave me change out of her purse, and turned the lights on in the 3 rooms that compose the museum.
In my room, as I read online more about Georgia. Georgia is, like Greenland, a name that a country has because of what others call it. This country is otherwise referred to by its own as Sakartvelo, and the important part of this word is 'Kart' which indicates an ancestral lineage. Georgia's new president is a philosopher, fairly unknown, disliked by other former presidents and so may therefore show promise for Georgia's future. The current news is that he plans to 'enter into wedlock.' This news agency also prides itself on providing each morning with an uplifting 'mood elevator.'
Well, happy full moon, with or without an elevator.
Today was a typical travel day for me. It combined Getting Lost - which involves chunks of time in both unforgiving parts of the city, as well as in places of grace - and The Hunt. The Hunt is for the Doll Museum. Many online pages point to it in the Old City, but the Information Centre (at which the man asked me if I had a map, clarifying his role as providing information only) said that it is in fact on a street near where I live. Confusion ensues, as I walk there (without a specified address) and find nothing, and in Damascus form think, do they do this too here? I.e., provide a response, but not the correct answer? I walk home and google up an address, which was last facebook-posted 9 months ago. Recent enough. I return to the street, and find '103-105'. These numbers are on either side of an open gate which leads to a courtyard about the size of a city block. Nothing. My guesthouse hostess said she will call tomorrow - I have read that she herself has made dolls for the museum. But it seems odd that puppets are nowhere to be found. If this was New York, and if these were Muppets, there'd be a movie.
Museums are not really part of the wine world that is coincidentally the happy meeting point between this host culture, and the current and significant 20-something subset of the tourists here. I find many museums cultural artifacts themselves, pocket time-pieces so to speak, and worthy of inspection. I wandered into the State Museum for Folk Music today and, true to times past, two uniformed guards were at the front watching tv, while a young woman - who spoke English and sings in the group Nanina - gave me change out of her purse, and turned the lights on in the 3 rooms that compose the museum.
In my room, as I read online more about Georgia. Georgia is, like Greenland, a name that a country has because of what others call it. This country is otherwise referred to by its own as Sakartvelo, and the important part of this word is 'Kart' which indicates an ancestral lineage. Georgia's new president is a philosopher, fairly unknown, disliked by other former presidents and so may therefore show promise for Georgia's future. The current news is that he plans to 'enter into wedlock.' This news agency also prides itself on providing each morning with an uplifting 'mood elevator.'
Well, happy full moon, with or without an elevator.
Sunday, 7 September 2014
First day in 'Bilisi
Lots of memories of Damascus here - finding many similarities, or otherwise I'm not travelling very far. But it is different, and much easier here.
First days seem to begin with getting lost and going around on foot a lot, which I did until lunch. Managed to walk to the football stadium. There is a shopping labyrinth there that was quite something. A consumer black hole, requiring either bread crumbs, a good memory, or a modest visiting strategy. All surfaces except for the floor and ceiling were dissolved by the cover of everyday goods. And it had a kind of unintelligent design to it all, like tunnels carved by ants.
A young Russian woman had been drawing at the guesthouse today, as her husband is ill. We went out to lunch, and I accept the generous waterfall of travel and food tips that come. It started with her seeing me with a drink which did not meet her approval. She thought that she would withhold comment. But she thought the better if it, and felt strongly that I should learn a few things. So I have now been given a run-down of a menu, and tonight she gifted me with matsoni (a kind of plain yogurt) and borjomi (a kind of mineral water). She also gifted me with the notion of 'generous, but dangerous,' referring to different incidents of local generosity which have happened to her.
(There must be a game on at the stadium - someone just cried out here in the neighbourhood, and then it sounded like there was a big wind above the city. I have been told I should stay put in this guesthouse to get a sense of the everyday here. It's now become a big and recurrent wind...).
Tomorrow I am off on a day tour, specifically to the wine region of Kakheti. From the internet, I could only get information about private tours, and I can tell you that these are very expensive. From guidebooks, I get useful information on the public long-distance transport network, on which can get one can travel far for very little. However, now that I am here, I have happily found the middle-ground: the locally organized, inexpensive group day tour. I don't remember this option existing in Damascus, but I am sure they would have come had the war not broken out.
First days seem to begin with getting lost and going around on foot a lot, which I did until lunch. Managed to walk to the football stadium. There is a shopping labyrinth there that was quite something. A consumer black hole, requiring either bread crumbs, a good memory, or a modest visiting strategy. All surfaces except for the floor and ceiling were dissolved by the cover of everyday goods. And it had a kind of unintelligent design to it all, like tunnels carved by ants.
A young Russian woman had been drawing at the guesthouse today, as her husband is ill. We went out to lunch, and I accept the generous waterfall of travel and food tips that come. It started with her seeing me with a drink which did not meet her approval. She thought that she would withhold comment. But she thought the better if it, and felt strongly that I should learn a few things. So I have now been given a run-down of a menu, and tonight she gifted me with matsoni (a kind of plain yogurt) and borjomi (a kind of mineral water). She also gifted me with the notion of 'generous, but dangerous,' referring to different incidents of local generosity which have happened to her.
(There must be a game on at the stadium - someone just cried out here in the neighbourhood, and then it sounded like there was a big wind above the city. I have been told I should stay put in this guesthouse to get a sense of the everyday here. It's now become a big and recurrent wind...).
Tomorrow I am off on a day tour, specifically to the wine region of Kakheti. From the internet, I could only get information about private tours, and I can tell you that these are very expensive. From guidebooks, I get useful information on the public long-distance transport network, on which can get one can travel far for very little. However, now that I am here, I have happily found the middle-ground: the locally organized, inexpensive group day tour. I don't remember this option existing in Damascus, but I am sure they would have come had the war not broken out.
Saturday, 6 September 2014
Gamarjoba
Arrived very well at the Tbilisi airport last night, all things smooth and effortless, which is most desirable during those vulnerable, crepuscular hours. I am sitting in my room, which is full of blue - blue sheets, blue prints on the wall - dried flower bouquets, and old Georgian maps in Georgian. Outside, the police make their Sunday morning loudspeaker rounds. I have just had breakfast with a young German couple who will make Tbilisi their home this year, and later today will move into their new apartment. We can't quite tell yet how to pronounce the name of this city, which I am about to explore while the air has a freshness to it. But no matter, it will smell just as sweet, or sweaty.
Thursday, 4 September 2014
Footloose and Fancy
A sense of time and spontaneity is a good thing. We were supposed to go to Jylland today, but this idea (which was kept loose anyways) dissolved over the course of yesterday evening. We decided instead to rent bikes and head north. Took a train to Klampenborg then biked up to Ålsgarde via Helsingør. By 6pm it was a fine idea to take a train to Gilleleje for a dinner of rødspætter and fiskefrikadeller in the harbour. Return train via Hillerød.
Many Chinese tourists at Kronborg in Helsingør. I crashed on the grassy ramparts for a bit, and it seemed there was an unending parade of Chinese tourists. I noticed also at the airport in Copenhagen for the first time signs in both Chinese and Japanese. And on both flights, I recall being addressed (i.e. by my first name, or by Ms. X), and there was a female Chinese stewardess (is there a better word?). One of them spoke in English on the PA system, but the effect on me was to listen to the French announcements.
A full day, all in all, and most days since Monday have been full, filled to the brim with the best the late summer offers here. Nice to see Danes being Danish in Denmark. My hostess has just told me she baked a new bread for tomorrow, with oil, egg, pecans, almonds, and hazelnuts. What's not to like?
Many Chinese tourists at Kronborg in Helsingør. I crashed on the grassy ramparts for a bit, and it seemed there was an unending parade of Chinese tourists. I noticed also at the airport in Copenhagen for the first time signs in both Chinese and Japanese. And on both flights, I recall being addressed (i.e. by my first name, or by Ms. X), and there was a female Chinese stewardess (is there a better word?). One of them spoke in English on the PA system, but the effect on me was to listen to the French announcements.
A full day, all in all, and most days since Monday have been full, filled to the brim with the best the late summer offers here. Nice to see Danes being Danish in Denmark. My hostess has just told me she baked a new bread for tomorrow, with oil, egg, pecans, almonds, and hazelnuts. What's not to like?
Wednesday, 3 September 2014
The details of life
Quite ensconced in Frederiksberg, here in Copenhagen. I just let my hostess know that yesterday, I met with a friend whose colleague lives here in the same building. And that another friend I met up with was in a class here with her daughter. Whereas in other places there are perhaps five or six degrees of separation, here I think here must be about two. Should I be adopted here, I would conceivably be related to a wide swath of the population here. And divorce seems to build upon this phenomenon. The rate is comparatively high here, but this really only results in widening the circle of those to whom one is related. A friend was recently invited to a wedding. It was to his father's third wife's daughter of her first husband. Everyone's either a relative or about to be.
I have now been here a week. As many know, this is not my first time here, though I certainly notice many changes. Some small details, some large. Nørrebro Station has seemingly been under continual construction, and this observation stands. There is a different voice on the Øresunds train up to Nordsjælland, and I miss the way the former voice said the station names 'Kokkedal' and 'Nivå'. Outside of errands, such as seeing a doctor for preventative asthma medication, exchanging bills my mother had from her visit here in the 70s, and buying a very nice Bourgogne truffel cheese, I have simply been visiting friends, barely skimming the edges of the city. Yesterday involved petting a cat in the afternoon, and picking hyldebær fruit around a lake to make a homemade drink. While one friend is studying 'sjælens sorg', the sorrows of the soul (he is a priest), this week is simply about rekindling connections, and filling the soul with light and gladness.
I have now been here a week. As many know, this is not my first time here, though I certainly notice many changes. Some small details, some large. Nørrebro Station has seemingly been under continual construction, and this observation stands. There is a different voice on the Øresunds train up to Nordsjælland, and I miss the way the former voice said the station names 'Kokkedal' and 'Nivå'. Outside of errands, such as seeing a doctor for preventative asthma medication, exchanging bills my mother had from her visit here in the 70s, and buying a very nice Bourgogne truffel cheese, I have simply been visiting friends, barely skimming the edges of the city. Yesterday involved petting a cat in the afternoon, and picking hyldebær fruit around a lake to make a homemade drink. While one friend is studying 'sjælens sorg', the sorrows of the soul (he is a priest), this week is simply about rekindling connections, and filling the soul with light and gladness.
Friday, 29 August 2014
Redemption
At Toronto Pearson, bottle of ice wine in hand from the duty free. How could I resist, with all the Chinese marketing?
The is the hub of Air Canada, our national airline that has progressively declined over the years. They started a new airline calle 'Rouge' and 'being rouged' has become part of our modern lexicon.
But I remember flying with them when I departed for Copenhagen for a year. I brought some long drawing tubes and it was going to cost a fortune. I told the special baggage guy, an older man with probably a history with AC, that I wad going to study abroad for a year. And we both got excited together about the prospect, of furthering a young girl's life, and international relations. He put a tag on my tubes and said 'we'll call them skis.'
And now, some years later,I am going yet again on AC to CPH. A Lufthansa flight but operated by AC, and I complain to a friend by text, and he commiserates with the downgrade. I couldn't check in online, nor could I use their machines. Forced to encounter a real human being, I get a smile.
And I starve on this flight. I probably didn't hear when lunch could be purchased. So with about 45 minutes before landing, I ask for a hot meal tray. Nothing was for sale, so they go up to first class and get me probably the best meal I've ever had on AC. On the house, so to speak. And upon deplaning, they even asked how it was, they were concerned that a meal late in the flight might not have been acceptable.
O Air Canada, step by step, your humanity is returning.
The is the hub of Air Canada, our national airline that has progressively declined over the years. They started a new airline calle 'Rouge' and 'being rouged' has become part of our modern lexicon.
But I remember flying with them when I departed for Copenhagen for a year. I brought some long drawing tubes and it was going to cost a fortune. I told the special baggage guy, an older man with probably a history with AC, that I wad going to study abroad for a year. And we both got excited together about the prospect, of furthering a young girl's life, and international relations. He put a tag on my tubes and said 'we'll call them skis.'
And now, some years later,I am going yet again on AC to CPH. A Lufthansa flight but operated by AC, and I complain to a friend by text, and he commiserates with the downgrade. I couldn't check in online, nor could I use their machines. Forced to encounter a real human being, I get a smile.
And I starve on this flight. I probably didn't hear when lunch could be purchased. So with about 45 minutes before landing, I ask for a hot meal tray. Nothing was for sale, so they go up to first class and get me probably the best meal I've ever had on AC. On the house, so to speak. And upon deplaning, they even asked how it was, they were concerned that a meal late in the flight might not have been acceptable.
O Air Canada, step by step, your humanity is returning.
Thursday, 10 April 2014
Everywhere Here is Somewhere Else
Received word that Consulate X in New York issued my visa and sent my passport the day after my flight would have left. Harrumph!
The morning began with touring a farm. The very farm that sustains the people that were doing spring cleaning at the restaurant last weekend. It's a big farm with all the essentials - Joshua at the top, goat kids about to come forth, and happy human kids rambling about. I discover their wood-fired outdoor wooden hot tub and ask lots of questions. We say good-bye, and they pack me two yerba maté bars for the road.
I continue onwards, and the car is propelled not (only) by fuel but by car tunes of course. My thumb dances on top of the steering wheel, in tact with the beat. I stop for lunch in 'Amity Harbor, The Strawberry Capital of the San Juan Islands.' I have a nice veggie focaccia at 'Pacific Grill' and imagine the ocean breeze still some 600 km away.
Drove through a thicket of rosy strip malls before I got into this town where I stay the night. The setting is spectacular, but the town itself exhibits both too little town planning and not enough randomness. Went for a walk this balmy evening on the Kettle Valley Trail, which showcases the extraordinary landscape. Lots of after-work joggers and cyclists trot past, and 'sandy beige' is a beautiful colour in its natural state, enhanced by sunset light.
As I approach the part with the cemetery on one side, I see a man with a green plastic bag looking up. Of course. I ask him about a bird on the fence. 'Gambel's Quail' he says. They're the only ones with a dark spot on their belly, as he pats his own tum-tum. We chat a little. Certainly his demeanour could posit him as curious bird-watcher by day, manager of Bates Motel by night. I continue my way, to have a warning from him: 'Don't go too far that way after dark. Coyotes, you know.'
The morning began with touring a farm. The very farm that sustains the people that were doing spring cleaning at the restaurant last weekend. It's a big farm with all the essentials - Joshua at the top, goat kids about to come forth, and happy human kids rambling about. I discover their wood-fired outdoor wooden hot tub and ask lots of questions. We say good-bye, and they pack me two yerba maté bars for the road.
I continue onwards, and the car is propelled not (only) by fuel but by car tunes of course. My thumb dances on top of the steering wheel, in tact with the beat. I stop for lunch in 'Amity Harbor, The Strawberry Capital of the San Juan Islands.' I have a nice veggie focaccia at 'Pacific Grill' and imagine the ocean breeze still some 600 km away.
Drove through a thicket of rosy strip malls before I got into this town where I stay the night. The setting is spectacular, but the town itself exhibits both too little town planning and not enough randomness. Went for a walk this balmy evening on the Kettle Valley Trail, which showcases the extraordinary landscape. Lots of after-work joggers and cyclists trot past, and 'sandy beige' is a beautiful colour in its natural state, enhanced by sunset light.
As I approach the part with the cemetery on one side, I see a man with a green plastic bag looking up. Of course. I ask him about a bird on the fence. 'Gambel's Quail' he says. They're the only ones with a dark spot on their belly, as he pats his own tum-tum. We chat a little. Certainly his demeanour could posit him as curious bird-watcher by day, manager of Bates Motel by night. I continue my way, to have a warning from him: 'Don't go too far that way after dark. Coyotes, you know.'
Saturday, 5 April 2014
The non-trip
Not on my trip, yet neither at home. I'm in a default place, a place I've been to before. Where I don't need to plan much for, and is always there in my heart. I learn more about it each time I come. A place where I relish in habits and rituals.
Today for instance I go to my regular dinner haunt. Instead, I'm told they are closed for spring cleaning until Monday. Instead of dinner, I am offered the story of their exisrance. Their community, their sheep, their restaurants and mate tea products. Instead, they offer me a roibus tea and mate bar, and a seat from which to hear their story unfold.
As I walk along the main drag, I pass by a man practicing his didgeridoo skills with a black pvc pipe, in a particularly resounding entrance to an otherwise regular insurance office. The shops around here are more upmarket than I remember. But here they put their true self up front, in front of the glass storefronts.
I have my dinner at a place recommended by where I otherwise would have gone. Here, if you were not already on a cleanse, they will help you on that path. There is a fair amount of choosing involved in my order, and the server makes one feel that one has made the perfect choice each step of the way. Cashew ginger dressing? Why that's what everyone gets here. Sure you've never been here before?
Today for instance I go to my regular dinner haunt. Instead, I'm told they are closed for spring cleaning until Monday. Instead of dinner, I am offered the story of their exisrance. Their community, their sheep, their restaurants and mate tea products. Instead, they offer me a roibus tea and mate bar, and a seat from which to hear their story unfold.
As I walk along the main drag, I pass by a man practicing his didgeridoo skills with a black pvc pipe, in a particularly resounding entrance to an otherwise regular insurance office. The shops around here are more upmarket than I remember. But here they put their true self up front, in front of the glass storefronts.
I have my dinner at a place recommended by where I otherwise would have gone. Here, if you were not already on a cleanse, they will help you on that path. There is a fair amount of choosing involved in my order, and the server makes one feel that one has made the perfect choice each step of the way. Cashew ginger dressing? Why that's what everyone gets here. Sure you've never been here before?
Thursday, 3 April 2014
Grounded
Well! This is going to be a rather short travel blog this time around.
Two days ago, the plan for tonight would have been a bit of packing and fridge cleaning. However, I have just finished putting together my travel cancellation insurance claim, and am about to hunt for a veggie burger and beer somewhere. I might even unpack a little.
The main story is that, despite the new passport, I still need 4 visas, 3 of which need new Letters of Invitation (referencing my new passport number) which, I have been told now, take 3-4 weeks to obtain. This does not even include the 'great game' of applying for each visa as a non-national enroute. My travel agent said that I am the 2nd who cancelled on this basis in her 30 years of experience.
Needless to say, there is not much difference between finding that this mountain has risen too high, and discovering that I've fallen off a cliff.
To top if off, the Lufthansa flight I would have been on tomorrow has been cancelled due to the pilot union's April 2-4 strike.
So one way or another, I was not meant to fly tomorrow, or go on this trip. Instead, I'll be getting a neck massage to sort out some strain which has developed of late. And taking some time off to recover from all this travel admin, which is a bit twisted...
Two days ago, the plan for tonight would have been a bit of packing and fridge cleaning. However, I have just finished putting together my travel cancellation insurance claim, and am about to hunt for a veggie burger and beer somewhere. I might even unpack a little.
The main story is that, despite the new passport, I still need 4 visas, 3 of which need new Letters of Invitation (referencing my new passport number) which, I have been told now, take 3-4 weeks to obtain. This does not even include the 'great game' of applying for each visa as a non-national enroute. My travel agent said that I am the 2nd who cancelled on this basis in her 30 years of experience.
Needless to say, there is not much difference between finding that this mountain has risen too high, and discovering that I've fallen off a cliff.
To top if off, the Lufthansa flight I would have been on tomorrow has been cancelled due to the pilot union's April 2-4 strike.
So one way or another, I was not meant to fly tomorrow, or go on this trip. Instead, I'll be getting a neck massage to sort out some strain which has developed of late. And taking some time off to recover from all this travel admin, which is a bit twisted...
Tuesday, 1 April 2014
No joke!
A beautiful warm sunny day, and a warm evening too. First day that people were sunning themselves in the park.
Just back from a talk by Arundhati Roy. She repeated a talk I saw online from last year, but there was a part she mentioned about the Armenian Genocide in Turkey (1915) that was worth remembering. I recall my first exposure to that in a film screened at an Armenian Orthodox Church in Damascus. The anniversary of it will be next year. Roy reminds us what price progress. I see this in the water cannons being used on demonstrators in Ankara. As we are invited to "ask Roy" at #askroy, I am reminded that twitter is banned in Turkey just now.
Travel admin moves ever onward. The journey has truly begun, with me going nowhere but with this mini-K2 moving upwards, and the sign always saying just 10 km more. This new passport (that I never should have needed to get in the first place) is now in hand, the other declared "lost" (because I could not prove the Consulate had it), but it was certainly far from certain. Two visits yesterday by myself, and two visits today by my dad, full conversations with my guarantor and 2 references ("250 lbs, green eyes, and red hair") yielded urgent spring fruit from the Passport office tree of life.
Mentioned to someone that with holidays like this, work is a blissful distraction. I can't wait to sit upright and do nothing for 15 hours.
Just back from a talk by Arundhati Roy. She repeated a talk I saw online from last year, but there was a part she mentioned about the Armenian Genocide in Turkey (1915) that was worth remembering. I recall my first exposure to that in a film screened at an Armenian Orthodox Church in Damascus. The anniversary of it will be next year. Roy reminds us what price progress. I see this in the water cannons being used on demonstrators in Ankara. As we are invited to "ask Roy" at #askroy, I am reminded that twitter is banned in Turkey just now.
Travel admin moves ever onward. The journey has truly begun, with me going nowhere but with this mini-K2 moving upwards, and the sign always saying just 10 km more. This new passport (that I never should have needed to get in the first place) is now in hand, the other declared "lost" (because I could not prove the Consulate had it), but it was certainly far from certain. Two visits yesterday by myself, and two visits today by my dad, full conversations with my guarantor and 2 references ("250 lbs, green eyes, and red hair") yielded urgent spring fruit from the Passport office tree of life.
Mentioned to someone that with holidays like this, work is a blissful distraction. I can't wait to sit upright and do nothing for 15 hours.
Saturday, 29 March 2014
A Turkish Spring
It is currently mid-morning in Istanbul. My friend who has just arrived reports that the weather is "pleasant." Though anything beats the air of an airplane. If I were to write the horoscope of this week for myself, I would include "turbulence." For today in Istanbul is March 30, the date of local elections. When locals vote for their mayors, and indirectly, cast their vote on current PM Recep Tayyip Erdoğan.
As I rifle through my stack of papers, inability to obtain a travel visa, through no fault of my own, is covered by my cancellation insurance. Civil commotion is, however, a clear exclusion. A friend has a "theory" about my trips, as I have so far been spared in Syria, Mali, and Tunisia -- but Turkey? Spring is a time of change. However, in the context of Turkey right now, these elections "will possibly be one of the most defining moments of Turkish democracy." We await results. But who knows, there might not be any journalists left there to report anything.
Otherwise, I continue on this my personal mini-K2 of travel administration. Today's cherry on top was a posted letter to the Consulate requesting the return of my visa application documents. This is the sort of correspondence no-one should need to write, but would be a interesting exercise in "Office Procedures 101."
Big brunch for 10 here at home tomorrow, good times. Feta and olives, check!
As I rifle through my stack of papers, inability to obtain a travel visa, through no fault of my own, is covered by my cancellation insurance. Civil commotion is, however, a clear exclusion. A friend has a "theory" about my trips, as I have so far been spared in Syria, Mali, and Tunisia -- but Turkey? Spring is a time of change. However, in the context of Turkey right now, these elections "will possibly be one of the most defining moments of Turkish democracy." We await results. But who knows, there might not be any journalists left there to report anything.
Otherwise, I continue on this my personal mini-K2 of travel administration. Today's cherry on top was a posted letter to the Consulate requesting the return of my visa application documents. This is the sort of correspondence no-one should need to write, but would be a interesting exercise in "Office Procedures 101."
Big brunch for 10 here at home tomorrow, good times. Feta and olives, check!
Monday, 24 March 2014
An unanticipated inconvenience
Leaving next Friday, and where's that passport?
Why, it's been at the Consulate of X in New York for the past 3 weeks. Country X has no diplomatic representation in Canada, despite that there is an Honorary Consul of Canada in country X.
My travel agent suggested that I pester them with calls and e-mails, and that this is why I should have used a visa agency. I imagine that Consulate X has put all communication devices in a locked, soundproof cabinet.
So I did speak to an agent, who offered to ask the Consulate if she could be authorized to speak on my behalf. She however cannot get through to the Consulate either. Big surprise. Google reviews indicate that paperwork processing can take months, and people have called them "10 times a day" without response. An article suggests that people wait for hours at the Consulate by the trash bins outside. There is no indication that this diplomatic mission expedites service to anyone in the way we tend to expect. It certainly has unlimited potential for improvement.
Other than calls and e-mails to the Consulate requesting that they process my application immediately, I have requested the Embassy of X in Washington and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of X to contact the Consulate to process my application. I have sent an e-mail to Passport Canada asking how I can recover my passport.
Unless I get my passport out of New York this week, I will plan on getting a replacement passport next week, using a money-talks service called "urgent." I'll obtain one visa in Istanbul and another in Tbilisi. A thought is also to fly to Tashkent to obtain a visa at the airport, and then fly to Khiva.
I will keep you updated on this unanticipated inconvenience.
Why, it's been at the Consulate of X in New York for the past 3 weeks. Country X has no diplomatic representation in Canada, despite that there is an Honorary Consul of Canada in country X.
My travel agent suggested that I pester them with calls and e-mails, and that this is why I should have used a visa agency. I imagine that Consulate X has put all communication devices in a locked, soundproof cabinet.
So I did speak to an agent, who offered to ask the Consulate if she could be authorized to speak on my behalf. She however cannot get through to the Consulate either. Big surprise. Google reviews indicate that paperwork processing can take months, and people have called them "10 times a day" without response. An article suggests that people wait for hours at the Consulate by the trash bins outside. There is no indication that this diplomatic mission expedites service to anyone in the way we tend to expect. It certainly has unlimited potential for improvement.
Other than calls and e-mails to the Consulate requesting that they process my application immediately, I have requested the Embassy of X in Washington and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of X to contact the Consulate to process my application. I have sent an e-mail to Passport Canada asking how I can recover my passport.
Unless I get my passport out of New York this week, I will plan on getting a replacement passport next week, using a money-talks service called "urgent." I'll obtain one visa in Istanbul and another in Tbilisi. A thought is also to fly to Tashkent to obtain a visa at the airport, and then fly to Khiva.
I will keep you updated on this unanticipated inconvenience.
Monday, 17 February 2014
Like Anything
New trip. Like anything, a trip begins far in advance and involves preparation. I'm not going anywhere yet, but I will soon be on a complex but, at the same time, easy trip. Complex due to the route, and easy because it's a packaged bus tour.
And like anything, it takes a village. I am currently in the midst of obtaining visas, a hopefully fruitful process involving well-timed prayers. It has re-connected me to a high school friend in Ottawa and a cousin in New York, and very soon I will be indebted to a friend getting me US stamps while my passport is flying around without me. And I've been nudged ever so slightly by a friend in Muscat, Oman to post updates and show a map ... so here is the Travel Blog, up and running.
Trip time: 7 weeks over April - May 2014
Trip extent: Istanbul to Tashkent, with a few days in Denmark afterwards. See map.
Welcome onboard!
And like anything, it takes a village. I am currently in the midst of obtaining visas, a hopefully fruitful process involving well-timed prayers. It has re-connected me to a high school friend in Ottawa and a cousin in New York, and very soon I will be indebted to a friend getting me US stamps while my passport is flying around without me. And I've been nudged ever so slightly by a friend in Muscat, Oman to post updates and show a map ... so here is the Travel Blog, up and running.
Trip time: 7 weeks over April - May 2014
Trip extent: Istanbul to Tashkent, with a few days in Denmark afterwards. See map.
Welcome onboard!
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