I am leading a fairly quiet life mostly entirely alone. I welcome this opportunity daily. At the same time, I am in such a strange place that I am with all that surrounds me, the buildings, the places of commerce, the gardens, and the brook that gurgles by the building going in the direction of Lake Leman… My attention goes from the computer screen to the window and what lies beyond, the Geneva airport with its airplanes coming and going in the distance, as well as the oh blessed mountains.
Total silence. I am writing at the desk yesterday when there is unusual noise coming from the road. It is not quite the sound of horns, but it is too… just noisy, annoying like any racket that disturbs the peace, going on for a few minutes. I finally stand up, go to the window to see at the roundabout (I think that is what we call the circle where cars go around in different directions) a huge truck, actually a truck connected to several trailers. I think “How unusual to see such huge truck here in Europe; we see them in the US. It must be making noise to indicate that it wants to turn left without going around the circle.” Curiosity thus satisfied, I went back to work.
During lunch, which I eat in front to the glass door to the veranda overlooking the mountains, I notice that the truck is now parked behind the Champion supermarket. “It must be making deliveries… Such a huge truck to bring the food…” I finish eating and go back to work.
Late in the afternoon I am ready to go swimming. I need it because I have been grumpy today and suffering from self-pity. I gather towel, goggles, cap, ear plugs, soap, shampoo, the entrance card all in my backpack and put the suit on, dressing myself warmly because it is about 33 degrees. I go down the elevator, to the trash bin, and then outside.
Here is what I see: camels, tiny ponies, and a strange bull with long, long pointy horns. Besides the menagerie are the many parts of the truck, more trailers and a tent going up. The Circus of Rome is in town and right behind my building. A big smile grows on my face, my heart beats a tiny bit faster, and I feel the rush of joy and expectation, surprised.
I have considered 1) Going to the performance today, Wednesday, at 6 p.m. as the loudspeaker on one of the circus’ vehicles announces all over Ferney-Voltaire. 2) Asking at the office if they need employees and volunteering, thus fulfilling a lifelong dream of running away with the circus and perhaps a strong vocation as a clown.
quarta-feira, 26 de março de 2008
sexta-feira, 21 de março de 2008
First day in Ferney-Voltaire, France
The first day in Ferney-Voltaire
Jorgen picked me up from the Geneva airport with his adult son visiting from Sweden. The two drove the five minute ride to Ferney-Voltaire, which from now on I will abbreviate as F-V. Très bien. I had a hand drawn map and it was not difficult, in the small town, to find the apartment building. We carried the stuff through the lobby and unthinkingly got into an elevator.
We got to the last, the seventh floor. “I thought Sachiko lived on the eight floor!” I said. We looked puzzled at each other. I took out the keys that the Portuguese concièrge, Mr. Carlos Martim, had given me in an envelope with “Ms. Tania Ramalho” in Sachiko’s handwriting. I tried to fit these keys in the seventh floor apartment while talking with the men. Jorgen’s son tried to read the names of residents on the other doors. Suddenly, the apartment door opened and I immediately saw my mistake—out of excitement and mindlessness. I did have the wrong floor. A tall French man came out and told us that there were two elevators, one for odd and another for even floors. I apologized, and we decided to walk up the stairs carrying the heavy suitcases.
There it was, “my” apartment for one month! The key to the security iron front door fit, opening all six of the protective locks at the same time with one simple turn. The first thing we noticed, to Jorgen's big, big laughs, were post-it notes all over the place and a long note “for Tania” on the back of the front door. While we had gone over many details about how the place worked, Sachiko decided to make sure that I had everything in writing. It was thoughtful of her. After all, as the first event of not finding the right door shows, I can be extremely absent minded. (I take a moment to beg the pardon from all who I have injured with annoying distractions and forgetfulness. I am working on this terrible habit because I do not want to go to hell for it.)
Ok. Just one of the notes on a cupboard over the stove, in neon green paper:
You may use salt & pepper here, but I prefer that you do not use the olive oil here (as it’s a very special one I bought in Italy & cannot buy it in Geneva or France). Thanks.
I laughed. Truthfully, I understand Sachiko very well. I have a thing for good olive oil. I hoard it too. Hands off her Italian oil…
After the men left I got one of Sachiko’s specially strong grocery bags everybody uses to avoid the environmental curse of plastic bags and went to the Champion, a store in front of the building but across from its parking lot and on the next street, so it is not like I live right in front of a supermarket. Still, it is convenient. As a diehard shopper of food (once I am, hopefully, a recovering… overeater…) I was in heaven. It must have taken me more than an hour and a half to go through the aisles of French food, examining everything, checking prices and converting Euro into dollars, trying not to feel overwhelmed. I bought salmon and turkey (dinde), bio (meaning organic) broccoli and cauliflower, onions and garlic, soy milk, oats and olive oil!
I had the first meal I cooked myself for a long time and was grateful for it. (In London, besides breakfast, lunch of peanut butter on rice cakes and apples, I was eating out once a day, with prices being twice as much…)
I started to establish a routine of exercise, meditation, journaling, reading and writing the next day. I also break for cooking; a walk, and now that I found the local public pool also to go swimming. My first walk in town led me to find a HEALTH FOOD STORE just beside the Champion! I got a French SIM card for my cell phone. I went to the Tourist Office for maps and schedules of the buses to Geneva and Gex, the next French town. I found the pool, the apartment complex where the poor—Africans and older French people—live, and a Moslem grocery store with reasonable prices and lots of spices.
I promise not to bother my readers anymore with meals and food details. I just meant to give a picture here of what is available in F-V.
Did I mention the view of the Alps?
Jorgen picked me up from the Geneva airport with his adult son visiting from Sweden. The two drove the five minute ride to Ferney-Voltaire, which from now on I will abbreviate as F-V. Très bien. I had a hand drawn map and it was not difficult, in the small town, to find the apartment building. We carried the stuff through the lobby and unthinkingly got into an elevator.
We got to the last, the seventh floor. “I thought Sachiko lived on the eight floor!” I said. We looked puzzled at each other. I took out the keys that the Portuguese concièrge, Mr. Carlos Martim, had given me in an envelope with “Ms. Tania Ramalho” in Sachiko’s handwriting. I tried to fit these keys in the seventh floor apartment while talking with the men. Jorgen’s son tried to read the names of residents on the other doors. Suddenly, the apartment door opened and I immediately saw my mistake—out of excitement and mindlessness. I did have the wrong floor. A tall French man came out and told us that there were two elevators, one for odd and another for even floors. I apologized, and we decided to walk up the stairs carrying the heavy suitcases.
There it was, “my” apartment for one month! The key to the security iron front door fit, opening all six of the protective locks at the same time with one simple turn. The first thing we noticed, to Jorgen's big, big laughs, were post-it notes all over the place and a long note “for Tania” on the back of the front door. While we had gone over many details about how the place worked, Sachiko decided to make sure that I had everything in writing. It was thoughtful of her. After all, as the first event of not finding the right door shows, I can be extremely absent minded. (I take a moment to beg the pardon from all who I have injured with annoying distractions and forgetfulness. I am working on this terrible habit because I do not want to go to hell for it.)
Ok. Just one of the notes on a cupboard over the stove, in neon green paper:
You may use salt & pepper here, but I prefer that you do not use the olive oil here (as it’s a very special one I bought in Italy & cannot buy it in Geneva or France). Thanks.
I laughed. Truthfully, I understand Sachiko very well. I have a thing for good olive oil. I hoard it too. Hands off her Italian oil…
After the men left I got one of Sachiko’s specially strong grocery bags everybody uses to avoid the environmental curse of plastic bags and went to the Champion, a store in front of the building but across from its parking lot and on the next street, so it is not like I live right in front of a supermarket. Still, it is convenient. As a diehard shopper of food (once I am, hopefully, a recovering… overeater…) I was in heaven. It must have taken me more than an hour and a half to go through the aisles of French food, examining everything, checking prices and converting Euro into dollars, trying not to feel overwhelmed. I bought salmon and turkey (dinde), bio (meaning organic) broccoli and cauliflower, onions and garlic, soy milk, oats and olive oil!
I had the first meal I cooked myself for a long time and was grateful for it. (In London, besides breakfast, lunch of peanut butter on rice cakes and apples, I was eating out once a day, with prices being twice as much…)
I started to establish a routine of exercise, meditation, journaling, reading and writing the next day. I also break for cooking; a walk, and now that I found the local public pool also to go swimming. My first walk in town led me to find a HEALTH FOOD STORE just beside the Champion! I got a French SIM card for my cell phone. I went to the Tourist Office for maps and schedules of the buses to Geneva and Gex, the next French town. I found the pool, the apartment complex where the poor—Africans and older French people—live, and a Moslem grocery store with reasonable prices and lots of spices.
I promise not to bother my readers anymore with meals and food details. I just meant to give a picture here of what is available in F-V.
Did I mention the view of the Alps?
terça-feira, 18 de março de 2008
London March Against the Wars
Saturday (samedi) March 15 there was a call in London to people who are indignant about the wars against“Orientalism” as Said would call it, naming one of the West’s principal constructions of the “Other”, Islam. The wars are supposed to be against what the powerful call “terrorist” fundamentalist movements and against particular countries that have greater geopolitical interest for the expansion of economic and political influence. There are “ally” exceptions, of course, like Egypt, but even that relationship is marked by condescending disrespect.
Educated people know this and are horrified by the greedy aggressive monsters who go into wars and sacrifice civilian and young soldiers’ lives to secure great profits for industries related to the military and war destruction. Don’t ever for a second think that Iraq and Afghanistan wars are useless; just ask the contractors and the investors. It is bounty to them. It is misery for those directly involved, mostly the young—for most cannon fodder soldiers are barely adults—and children, women, and their men who die, suffer from dislocation, or have their livelihoods destroyed.
You cannot imagine the immense flow of disgust that overtakes me when I write these words. We, part of the masses who are suffering only indirectly through continuously increase in prices and the decay of our standards of living, corresponding decrease in our peace of mind, and the auctioning of our future to the military related debt—we must feel, we must think, we must act.
The people met at Trafalgar Square. Rain threatened but Saint Claire kept it away until the next day when it was wet, cold and dreary. The rally lasted about one hour. Then we marched for two hours to Westminster, across the Thames, back on the other bridge that leads to Parliament Square near Downing Street. There were between a quarter to half a million people there of all ages and backgrounds.
I marched with my long lost childhood friend Francesca (see the blog Finding Francesca for the story). She is active in the Palestinian Liberation Movement. As a photographer, she has visited Israel and the Occupied Territories. She took photos and has exhibited them. We marched carrying “Free Gaza” posters behind the group’s banner. A group of drummers was just behind us in the beginning of the march. They played Brazilian rhythms. But it stayed behind as we went along and we got serious about chanting.
“No blood for oil!” “One, two, three, four, we do not want your bloody war.” “Bring the troops home.” And an interesting call: (Caller, very slowly and after each response from the crow increasing speed) “Geor-ge Bush!” (Crowd responds in the same pace.) “Terrorist!” In five minutes we are going very fast calling Bush and the Prime Minister of Britain terrorists, alternatively.
The two things I saw for the first time in this march were pictures that we do not see in the US, of people—particularly children--hurt and defaced by US bombings, and acknowledgement of the use of depleted uranium ammunition. Aptly hey were calling the Iraq and Afaghanistan wars NUCLEAR WARS. They are
sábado, 15 de março de 2008
The Apartment in Leloc (with pics to come later)
My friend in Switzerland had to rent a place near her new job, a good hour and a half commute from her exquisitely appointed house in Geneva. She found an apartment in an traditional old Swiss farm house, the kind I had expected Sachiko to have. This is a calendar picture-perfect romantic place, with a cabin feeling. All the walls and ceilings are covered in old wood and the kitchen floor is made of big slabs of old stone. With large, deep windows overlooking the top of the Jura mountains, pinewoods, fields, and the town of Leloc beneath, the place is enchanted, especially the way it is now, covered in fresh snow.
The young couple Rachel and Sebastian Schmid bought this place and live on one side of the farm house on two floors. The apartment is on the back. They shopped at IKEA to decorate it with taste and simplicity.
The bedroom has an almost double bed covered with a duvet, two night tables with lamps, and an Oriental print of flowers on the wall above the bed; it has also a wicker long chaise by the window.
The living room has a sleeper sofa, a table, lamp, two chairs and a steel bookshelf. Both the living and bed rooms are carpeted in grey-moss tone. There is a quaint wood stove covered with royal blue tiles to warm the room. Otherwise the apartment is (almost!) heated with water filled heaters that don’t quite do the job here at the top of cold mountain.
The kitchen has a large wood cabinet fully furnished with dishes, pots and pans and what not, including an expresso machine, much common in Swiss households. (I do not know how I have lived without one until now! I will look for one in thrift stores when I return for sure…) There is an old fashioned wood stove for additional heating and a electric stove for cooking, and a table with four chairs. The bathroom is tiled in beige-brown small tiles, and has a shower, toilet and sink.
The town of Leloc is near the French border. All major watch and clock makers are here, including Cartier. There are other precision instruments industries here also. The Horlogerie Musee, museum of time keeping machines, is the main attraction. Le Corbusier* was born here. The town is located in a narrow valley surrounded by the Jura mountains. It is much colder and snowier here than in Geneva.
The Leloc farm house apartment has a few decorative pieces about. The motif of most is the stylized human heart, the symbol of love, in wood, wicker, and red cloth embroidered with tiny edelweiss. This is how I have felt here, sleeping to the sound of a woodstove burning and the crackling of the wood and fire inside, preparing a meal, cleaning, reading and writing, and reflecting about life: heartfelt, loving, grateful.
***
*From the Online Encyclopedia:
Charles-Edouard Jeanneret-Gris, who chose to be known as Le Corbusier (October 6, 1887 – August 27, 1965), was a Swiss-born architect, designer, urbanist, writer and also painter, who is famous for his contributions to what now is called Modern Architecture. In his 30s he became a French citizen.
He was a pioneer in theoretical studies of modern design and was dedicated to providing better living conditions for the residents of crowded cities. His career spanned five decades, with his iconic buildings constructed throughout central Europe, India, Russia, and one structure each in North and South America. He was also an urban planner, painter, sculptor, writer, and modern furniture designer.
The young couple Rachel and Sebastian Schmid bought this place and live on one side of the farm house on two floors. The apartment is on the back. They shopped at IKEA to decorate it with taste and simplicity.
The bedroom has an almost double bed covered with a duvet, two night tables with lamps, and an Oriental print of flowers on the wall above the bed; it has also a wicker long chaise by the window.
The living room has a sleeper sofa, a table, lamp, two chairs and a steel bookshelf. Both the living and bed rooms are carpeted in grey-moss tone. There is a quaint wood stove covered with royal blue tiles to warm the room. Otherwise the apartment is (almost!) heated with water filled heaters that don’t quite do the job here at the top of cold mountain.
The kitchen has a large wood cabinet fully furnished with dishes, pots and pans and what not, including an expresso machine, much common in Swiss households. (I do not know how I have lived without one until now! I will look for one in thrift stores when I return for sure…) There is an old fashioned wood stove for additional heating and a electric stove for cooking, and a table with four chairs. The bathroom is tiled in beige-brown small tiles, and has a shower, toilet and sink.
The town of Leloc is near the French border. All major watch and clock makers are here, including Cartier. There are other precision instruments industries here also. The Horlogerie Musee, museum of time keeping machines, is the main attraction. Le Corbusier* was born here. The town is located in a narrow valley surrounded by the Jura mountains. It is much colder and snowier here than in Geneva.
The Leloc farm house apartment has a few decorative pieces about. The motif of most is the stylized human heart, the symbol of love, in wood, wicker, and red cloth embroidered with tiny edelweiss. This is how I have felt here, sleeping to the sound of a woodstove burning and the crackling of the wood and fire inside, preparing a meal, cleaning, reading and writing, and reflecting about life: heartfelt, loving, grateful.
***
*From the Online Encyclopedia:
Charles-Edouard Jeanneret-Gris, who chose to be known as Le Corbusier (October 6, 1887 – August 27, 1965), was a Swiss-born architect, designer, urbanist, writer and also painter, who is famous for his contributions to what now is called Modern Architecture. In his 30s he became a French citizen.
He was a pioneer in theoretical studies of modern design and was dedicated to providing better living conditions for the residents of crowded cities. His career spanned five decades, with his iconic buildings constructed throughout central Europe, India, Russia, and one structure each in North and South America. He was also an urban planner, painter, sculptor, writer, and modern furniture designer.
quinta-feira, 13 de março de 2008
Sachiko's Generosity
On Monday March 3, I went to visit Sachiko in the afternoon. She picked me up to go to her apartment in Ferney-Voltaire in France, just outside of Geneva. I had met Sachiko at the dinner Terri offered to a group of women of GWIT, one of the associations that sponsored the panel about the upcoming BRIC (Brazil, Russia, India and China) countries where I was one of the speakers. She had asked a question directed at me during the Q & A period. I recognized Sachiko (not her real name, for privacy) at the dinner and sat with her to escape the noise and confusion of the party.
Sachiko retired last year after 25 years with the International Labor Organization. Because of my long time interest in labor, a minor of my doctorate, we had a lot to talk about. It was my turn to ask questions from her who was quite disgruntled with what she saw as corruption of ILO’s principle of neutrality. (By the way, Osama Bin Laden has written about this kind of corruption.) ILO is supposed to be an intermediary between governments, the private sector (capitalists) and workers. The power imbalance is just too great. Principles are corrupted when capitalists and governments that represent them want to control labor conditions—a classic!
Besides social justice, another love of Sachiko’s is her cats. We hit it off here. She told me about Malice, her male cat with just a tiny almost no tail because he comes from an island off the coast of England where this breed lives, and Tomi, her elderly female cat. Of course I told her about my own companion, Whitney, and her caretaker, Carol, and their loving relationship.
I was interested in visiting Sachiko’s apartment because she said it was in an old building. I imagined a French or Swiss centuries old building and was curious about its charms. (I see myself taking many pictures of houses I find particularly attractive.) I wanted to visit her cats also, as I miss Whitney and certainly enjoy meeting other people’s cats. We made the arrangement through email and Sachiko picked me up in her Toyota at 2 p.m.
The drive was not far. Ferney-Voltaire is perhaps 15 minutes on the highway from Coppet-Founex when traffic is clear. To my disappointment, the apartment was in an older but modern, built after the war, a run of the mill apartment building; except that it was in France, and in the town where Voltaire, quite an aristocrat and a man of all trades, had lived over 20 productive years before his death.
There was one good thing about the flat , the view. The apartment had a far view of Lake Leman and the Alps, including the all present Mont Blanc. It had a large balcony, living and dining rooms, large kitchen, two bedrooms and lots, and lots of closet space. The bathroom and the toilet are separate rooms; there is no toilet in the bathroom. Different.
Sachiko served Japanese green and rice tea, and rice crackers. We talked while the cats, especially Malice, came and went, sometimes looking for caresses behind the ears and sometimes just jumping on Sachiko’s lap to make sure I understood who was the boss. Tomi was shyer than Malice, so I could not establish a relationship with her. She kept to herself, napping. I learned about Taro, Tomi’s companion and Sachiko’s favorite cat who had died a few years ago. Taro, which in Japanese means “first son”, was Sachiko’s first cat. He was a beautiful tabby. There are many drawings and paintings of Taro and Tomi on the walls of the apartment. One of them is especially sweet, Taro embracing Tomi, a position that they often took, Sachiko revealed.
As I asked so many questions about her life, impressed with her being an American educated Japanese woman who worked internationally most of her professional life, I found out that Sachiko has been dedicating her retired time to writing. She first gave me a book of stories about Taro and Tomi, with a subtitle My Feline Son and Daughter. Then, she brought out a semi-autobiographical novel which I read practically nonstop. I was enchanted with Sachiko’s “go get it” attitude, one that I have to work a bit more in my own life… The story is very interesting but I will not go into details here.
She brought me back home before dinner and after we walked through the town of Ferney-Voltaire, very charming, of course, in particular because of its adoration of their “patriarche”, Voltaire. I loved the outing and the setting.
That evening I kept thinking about Sachiko leaving in a week to go to Japan for five weeks. I sent her an email on Tuesday morning, March 4, my sister’s birthday, with a proposal. I would take care of Tomi and Malice when she would be away. I would pay expenses of electricity and phone, and if she wanted it also some rent.
Instead of writing back, she called me on the phone. She said I could have her apartment but that she preferred to leave the cats on the farm as already arranged because there was a vet on premises. (Taro had become sick under the care of a cat sitter and never recovered.) This was an even better deal, I thought, less responsibility and more freedom to travel about. I was stunned. I could not believe my luck: an apartment in a small French town, with a Saturday market and a view of the Alps! How generous and trusting of Sachiko!
She came on the same day to pick me up yet again. At her apartment she went over everything, giving me detailed instructions of how to handle the steel door with multiple locks (do not lose the keys because they cannot be replicated and it would cost a million euros to open it…), appliances, windows, the sun on the electric piano, etc., etc.
For three hours we did that and she brought me back to Founex.
The next day was Sachiko’s birthday. I found a perfect e-card to send her, a Japanese fan with a pond with swimming carps motif, and wrote “May life reward your generosity with health, love, and happiness.” She thanked me by email and sent more instructions.
I will spend a week in London and will be back to live in France from March 17 to April 17. For sure, I will have a great birthday celebration on April 18, thanking the marvelous gift from an almost total stranger. Thank you, Sachiko!
Sachiko retired last year after 25 years with the International Labor Organization. Because of my long time interest in labor, a minor of my doctorate, we had a lot to talk about. It was my turn to ask questions from her who was quite disgruntled with what she saw as corruption of ILO’s principle of neutrality. (By the way, Osama Bin Laden has written about this kind of corruption.) ILO is supposed to be an intermediary between governments, the private sector (capitalists) and workers. The power imbalance is just too great. Principles are corrupted when capitalists and governments that represent them want to control labor conditions—a classic!
Besides social justice, another love of Sachiko’s is her cats. We hit it off here. She told me about Malice, her male cat with just a tiny almost no tail because he comes from an island off the coast of England where this breed lives, and Tomi, her elderly female cat. Of course I told her about my own companion, Whitney, and her caretaker, Carol, and their loving relationship.
I was interested in visiting Sachiko’s apartment because she said it was in an old building. I imagined a French or Swiss centuries old building and was curious about its charms. (I see myself taking many pictures of houses I find particularly attractive.) I wanted to visit her cats also, as I miss Whitney and certainly enjoy meeting other people’s cats. We made the arrangement through email and Sachiko picked me up in her Toyota at 2 p.m.
The drive was not far. Ferney-Voltaire is perhaps 15 minutes on the highway from Coppet-Founex when traffic is clear. To my disappointment, the apartment was in an older but modern, built after the war, a run of the mill apartment building; except that it was in France, and in the town where Voltaire, quite an aristocrat and a man of all trades, had lived over 20 productive years before his death.
There was one good thing about the flat , the view. The apartment had a far view of Lake Leman and the Alps, including the all present Mont Blanc. It had a large balcony, living and dining rooms, large kitchen, two bedrooms and lots, and lots of closet space. The bathroom and the toilet are separate rooms; there is no toilet in the bathroom. Different.
Sachiko served Japanese green and rice tea, and rice crackers. We talked while the cats, especially Malice, came and went, sometimes looking for caresses behind the ears and sometimes just jumping on Sachiko’s lap to make sure I understood who was the boss. Tomi was shyer than Malice, so I could not establish a relationship with her. She kept to herself, napping. I learned about Taro, Tomi’s companion and Sachiko’s favorite cat who had died a few years ago. Taro, which in Japanese means “first son”, was Sachiko’s first cat. He was a beautiful tabby. There are many drawings and paintings of Taro and Tomi on the walls of the apartment. One of them is especially sweet, Taro embracing Tomi, a position that they often took, Sachiko revealed.
As I asked so many questions about her life, impressed with her being an American educated Japanese woman who worked internationally most of her professional life, I found out that Sachiko has been dedicating her retired time to writing. She first gave me a book of stories about Taro and Tomi, with a subtitle My Feline Son and Daughter. Then, she brought out a semi-autobiographical novel which I read practically nonstop. I was enchanted with Sachiko’s “go get it” attitude, one that I have to work a bit more in my own life… The story is very interesting but I will not go into details here.
She brought me back home before dinner and after we walked through the town of Ferney-Voltaire, very charming, of course, in particular because of its adoration of their “patriarche”, Voltaire. I loved the outing and the setting.
That evening I kept thinking about Sachiko leaving in a week to go to Japan for five weeks. I sent her an email on Tuesday morning, March 4, my sister’s birthday, with a proposal. I would take care of Tomi and Malice when she would be away. I would pay expenses of electricity and phone, and if she wanted it also some rent.
Instead of writing back, she called me on the phone. She said I could have her apartment but that she preferred to leave the cats on the farm as already arranged because there was a vet on premises. (Taro had become sick under the care of a cat sitter and never recovered.) This was an even better deal, I thought, less responsibility and more freedom to travel about. I was stunned. I could not believe my luck: an apartment in a small French town, with a Saturday market and a view of the Alps! How generous and trusting of Sachiko!
She came on the same day to pick me up yet again. At her apartment she went over everything, giving me detailed instructions of how to handle the steel door with multiple locks (do not lose the keys because they cannot be replicated and it would cost a million euros to open it…), appliances, windows, the sun on the electric piano, etc., etc.
For three hours we did that and she brought me back to Founex.
The next day was Sachiko’s birthday. I found a perfect e-card to send her, a Japanese fan with a pond with swimming carps motif, and wrote “May life reward your generosity with health, love, and happiness.” She thanked me by email and sent more instructions.
I will spend a week in London and will be back to live in France from March 17 to April 17. For sure, I will have a great birthday celebration on April 18, thanking the marvelous gift from an almost total stranger. Thank you, Sachiko!
quarta-feira, 5 de março de 2008
Borough Market, London
Sunday, February 24, 2008
I must have snored quite a bit last night. I was sorry for my six roommates, three of which I had warned about the snoring. I am so self-conscious about it! Two pairs of earplugs that I left on top of the mirror were gone by morning… At least two of them slept well, I believe!
At any rate, yesterday, Saturday, I walked around the beautiful large market right in front of the hostel, Borough Market. Being Saturday, the market was booming with crowds and vendors of all sorts. I took my camera to delight in the unique scenes my eyes happened to fall upon. (It takes too long to upload the pictures to the blog, so I am sorry for the absence of images…)
Of course there were all manner of foodstuffs, starting with vegetables. We are talking all manner of vegetables, the ones green being really green, and the reds, well, red, and so on, with picture-like vegetables to completely delight the most respectable vegetarian: cabbages (for some reason cabbages come first when in England), carrots, potatoes, Swiss chard, beans… It could have been summer by this market’s standards. These veggies did not look imported either. Yes, there were flowers on the ground and on trees, even though this is the end of February… Something’s wrong with the weather, for sure, it is too early for Spring but Spring is here in Southwark, London, and certainly it is here in this market.
Fruits of all manner. In flesh and dried. Dried nuts, mountains of them. I tried some apple chutney—no doubt I have never thought of this simple, down to home thing, apple chutney! I talked with the chap offering chutney to the pleased crowds on pieces of dry toast. He said that England is losing its orchards because supermarkets only want perfect apples to sell. Orchards with less than perfect apples get closed off the market. This man is creating value for the crooked apple, the apple with scars, the ones with imperfect curves, waists even, those that are not correctly heart-shaped apples with no bruises. He chops them and mixes them with spices and nuts. I tried the apples and cumin recipe—delicious (perhaps the chap had a neighbor from India, or just a taste for Indian food…) India saves British orchards! Whatever… apples and spices, like mango and spices, the traditional recipes for chutney now. I thought, “Oh, Northern NY produces apples… maybe we too can market our excluded apples into savory chutneys…”
And then there were cheeses… Big round wheels of all manner of cheesy cheeses! And soft cheeses as well. Sorry. I do not remember their names, just the tastes of the three I tried, praying for cholesterol forgiveness. It was such a feast of cheeses. And then fish—fleshy fried things ready to be eaten with chips. Meats in abundance too, particularly processed into sausages, loaves, and links. I took a picture of three dead small animals, a small deer and two rabbits, hanging just like in old European drawings and paintings… Weird and offensive but authentic in this market.
The most interesting part was the people, though, from all walks of life, individuals, couples and families with babies and children, white and of color, buying stuff and, more so, EATING stuff. There were many stands and restaurants around the market. Everywhere people were eating everything imaginable. Chomp! Chomp! Chomp! There goes the ten inch long sausage sandwiches… and the fried fish with chips… It was a feast! Next to the market there was the Wineland, an old building turned into wine cellars and stores and places for wine tasting. No, I did not go in there… No time, otherwise I would have missed everything else outside.
I ended my visit to the market by just walking away toward the Southwark Cathedral—complete with a chapel for the founder of Harvard University who was baptized there. I took my power nap in that chapel after prayers…I was still carrying my backpack with wheels so that I had to be extra careful with not rolling it over the many graves on the floor of the cathedral… I was proud of my caring for the ancient dead, most of them distinguished males, sometimes their wives…
Then I walked in the direction of the Shakespeare Globe Theater and checked the beautiful iron gate with so many decorations, falling in love with each one of them, the mouse eating cheese, the mask of a monkey, flowers, the owl, of course, one of my favorites. I love iron gates… What dreams of representations of things that are part of the lives of humans! I did not get into the theater, though. I am controlling my money for now, maybe another time I will go to a play and will get the whole experience.
I was getting tired and time was coming to check in at the hostel. I went onto the London Bridge—yes, it was rebuilt recently because as we all know it was falling down… I took a long look at the Thames, at the fancy tall skyscrapers all around, as well as a good look at Saint Paul’s Cathedral on the other side, near to where I was standing, and I planned to go to services the next day. It made sense. I went to mass at Notre Dame once. Service at Saint Paul’s to follow.
Checked in with my heavy suitcases to the third floor of the Saint Christopher hostel for the young of age and of the heart… Slept my jet lag away and went to dinner at a respectful Indian restaurant across the road. Back to the room later for some syrah and to sleep among college students and recent grads…
To be slowly continued, without continuity.
I must have snored quite a bit last night. I was sorry for my six roommates, three of which I had warned about the snoring. I am so self-conscious about it! Two pairs of earplugs that I left on top of the mirror were gone by morning… At least two of them slept well, I believe!
At any rate, yesterday, Saturday, I walked around the beautiful large market right in front of the hostel, Borough Market. Being Saturday, the market was booming with crowds and vendors of all sorts. I took my camera to delight in the unique scenes my eyes happened to fall upon. (It takes too long to upload the pictures to the blog, so I am sorry for the absence of images…)
Of course there were all manner of foodstuffs, starting with vegetables. We are talking all manner of vegetables, the ones green being really green, and the reds, well, red, and so on, with picture-like vegetables to completely delight the most respectable vegetarian: cabbages (for some reason cabbages come first when in England), carrots, potatoes, Swiss chard, beans… It could have been summer by this market’s standards. These veggies did not look imported either. Yes, there were flowers on the ground and on trees, even though this is the end of February… Something’s wrong with the weather, for sure, it is too early for Spring but Spring is here in Southwark, London, and certainly it is here in this market.
Fruits of all manner. In flesh and dried. Dried nuts, mountains of them. I tried some apple chutney—no doubt I have never thought of this simple, down to home thing, apple chutney! I talked with the chap offering chutney to the pleased crowds on pieces of dry toast. He said that England is losing its orchards because supermarkets only want perfect apples to sell. Orchards with less than perfect apples get closed off the market. This man is creating value for the crooked apple, the apple with scars, the ones with imperfect curves, waists even, those that are not correctly heart-shaped apples with no bruises. He chops them and mixes them with spices and nuts. I tried the apples and cumin recipe—delicious (perhaps the chap had a neighbor from India, or just a taste for Indian food…) India saves British orchards! Whatever… apples and spices, like mango and spices, the traditional recipes for chutney now. I thought, “Oh, Northern NY produces apples… maybe we too can market our excluded apples into savory chutneys…”
And then there were cheeses… Big round wheels of all manner of cheesy cheeses! And soft cheeses as well. Sorry. I do not remember their names, just the tastes of the three I tried, praying for cholesterol forgiveness. It was such a feast of cheeses. And then fish—fleshy fried things ready to be eaten with chips. Meats in abundance too, particularly processed into sausages, loaves, and links. I took a picture of three dead small animals, a small deer and two rabbits, hanging just like in old European drawings and paintings… Weird and offensive but authentic in this market.
The most interesting part was the people, though, from all walks of life, individuals, couples and families with babies and children, white and of color, buying stuff and, more so, EATING stuff. There were many stands and restaurants around the market. Everywhere people were eating everything imaginable. Chomp! Chomp! Chomp! There goes the ten inch long sausage sandwiches… and the fried fish with chips… It was a feast! Next to the market there was the Wineland, an old building turned into wine cellars and stores and places for wine tasting. No, I did not go in there… No time, otherwise I would have missed everything else outside.
I ended my visit to the market by just walking away toward the Southwark Cathedral—complete with a chapel for the founder of Harvard University who was baptized there. I took my power nap in that chapel after prayers…I was still carrying my backpack with wheels so that I had to be extra careful with not rolling it over the many graves on the floor of the cathedral… I was proud of my caring for the ancient dead, most of them distinguished males, sometimes their wives…
Then I walked in the direction of the Shakespeare Globe Theater and checked the beautiful iron gate with so many decorations, falling in love with each one of them, the mouse eating cheese, the mask of a monkey, flowers, the owl, of course, one of my favorites. I love iron gates… What dreams of representations of things that are part of the lives of humans! I did not get into the theater, though. I am controlling my money for now, maybe another time I will go to a play and will get the whole experience.
I was getting tired and time was coming to check in at the hostel. I went onto the London Bridge—yes, it was rebuilt recently because as we all know it was falling down… I took a long look at the Thames, at the fancy tall skyscrapers all around, as well as a good look at Saint Paul’s Cathedral on the other side, near to where I was standing, and I planned to go to services the next day. It made sense. I went to mass at Notre Dame once. Service at Saint Paul’s to follow.
Checked in with my heavy suitcases to the third floor of the Saint Christopher hostel for the young of age and of the heart… Slept my jet lag away and went to dinner at a respectful Indian restaurant across the road. Back to the room later for some syrah and to sleep among college students and recent grads…
To be slowly continued, without continuity.
segunda-feira, 18 de fevereiro de 2008
The roof
When I arrived in December to my father’s house, it was the rainy season. And what a rainy season… Actually it wasn’t that bad compared to the one time that it rained for my 30 day vacation… nonstop. Then, I thought I was going to become moss.
It rained only for a week straight this time. It was just enough to see the maid get the pail hidden somewhere in the living room and place it on the marble table in front of the sofa just under the iron chandelier. “What’s that for?” I pretended not to know. “It leaks here through the chandelier.”
In this particularly comfortable room a window opens on one side to a small garden of cocoa and banana trees, and a double door on another side to the miniature rain forest in the yard. My father keeps both window and doors closed. With the infiltration, the room becomes an even better environment for the growth of black mold, so prevalent in the tropics I thought it was normal until I moved to the U.S.
It was time to do something about it.
First of course, I had to have the house rewired. A refrigerator, a TV set, and a stereo had all broke recently because of the poor quality of the aged wiring. Lights flickered. I talked with Salvador, his name being Portuguese for “savior.” To make a long story short, he is a Black man, father of the young maid Ciane who works for my dad on weekends. We know Ciane since she was born, and, of course, Salvador has many stories to tell about his work as construction handyman. With little formal education, he knows everything that needs to be known about how to build a house. “I have built three houses for your relatives in Sao Pedro da Aldeia,” he told me on a bus ride to buy roof tiles.
Salvador and his son worked on the rewiring while I was working in the Northeast of Brazil. I paid the bills to buy the new wires and cement, and they changed everything, always pointing out the areas where the wires were so corroded that we were a just a short circuit away from a house fire. Actually, my brother, who has been going though a terrifically mean-spirited phase, so mean I actually tried to exorcise him, said that it would be better if the whole thing, meaning the house, caught fire. Oh, well. New wiring.
That paid off, Salvador gave me a new estimate for the roof. Better, half of the roof. The house has two parts. He gave me an estimate for the one on top of the living room, dining room, downstairs bathroom, kitchen and service area. One very rainy day we went with my sister to buy tiles and wood. These were delivered the next day. They waited through another week or maybe a few more days, all during Carnaval, so that the men could have sun to start their work.
I was at my sister’s during Carnaval. Dennis Parsons was visiting and I wanted to be free to take him places as well as to experience Carnaval myself, something I had not done since my youth. When I returned to my father’s, construction had started in the first sunny day!
My brother was visiting and said something nice. “I admire you for doing the roof. If it were me, I would let the whole thing collapse. I would move the old man to the little house until that too collapsed. By the way, have you seen all the stuff he collected under the roof?”
I was amazed. “No, what stuff. I thought all the stuff was in the small rooms outside.” I was wrong. Indeed, there was a hole under the said roof where over 40 years my father collected all manner of useless things, old furniture, many, many pieces of wood of all sides, old doors, wires, my mother’s old sewing machine taken apart, metal lamps, ceiling lamps, toys, scrap metal, tools, cart wheels, tire, and part of its body, pictures. I found an old picture of mine that used to hang in my grandmother’s house… “OK, I thought. Time to clean and let go.”
“Salvador! Give me the additional estimate to clean this stuff.”
Salvador said nothing and to my surprise dedicated a whole day to clean the mess. It occupied the entire carport. The trash was so much that it could have been the continuation of Carnaval and its trash on the streets of Rio. What to do with the stuff?
“Salvador, you did the work without contracting a price! Now what?” Salvador had worked with two sons from morning to late evening. He had taken a shower in the little house so he could be clean and cool from the hot sun and the effort. He was sitting on the varanda, looking at me and putting his eyes down alternatively as he usually does, talking very, very, very slowly and quietly, in a manner that I have learned to respect and be patient. He finally looked at me and said, “$250 reais.” Dirt cheap, about $150 weak dollars.
I was relieved and feeling guilty at the same time. They had worked inordinately hard, up and down the ladder, under the new roof, with ropes and pulleys for the heavier stuff. They carried it all through the yard to the car port. Slaves. I am part of a slave system, still. Minding my money too, pulled between social consciousness, personal relations with the workers, especially Salvador (we are the same age and have birthdays on the same month), the immense distance between me and them, the desire to pay them a million dollars and three million in gratitude. The old bourgeois (me) agrees and thanks him, asks how we are going to get rid of the stuff, he talks about renting a truck.
“There is stuff here that people can use, fix, sell,” I thought to myself. I asked the guard in the watch house of the gated community where my father’s house is located. He said a car comes twice a week looking for stuff. I asked him to flag them. “Don’t give it for free” he said. “They make money out of it.”
Yesterday Salvador said we were missing tiles to finish the roof. My sister was coming around in the morning and I thought about asking her to take us to by tiles again, saving a bus ride through the favela Rio das Pedras into the Anil district. She couldn’t come in the morning, she was taking care of her office. I asked Salvador to go with me. We talked, bought the tiles from a man named Mundo Libre, the grandson of a Spanish anarchist (seriously, I am not kidding. I am not making this up). The sun was very hot and for the first time I bought a Skol beer at the Tia Vera Bar in the corner from my father’s, just to the right of the gate, where our smaller favela starts.
Later in the day an old man with a hand pushed cart rang the bell with the guard, who introduced us. “Gente boa” he said, “good people”, meaning I could trust the old chump, Jose. Senhor Jose talked about himself, that he works with scraps, looked at all the stuff with big eyes, as if he had seen heaven itself. “My father and my contractor are out shopping, I need to wait for them to make sure it is OK.”
While we waited, Senhor Jose told me he was from Pernambuco (Paulo Freire’s state I had visited recently), though I did not recognize the name of his small town. He had been married but his wife had passed away in 2005. He started crying while telling me this. “I am so sorry,” I said. He continued to tell me she did not want to die in Rio. She wanted to die “in her land” as we say here. He took her by bus, the whole of 900 miles or more. She died the next day. “She only wanted to die there. We had ten children, five men and five women. I am in good standing with all my children, thank to God.”
Senhor Jose was going to tell me more, in his manner of oral historian traditional in the Northeast. But Salvador and my father arrived from buying trash bags and we moved to contracting, “among three respectful men and one lady”, as Senhor Jose put it. He would remove all the stuff, the good and the bad by Monday. For free. We gave him the spoils.
My bourgeois consciousness is almost relieved. Jose is going to make some money. But, after all, I do not know where he is going to dispose of the trash part of the spoils…
The roof is almost ready. Tiles come Monday, the day of my departure. It is a sunny Sunday today, and perhaps rain is not coming this week. Children have started in schools and fall is coming this week too. Even the time changed today, back one hour.
It rained only for a week straight this time. It was just enough to see the maid get the pail hidden somewhere in the living room and place it on the marble table in front of the sofa just under the iron chandelier. “What’s that for?” I pretended not to know. “It leaks here through the chandelier.”
In this particularly comfortable room a window opens on one side to a small garden of cocoa and banana trees, and a double door on another side to the miniature rain forest in the yard. My father keeps both window and doors closed. With the infiltration, the room becomes an even better environment for the growth of black mold, so prevalent in the tropics I thought it was normal until I moved to the U.S.
It was time to do something about it.
First of course, I had to have the house rewired. A refrigerator, a TV set, and a stereo had all broke recently because of the poor quality of the aged wiring. Lights flickered. I talked with Salvador, his name being Portuguese for “savior.” To make a long story short, he is a Black man, father of the young maid Ciane who works for my dad on weekends. We know Ciane since she was born, and, of course, Salvador has many stories to tell about his work as construction handyman. With little formal education, he knows everything that needs to be known about how to build a house. “I have built three houses for your relatives in Sao Pedro da Aldeia,” he told me on a bus ride to buy roof tiles.
Salvador and his son worked on the rewiring while I was working in the Northeast of Brazil. I paid the bills to buy the new wires and cement, and they changed everything, always pointing out the areas where the wires were so corroded that we were a just a short circuit away from a house fire. Actually, my brother, who has been going though a terrifically mean-spirited phase, so mean I actually tried to exorcise him, said that it would be better if the whole thing, meaning the house, caught fire. Oh, well. New wiring.
That paid off, Salvador gave me a new estimate for the roof. Better, half of the roof. The house has two parts. He gave me an estimate for the one on top of the living room, dining room, downstairs bathroom, kitchen and service area. One very rainy day we went with my sister to buy tiles and wood. These were delivered the next day. They waited through another week or maybe a few more days, all during Carnaval, so that the men could have sun to start their work.
I was at my sister’s during Carnaval. Dennis Parsons was visiting and I wanted to be free to take him places as well as to experience Carnaval myself, something I had not done since my youth. When I returned to my father’s, construction had started in the first sunny day!
My brother was visiting and said something nice. “I admire you for doing the roof. If it were me, I would let the whole thing collapse. I would move the old man to the little house until that too collapsed. By the way, have you seen all the stuff he collected under the roof?”
I was amazed. “No, what stuff. I thought all the stuff was in the small rooms outside.” I was wrong. Indeed, there was a hole under the said roof where over 40 years my father collected all manner of useless things, old furniture, many, many pieces of wood of all sides, old doors, wires, my mother’s old sewing machine taken apart, metal lamps, ceiling lamps, toys, scrap metal, tools, cart wheels, tire, and part of its body, pictures. I found an old picture of mine that used to hang in my grandmother’s house… “OK, I thought. Time to clean and let go.”
“Salvador! Give me the additional estimate to clean this stuff.”
Salvador said nothing and to my surprise dedicated a whole day to clean the mess. It occupied the entire carport. The trash was so much that it could have been the continuation of Carnaval and its trash on the streets of Rio. What to do with the stuff?
“Salvador, you did the work without contracting a price! Now what?” Salvador had worked with two sons from morning to late evening. He had taken a shower in the little house so he could be clean and cool from the hot sun and the effort. He was sitting on the varanda, looking at me and putting his eyes down alternatively as he usually does, talking very, very, very slowly and quietly, in a manner that I have learned to respect and be patient. He finally looked at me and said, “$250 reais.” Dirt cheap, about $150 weak dollars.
I was relieved and feeling guilty at the same time. They had worked inordinately hard, up and down the ladder, under the new roof, with ropes and pulleys for the heavier stuff. They carried it all through the yard to the car port. Slaves. I am part of a slave system, still. Minding my money too, pulled between social consciousness, personal relations with the workers, especially Salvador (we are the same age and have birthdays on the same month), the immense distance between me and them, the desire to pay them a million dollars and three million in gratitude. The old bourgeois (me) agrees and thanks him, asks how we are going to get rid of the stuff, he talks about renting a truck.
“There is stuff here that people can use, fix, sell,” I thought to myself. I asked the guard in the watch house of the gated community where my father’s house is located. He said a car comes twice a week looking for stuff. I asked him to flag them. “Don’t give it for free” he said. “They make money out of it.”
Yesterday Salvador said we were missing tiles to finish the roof. My sister was coming around in the morning and I thought about asking her to take us to by tiles again, saving a bus ride through the favela Rio das Pedras into the Anil district. She couldn’t come in the morning, she was taking care of her office. I asked Salvador to go with me. We talked, bought the tiles from a man named Mundo Libre, the grandson of a Spanish anarchist (seriously, I am not kidding. I am not making this up). The sun was very hot and for the first time I bought a Skol beer at the Tia Vera Bar in the corner from my father’s, just to the right of the gate, where our smaller favela starts.
Later in the day an old man with a hand pushed cart rang the bell with the guard, who introduced us. “Gente boa” he said, “good people”, meaning I could trust the old chump, Jose. Senhor Jose talked about himself, that he works with scraps, looked at all the stuff with big eyes, as if he had seen heaven itself. “My father and my contractor are out shopping, I need to wait for them to make sure it is OK.”
While we waited, Senhor Jose told me he was from Pernambuco (Paulo Freire’s state I had visited recently), though I did not recognize the name of his small town. He had been married but his wife had passed away in 2005. He started crying while telling me this. “I am so sorry,” I said. He continued to tell me she did not want to die in Rio. She wanted to die “in her land” as we say here. He took her by bus, the whole of 900 miles or more. She died the next day. “She only wanted to die there. We had ten children, five men and five women. I am in good standing with all my children, thank to God.”
Senhor Jose was going to tell me more, in his manner of oral historian traditional in the Northeast. But Salvador and my father arrived from buying trash bags and we moved to contracting, “among three respectful men and one lady”, as Senhor Jose put it. He would remove all the stuff, the good and the bad by Monday. For free. We gave him the spoils.
My bourgeois consciousness is almost relieved. Jose is going to make some money. But, after all, I do not know where he is going to dispose of the trash part of the spoils…
The roof is almost ready. Tiles come Monday, the day of my departure. It is a sunny Sunday today, and perhaps rain is not coming this week. Children have started in schools and fall is coming this week too. Even the time changed today, back one hour.
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